Sunset Beach(51)

Drue folded the blanket and dropped it to the floor.

“What did you need to see me about?” she asked, wanting to endure as little time as possible in what she considered the Chilean chamber of torture.

“This,” Wendy said, tapping a computer printout on her desktop. “I’ve been looking at your leads sheet, and frankly, I’m appalled. Do you realize you’ve been here for four weeks and the only case you’ve referred is this?”

“Yes,” Drue said eagerly. “You’re talking about the client from Sunshine Inn—the extended-stay motel on U.S. 19?”

“Bedbugs?” Wendy said shrilly. “Three weeks and all you have to show is a bedbug case?”

“It’s legit, I swear,” Drue said. “The poor man just moved down here from Pennsylvania to take a job at a hair salon. He was staying at the motel while he looked for an apartment, but after three nights he had to check out because the place was crawling with bedbugs. They just chewed him alive! He went to one of those doc-in-the-box medical clinics and they sent him to the emergency room. I’ve seen his discharge papers. He had to have cortisone shots and they prescribed him some expensive ointments for the infection.”

“Stop!” Wendy began scratching at her arms. “Just what do you think this firm is going to be able to recover in damages in a case like this? The cost of a tube of Neosporin?”

“No,” Drue said. “The client hasn’t been able to work since he got here. The salon took one look at the scabs on his arms and hands and withdrew the job offer. He was so desperate to work he went to one of those Kwik-Kut franchise hair salons, but the first time he shampooed a client’s hair, he had a horrendous allergic reaction to the chemicals because of his infection. The man can’t work, Wendy. I really think Dad could help him.”

“We are not wasting our time on a bullshit bedbug case,” Wendy said, taking the report, balling it up and throwing it into her trash basket.

She leaned back in her chair and Princess hopped up and began licking her chin.

“I told Brice this wasn’t a good idea, but of course, he has such a soft heart, what could I do?”

“You’re firing me?” Drue was incredulous.

“I wish. But Brice won’t hear of it. You must have really laid a guilt trip on him when he came over there to move you into that cottage. He was really upset when he got home.”

“If you’re not firing me, why are we having this talk?” Drue asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Because I need you to get with the program,” Wendy said. “You have the most dismal numbers of anybody—either here or in the offsite call center. Drastic measures are called for.”

Drue waited.

“Starting now, you’re in retraining. I want you to take your headset and plug into Jonah’s console. He’s our top producer, so my hope is that you can learn something from his technique.”

“You’re kidding,” Drue said. “I know what I’m doing, Wendy. It’s just that the calls I’m getting have all been dead ends. This is unbelievably unfair.”

“No,” Wendy snapped. “What’s unbelievably unfair is that although I run this office, your father has overruled me and continues to allow dead weight to bring down the rest of the Campbell, Coxe and Kramner team.”

“Dead weight?” Drue jumped up from the chair.

Wendy looked up expectantly, stroking the dog’s ears and smiling her fake smile.

“You can torture me all you like, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of quitting,” Drue said, her voice low. As she walked out of the office she made sure to deliberately step on the Hermès blanket with both feet.



* * *



“What’s this?” Jonah said, as she wheeled her chair over to his cubicle, her headset resting around her neck.

“Retraining,” Drue said. “Wendy wants me to listen to the way you handle calls, because you’re so awesome at it.”

He nodded. “Listen, Grasshopper, and Mr. Miyagi will share the wisdom of the ages.”

His console lit up.

“Just answer the damn phone,” Drue said.





24


Saturday morning, Drue poured herself a mug of coffee and sat down at the card table in the kitchen. She had a new package of index cards and a box of black felt-tip pens, and some file folders, and felt a surge of excitement. School supplies! At one time, back in elementary school, she’d loved school. Loved the smell of chalk and schoolbooks and the thrill of opening a notebook for the first time, laboriously printing her name in block letters on the inside cover.

She began jotting down what she’d learned so far about the employees at the Gulf Vista and about Jazmin Mayes and her coworkers, starting a new index card for each set of facts. It was an idea she’d picked up from reading the dog-eared paperback Sue Grafton detective novels that had been left behind by Leonard, the cottage’s most recent tenant.

Drue scribbled every detail of her conversations with Lutrisha and Yvonne Howington.

An hour had passed and she’d worked her way through half a packet of cards when she heard insistent knocking at the front door.

“Good morning!” Ben Fentress stood on her doorstep. He held out a cardboard beer box with what looked like some kind of auto part inside. “Did somebody here order a starter for a 1995 Ford Bronco?”