Thirteen
Sarah Johnson almost passed out when she saw the scuff mark on the gallery wall. How did that get there? she wondered. But more importantly, had Mr. Collins seen it yet? That man's personality was a carbon copy of his father's; thank god he got his mother's looks. At least there was one positive thing about him. She banished the thought from her head. The Collins had always been good to her; they had given her a rather generous job offer when she needed it the most.
On to the scuff mark. Like his father, Quentin was a stickler for presentation. This house was the equivalent of some kind of fancy museum; it had to be kept up. It was too much for one woman, but she bore the load well. One day off her carefully planned out schedule, and everything went haywire. There was so much of the house that was open--for even though more than fifty-per cent of it was closed off, there were still many rooms and bedrooms to keep clean. She was thankful that this was all she had.
There was only one culprit: David. She shook her head. That boy was a handful; she didn't envy Miss Harridge. He was always traipsing off somewhere, and the girl chased him all over the county. But she blamed that on the parents. If the mister and his high-and-mighty wife had paid attention to the young'n, then he might be a bit more controllable, and he might not have tried to set the Collinsport Public School on fire. No one to blame but the parents.
Mrs. Johnson heard footsteps come down the hall; they weren't the quick short steps of David, nor the soft graceful ones of the young miss. No, they were purposeful and business-like, and could only belong to one person. She scrubbed the paneling a bit harder, hoping that the black mark would lift off before he came into the room.
She sat back on her heels as he stood in the doorway. "I need my study to be dusted today, Mrs. Johnson, as soon as your finished in here," he politely commanded her.
The politeness must have rubbed off from his mother, she surmised. "Yes, Mr. Collins," she replied. "I'll get to it as soon as possible."
"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."
It looked like she would be rewriting her schedule that night.
Fourteen
Chris went over to Collinwood around ten the next morning with the reports that Mr. Collins had asked for--every bill and expense the household had accrued in the past six months. They were compared to the previous year and the average of the previous five years. He had gotten about four hours of sleep that night so he could finish the reports. Thankfully, he was aided by the help of computers; his predecessor had kept clear and precise records. He just had to put it all together and collate it, make a couple of graphs, and stick them in binders.
At least he had a few minutes to "rest his eyes" while Mr. Collins looked over the reports. He honestly told himself that was all he was going to do; close his eyes in the hope that maybe it would ease the scratchiness from too few hours of sleep.
"Jennings?" he heard from far off. He opened his eyes and saw Quentin Collins leaning across the desk and looking expectantlly again. "Do you plan on telling me why these graphs don't reflect why the phone bills are twice as expensive as last year? "
Chris was confused for a moment, and then remembered the phone bills. "Oh, yes," he said, jumping out of his seat. He walked around the desk--making sure not to get too close to his emminence--close enough to take a look at the bills. "These are from when Elizabeth was here; she called Paris every few days to make sure that Carolyn was all right. Naturally, last year when she wasn't here, you didn't have her calling there so often."
"Of course, I accounted for that," Quentin said, trying his darndest not to sound patronizing, but it didn't work. Chris squelched down a momentary flare of anger. "But why are all these calls to Boston on the bills, but they aren't on the graphs?"
"Oh," Chris said a bit sheepishly. "Well, Daphne made those calls and she offered to pay for them since they were so numerous. I didn't see how there'd be a problem with that."
Quentin nodded. "Chris, do me a favor."
Chris hesitated slightly, but then got a grip on himselves. It's not like he's going to buy your soul or make you a slave if you don't, old boy he chided himself. "Sure, Mr. Collins."
"Next time she pays you for the bills, just put it back in her checking account, okay?" Quentin asked.
"I can't do that. I can't make unauthorized deposits into her account," he said. He looked at Quentin, who Chris knew wouldn't take no for an answer. "But I'll find a way to give it back to her."
Quentin nodded. "Thanks, Jennings. Let me take a look over this report and I'll get back to you later. You better take a nap."
It was times like these that kept Jennings wondering what Quentin Collins was really like, and the more he realized that he didn't really want to know. Ignorance was bliss.
Fifteen
As soon as Chris left the room, Quentin picked up the phone and hit speed dial two. The other end picked up by the second ring.
"Hi, Susan, this is Quentin Collins. I need to speak to Frank or Richard," he said, oozing charm. Quentin could be many things, and he did charm very well. Of course, he was patched through right away to Garner the Younger, because Garner the Elder was with a client.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Collins?" Frank said. Even though Quentin was only a few years older than Frank, the latter had yet to call Quentin by his first name; he was still awed by the Collins name, something that his father had gotten over a long time ago. Of course, he father had worked for Andrew Collins and knew Quentin as a child, so Richard had an upper hand over his son.
"I need you to check out some people for me, Frank," Quentin said. "Just an employee of mine."
"Of course, Mr. Collins," Frank said. He was used to doing not-quite-so-normal things for the Collins family. He had a vague suspicion that it was that disreputable handy-man that Quentin employed, but he didn't make any assumptions; he didn't want to look bad. "Who is you want us to look into?"
"A Miss Daphne Harridge, my governess. She's from Boston, came from an orphanage there. The second one is going to be a bit harder," Quentin said as he gave Frank the needed information.
"All right, Mr. Collins," Frank said as he got down the essentials on Miss Harridge, "who else do you need information on?"
"All I have is a Boston area phone number; I don't know who it is. Miss Harridge calls it frequently, and I'm curious as to who she associates with." Quentin read off the ten digits to Frank. "Will there be any problem with that?"
"Shouldn't be, Mr. Collins. Phone numbers are pretty easy to track, and we have a guy that handles these things very well. We should be able to get you a preliminary report in about a week. If you need more than that, then we'll continue," Frank said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Not today, Frank. Thanks for talking to me on such short notice," Quentin said. "I'll talk to you in a week."
Had he been any other man, Quentin may
have felt guilt for prying
into his employee's life and not
trusting in them. But something was up with her, his Collins intuition
told him that. He took being a
Collins very seriously indeed; nothing was going to interfere with his
interests.
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