I continued, “But sometimes you’re in the mood for BBQ.” I paused and held her gaze, turning slightly serious. “And sometimes you’re in the mood for a bonfire.”
She studied me as though unsure of what to say.
“Do you think…” I asked, hesitating. “Do you think Mr. Harlan ever creates a bonfire?”
Her eyes grew wide. “I assure you, Mrs. Beecham, Miles is aboveboard. He does everything by the book.”
“Yes,” I said smoothly, “of course. And believe me, I’m so grateful for that. But sometimes you need a project to speed along a little faster than, say, a supervisor or inspector feels comfortable with.” I paused. “Does Mr. Harlan know how to work out those situations in his client’s favor?”
She cast a glance down the hall behind her, then looked back at me, her face going blank. “You’ll have to speak to Mr. Harlan about that.” She glanced at James. “Like your husband said, I’m just the receptionist, and I don’t know anything.” But she wasn’t acting outraged, like I’d insulted her boss’s good name or even her. She just didn’t seem comfortable sharing sensitive information.
Like a smart employee.
“I told you this was a waste of time,” James grumbled, then took a seat in a stained peach-colored wingback chair on the wall next to the door.
“Jeff,” I scolded lightly. “She can’t say too much. She has no idea who we are.”
He gave me a cold, scathing look. “Exactly.”
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to answer that, but then decided he’d thrown it out there without expecting a response—he was offering his interpretation of a rich person’s ambiguous musings. He’d probably spent enough time with J.R. Simmons to pick up a few mannerisms.
But it served its purpose, because the receptionist looked even more uncomfortable.
James and I were on opposite sides of the room. I wondered if I should sit by him, but I suspected it only reinforced the impression of our divided stance on this visit.
“I’m so sorry if my questions seemed out of line,” I said graciously. “We’re just used to the way things are done in Louisville. Hopefully, Mr. Harlan will get us sorted out before we leave.”
She nodded.
“But I do have one more question,” I said. “We’re in desperate need of a new accountant. I figure since you’re Mr. Harlan’s right-hand person, you’d likely know of some good ones.”
She brightened up. “I can definitely help you with that. We use Henderson and Matthias.”
I pulled a notebook out of my purse and wrote it down. “That’s so helpful. Thank you, Beth.” I shot a glance at James. “Much more helpful than Franklin Delgotto, Jeff.”
He kept his gaze on his phone and said dryly, “It’s not Delgotto’s job to find our accountant, and the one she just told you likely won’t be helpful. We need someone who’s willing to be creative.”
Beth stared at him with a look of indecision.
I grimaced. “We got into a little trouble a few years ago, so we found someone who helped us make one thing look like another.” I gave her a knowing look. “You know how things are. Those fussy people who don’t understand what it takes to run a business like to put their noses in the books. We had to find someone to help us … smooth things over.” I smoothed out some imaginary wrinkles on my pant leg.
She started to say something, then stopped, indecision flickering on her face.
I considered pushing harder, but she looked like she was still wrestling with how much she should tell me.
So I picked up a three-year-old copy of Newsweek and flipped through it without reading, while James scrolled on his phone with a scowl that screamed this is a waste of time.
Beth looked like she might finally be ready to speak when a man stepped out from the hallway.
He looked pretty much the way I remembered him. There was a little more gray at his temples, but the used car salesman aura was still there. I couldn’t help wondering how he got clients. He made me want to take a delousing shower, not sign a multi-million-dollar contract.
Then again, he was probably exactly what the people who hired him were looking for.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beachum,” Harlan said, flashing a smile so wide it made him look like the Joker. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I hope Beth offered you beverages.”
James shot a look of distaste at the Keurig on the counter across the room. “We prefer espresso to drip coffee.” His upper lip curled. “If you can call that watered-down crap coffee.”
I guess he wasn’t wasting any time letting Harlan know he was an asshole.
