The Summer of Us (Mission Cove #1) - Melanie Moreland Page 0,48
meeting,” I repeated, my voice cold, but calm.
“I’ll take that up with the mayor and get back to you.” She glanced around her desk. “I’m sure your number is here somewhere. A staff member will be in touch.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m doing what is in the best interest of the town, Mr. Webber.”
“And an empty, ramshackle building on top of the hill is in the best interest of the town? I’m not maintaining it.”
“Then it will be maintained and the bills sent to you.”
We were locked in a war of wills. One of the things I had learned was when to stay and fight and when to walk away. I had no idea what her motivation was behind this, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
I turned and headed to the door. “My lawyer will be in touch.”
Her triumphant cackle followed me down the hall.
14
Linc
I parked at the country club a couple of miles outside Mission Cove. After I’d stormed out of the mayor’s office, I had paced the hallways trying to get my anger under control. At one point I stopped, leaning against a wall. I concentrated, counting between long inhales of air until I felt calmer. My ears perked up when I heard a conversation occurring in the office next to me.
“Another bill from Sandy Hooks,” a voice muttered. “I swear the mayor spends more time on the putting green than in his office.”
“Probably getting away from the dragon of a wife he’s got,” another voice replied.
I glanced out the window. It was sunny and warm—the perfect day for a game of golf. He and my father used to play a lot of golf, and obviously, things hadn’t changed. I headed to my car, making a call after I slid inside.
“Sandy Hooks Golf Club,” a voice answered.
“Yes, I’m calling from Mayor Tremont’s office. Has he already started his round?” I asked. “He left his cell in the office, and I wanted to bring it to him.”
“Oh yes, about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to get a message to him?”
“No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.” I hung up.
I had a message, all right.
I approached the small group, waiting patiently as they all teed off, then crossed the tee box to the mayor.
“Mayor Tremont.”
He turned, his face confused as he took me in. “Yes. How can I help you, son?”
I turned on the charm, recalling the mayor’s like of alcohol—any kind. I shook his hand. “Lincoln Webber.” From the blank look on his face, I knew he had had no idea who I was, or to whom I was related. “I’m sorry to bother you on a well-earned day on the course, sir, but I am in urgent need to speak to you. May I buy you a drink at the bar?” I indicated the outdoor roll cart, one of the many set up along the course.
He regarded me, then waved to his group. “Play on. I’ll take par on the holes I miss.”
The group all looked amused. “You never make par here.”
He glared. “Well, today, I did. One of my constituents needs to talk to me.”
They moved away. “Leave the cart,” he barked. “My knee is acting up.”
Lazy bastard. But I kept my smile in place. I needed to play this right. We strolled to the makeshift bar and placed our order, then sat on the bench located close. He took a long drink of his beer—probably not his first one of the day.
“Now, how can I help?”
I chose my words carefully. I didn’t know if the mayor had any idea of how my father had double-crossed him for all those years. My father played the game so well that he made sure the mayor shared some of the wealth, but the lion’s share went to my father. Always.
“My lawyer sent in the paperwork for approval on a house demolition. Somehow, the paperwork was lost,” I fibbed, deciding to play this a different way than accusing his wife of treachery. “I have all the other necessary permits but lack this one. I came to see you directly.” I had to pause before I uttered my next lie. “My father always told me to go directly to the source of power.” I clenched my fist so tight, my nails dug into my palm. “His praise for your take-charge handling of things was limitless.”
More like scathing contempt for what a spineless bastard you were, but potato-potahtoh, I added silently.