"Roberts, Nora - A Matter of Choice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

Struggling to be open minded, he continued his catalog. Opened the House
of Winslow four years ago. Up until two years ago she did the majority
of buying herself. Good excuse to play around in Europe, he thought as
he punched in the car lighter.

Michael Adams, Jessica Winslow's assistant and current buyer.
Thirty-two, Yale graduate. Figures, Slade reflected, exhaling smoke that
rushed out of the open window. Son of Robert and Marion Adams, another
prominent Connecticut family. No firm evidence, but someone Slade was
instructed to keep his eye on. He leaned his elbow on the window as he
considered. As chief buyer, Adams would be in a perfect position to
handle the operation from overseas.

David Ryce, shop assistant for eighteen months. Twenty-three. Son of
Elizabeth Ryce, the Winslow housekeeper. Dodson had said he was often
trusted with running the shop alone. That would give him the opportunity
to handle the local operation.

Systematically, Slade ran through the list of the Winslow staff.
Gardener, cook, housekeeper, daily maid. Good God, he thought in
disgust. All that for one person. She probably wouldn't know how to boil
an egg if her life depended on it.

The gates to the Winslow estate stood open, with room enough for two
cars to pass easily. Slade turned into the long, macadam drive, lined
with bushy, bloomless azaleas. There was a burst of birdsong, then
silence. He drove nearly a quarter of a mile before pulling up in front
of the house.

It was large but, he had to admit, not oppressively so. The brick was
old, mellowed by sun and sea air. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys on
the hipped roof. The gray shutters weren't just decorative, he noted,
but could be used for practical purposes if a storm rose up off the
Sound. He smelled the chrysanthemums before he saw them.

The blossoms were huge, growing near the base of the house. They were
rust, gold, and copper, complimenting the violent red of bushes. It
charmed him, as did the lazy odor of wood-smoke. This wasn't indolence
but peace. He'd had too little of that. Shaking off the mood, Slade
walked up the steps to the front door. He lifted a fist and knocked,
hard. He hated doorbells.

In less than a minute the door opened. He had to look down, quite a
distance down, to see a tiny, middle-aged woman with a pleasantly ugly
face and gray-streaked hair. He caught a whiff of a pine-scented cleaner
that reminded him of his mother's kitchen.

"May I help you?" The accent was broad New England.