Page 41 of Not a Word

“No,” she said, aghast. “I didn’t see a gun.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Why does Graham need someone like that?”

“You get to where Graham is, you need a bubble around you. Protection. Someone could, I don’t know, kidnap him, figuring they could charge a hefty ransom. Maybe someone with a bone to pick with Wiffel-Smith. You never know when you’re at his level. There’ve been death threats. Even I’ve had the odd run-in with people.”

“When?” Catherine asked, startled.

“On the road, checking in on all these clinics, some strung-out addict nut thinks you’ve got a trunk full of Oxy-Mirac, wants to rip you off.”

“When did this happen?”

Brent shrugged it off. “It was nothing, really.”

“You’ve never told me about this.”

“I don’t want you to worry about every little thing that goes on when I’m traveling.”

She grabbed his arm. “I want to know. Right now.”

Brent sighed. “Okay, but it’s going to sound worse than it actually was. I was coming out of a clinic in Cleveland, and the waiting room was standing room only, people getting scrips for Oxy-Mirac, and I came out of the doctor’s office—a briefcase in my hand—and this one guy follows me out, thinks maybe I’ve got samples in that case, and he pulls a—”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s okay. Just listen. He’s kind of wild-eyed and he pulls this gun and tells me to hand him the briefcase but this doctor, who ran the clinic? He was no fool, and he had security there and before I’ve even got my hands up this guard comes over and whacks this guy in the back of the knees with a nightstick and he goes down like a sack of bricks.”

“What if that guard hadn’t been there? You could have been shot. You could have been killed.”

“Yeah, but he was there, and the cops were called, and they hauled that guy away and charged him and it all turned out okay. I was just glad I didn’t have to go back and testify. The guy’s lawyer arranged a plea, he got sent up for six months or a year or something.”

Catherine had paled. “You should have told me this before.”

“It was nothing. No sense having you worried every second I’m away.”

“What about at home?” she asked. “People might think we have Oxy-Mirac samples there, someone could break in. What about the boys? Are we safe?”

“Of course we are. Come on, let’s not get into it now. Let’s get some more of that Dom Perignon.”

“I’m not done talking about this,” she said.

He steered Catherine toward the tent. A mid-thirties, blond woman in a glittering silver gown was heading his way. Staggering more than walking, a nearly full flute glass in hand, some of the champagne spilling over the top as she approached on six-inch heels.

“Brent!” she called out, still thirty feet away. “Look at you!”

“Evelyn Corby,” he whispered to Catherine. Now that the band was on a break, he could actually speak in a softer voice. “I don’t think you’ve met.”

“I’d have remembered,” Catherine said.

“Sales, like me, works coast to coast, but actually lives not too far from us, other side of Yorkton Hill. Think maybe she’s had a bit too much to—”

“Knew I’d find you eventually,” Evelyn said, having closed the distance between them. She almost fell onto him, placing a hand on his chest to steady herself. She flashed Catherine an exaggerated smile. “You look like an actual spouse, not one of those hookers Graham hired.” She grinned. “No offense.” A pause. “I think.”

“I’m Catherine,” she said, extending a hand. “And yes, I’m Brent’s wife.”

“A pleasure,” Evelyn said, raising the flute to her lips and taking a drink.

“Looks like you’re enjoying the party,” Brent said with a hint of disapproval.