Sixty-Three

Giulia called Barbara Beech from the Nunmobile. “We were required to shuffle a few appointments this afternoon. I won’t be speaking with the Sisters until after six. Did you wish to wait until tomorrow for the answer?”

“No. Everyone involved would like this settled, don’t you agree? Here’s my cell number. Call me anytime this evening. I’ll bring the paperwork with me. If you’re amenable, we can meet this evening to sign off.”

Giulia hung up but didn’t put away her phone. Enough wondering. There was no more time to waste. She stuffed tissues into both nostrils and dialed Eagle Developers.

Neither Giulia Driscoll the PI nor Maria Falcone the hopeful freelancer answered the receptionist’s “Eagle Developers. How may I direct your call?” This Giulia hacked into the receiver. “Sorry. Germs aren’t contagious over the phone so you’re okay. Who’s in charge there?”

The receptionist paused a brief second. “I beg your pardon?”

“Charge, chicklet. The one with the power. Who’s running the show now that your boss offed himself?”

“Ma’am, I really don’t—”

“Oh yes, you do. Strike a blow for women everywhere and tell me someone with the right plumbing signs your checks now.”

“Ms. Beech, of course. If you’ll state your business, I’ll see if she can—”

“Atta girl. I knew you could do it. You tell Ms. Beech to keep fighting the good fight. Remember what the Iron Lady said: ‘If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.’”

Giulia hung up and yanked the tissues out of her nose. She inhaled two huge lungfuls of air, then she laughed, and laughed. She had no concrete idea who she’d imitated for that bizarre call. The attitude was the Silk Tie Killer’s. The execrable diction belonged to the wives in DI’s last divorce cases. And where did she get the idea of stuffing her nose to fake a head cold?

Maybe she did possess acting skills.