times when he doesn’t really need to see Mr. Bartell.” My husband was the only “Mister” at the Pan-Am Agra plant, to Mrs. Sands. “He just hangs around until Mr. Bartell gets rid of him—you know how quick he can do that.”
I nodded. I did indeed.
“And Bettina?” I prompted.
“Honey, that woman calls on the phone, and she’s come to the office! Course, I told her he was out of town.”
“Oh, dear,” I said inadequately.
“Now that you know, I feel better,” Mrs. Sands told me. “I’ll be seeing you, Ms. Teagarden.” Mrs. Sands always gave me the correct name, but accompanied it by a sharp look. Keeping my name had cost me many points with Mrs. Sands, but she was trying to forgive me, since I seemed like a proper wife for Mr. Bartell. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and strode off to join a group of her cronies, who’d been glancing our way.
Before I had a chance to recover from this remarkable conversation, before I could even wiggle my eyebrows at Martin to indicate I wanted to talk to him, the Andersons came in the door. Bill was wearing a suit, of course, and Bettina was wearing a very pretty green dress. When she shyly eased in front of me, I was able to give her an honest compliment. Bettina smiled back uncertainly. I noticed her hands were twisting the strap of her purse.
I emitted some more social chitchat, which Bettina interrupted abruptly. “Could we talk tonight? It won’t take long. I’m sorry I have to talk to you here, but you didn’t return my calls. Of course,” and she held up a hand to ward off my speaking, “I understand, because you’ve had a lot of things to think about lately. But I have to talk to you tonight.” She had spoken in a low urgent voice, with a glance toward our husbands that certainly must have clued any onlooker that she was up to something surreptitious. Of course in such a throng some people were sure to be looking at us, and I tried to make my face as blank as possible.
“Sure, Bettina,” I said, as soothingly as I could without sounding patronizing. “What about right now?”
“Oh no, people are looking, and it’s just about time to sit down.” So she was having that watched feeling, too.
“This is awfully crowded,” I said. “Why don’t we have lunch Monday?” If I could get through this evening, I could surely endure a public lunch with Bettina Anderson.
“That’s too late, I can’t wait that long,” Bettina told me. There was an edge of desperation in her voice that I couldn’t ignore.
“All right. When the dinner is breaking up, come to our table and we’ll find a quiet place.”
And then I had to put on my social smile, because here came (to my dismay) Deena Somebody-who-worked-in-the-shipping-department. Deena had deemed skin-tight jeans appropriate for this occasion, and I had to admit she filled them beautifully, but I had doubts that she would be able to bend at her knee and hip joints to sit in one of the folding chairs. I would have been interested in a video of the process of Deena getting into those jeans. Deena shrieked, “Hello, Roe!” as if she were a close friend of mine, and hauled her date out to show me she had one. To my amazement, the man she had in tow was quiet Paul Allison.
“Hi, Roe,” said Paul in his calm way. “I’m sure you know Deena Cotton.” I must have been fascinated by Deena’s bottom half for too long—she was eyeing me nervously.
“Deena, how’s shipping these days?” I murmured, proving I recognized her and knew where she worked.
“Just fine, always busy. Thank goodness!” And Deena gave a high-pitched giggle that made me wonder just how far Paul was willing to go in reaction to Sally, who would never in her life have made a sound like that. He was willing to go pretty far, as it turned out, for he put his hand firmly on her butt while we talked, and she seemed pleased rather than annoyed. I tried to imagine getting out of clothes that tight in the heat of passion; just as I had decided Paul would have to stand at the end of the bed and pull on the legs as she held on to the headboard, I became aware that Deena had turned red and Paul was staring at me fixedly, waiting for me to speak.
“Hope you enjoy