Chapter Eighteen
I dropped the paper as if it were contaminated and scurried rabbit-like back to the chair. The door opened. Skip was saying something about a delivery.
“That should be here soon,” Rhonda said. “They usually come early.” She dropped back into her chair and crossed her legs at the knee.
“How about the glassware?” Skip asked.
“Later tonight, probably after we close.”
“Great.” He looked relieved. “Thanks for taking care of that.” He closed the door.
She looked at me and smiled. “Sorry again. Where were we?”
I tore my thoughts from what I thought I’d seen. “Bruce’s personal problems since Tom’s death. You said he might lose his job?”
“Right, that was it. I think the shock of finding Tom dead in his place did a number on him, ’cause he hasn’t been the same since. Always
