Murder Miscalculated by Andrew MacRae Page A

time’s sake.” She looked over my shoulder, and her eyes narrowed. “Are you expecting company?”
    I looked and caught sight of someone making a beeline for me. It was Chad. I hadn’t particularly enjoyed our encounter at the book fair, and from the look on his face I wasn’t going to enjoy this one either.
    As I turned back to face Molly and her cart, I caught sight of two more young men, both dressed in that preppy look like Chad, closing in on me from both sides.
    “Guess I’d better skip the bun, Molly, but thanks.”
    She frowned. “Trouble?”
    “Nothing I can’t handle,” I answered with a bravado I didn’t feel. “I’ll come back soon for that bun.” I left Molly and walked toward Chad. His companions altered their paths to match mine.
    “Hey, Kid,” Chad said, as the three arrived and bracketed me.
    I took my time answering, studying and trying to take a measure of how much trouble they might cause. Chad stood with his fists on his hips. The guy on my right cracked his knuckles. The guy on my left snapped some chewing gum. All three were dressed in the style demanded by Doris Whitaker of those in her gang. Just what I didn’t need, three young thugs looking for mischief. “What’s up, Chad?”
    “Mrs. Whitaker wants to talk with you.”
    “Yeah,” said the one with the chewing gum. “She said we should invite you to have lunch with her.” I looked up at the sun, then at Chad.
    “That’s very nice of Doris,” I replied. Chad’s face darkened at my presumptuous use of his boss’s first name. “But it’s a bit early for me. Maybe later today?”
    The guy on my right cracked his knuckles again. “She told us you might take some persuading.”
    I admit it. I’m not a fighter. I like to think I keep in shape, but I have no experience in street fighting, nor do I want any. I gave an exaggerated shrug. “Fine, I’m persuaded. Where to?” The knuckle cracker looked disappointed.
    Chad, obviously the leader, answered my question.
    “Mrs. Whitaker,” he emphasized her title for me, “is waiting for you at The Empire Room. We’ll take you there.”

 
     
     
Chapter Seventeen
     
     
    The Empire Room was a relic, a holdover from a time when men wore ties even when casually dressed, women wore gloves to go grocery shopping, and no man or woman would be seen in public without a hat. A columnist once wrote that anything a person needed to know about how the city was being run could be learned in the taproom of The Empire, and a woman’s social position could be made or broken by where the maître d’ seated her in the dining room.
    Those days are gone from our city, lost to decades of change, but the past lingered on inside The Empire Room in the rich décor, tall chandeliers, and the snootiness of the clientele.
    I was glad I had opted for a suit coat and tie that day as we entered and so avoided the embarrassment of being offered ill-fitting loaners to wear before venturing farther.
    Two of my escorts peeled off and disappeared into the Tap Room Bar, leaving Chad to do the honors of escorting me into the dining room. Once through the heavy double doors of the main dining room, the air tasted of leather and well-polished brass mixed with the scent of fine roasted coffee. The room was mostly empty of customers as it was long past breakfast and too early for lunch. A waitress laid out table settings while another ran a quiet carpet sweeper under the tables.
    The waitresses at The Empire Room were also a throwback to the days of the gentlemen’s clubs. They all wore the same uniform of fishnet stockings, shoes with stiletto heels, a very short black skirt and a starched white dress shirt, full sleeved and fully buttoned with a red bow tie at the neck. Even their hair was anachronistic, worn in a high, puffy bouffant.
    Chad led me to a booth at the other end of the long dining room where cream-colored sheer curtains allowed only rarified light to illuminate the august furnishings. A