her for some reason. She reminded herself that he was a private
investigator and people in that line were supposed to notice things.
"No, of course not," she replied.
She went quickly to the huge, overstuffed, oversized armchair that sat in front of the desk. It
almost swallowed her whole when she sat down in it.
Ethan went behind his desk, a massive, scarred hunk of oak that was even larger and sturdier
than the one in the other room, and sat down. The chair gave a squeak of protest.
She examined the room with what she told herself was professional interest but which she
suspected was actually deep personal curiosity. Everything connected to Ethan Truax
fascinated her for some strange reason, and you could tell so much about a person by the
space he or she inhabited.
The inner office was furnished with the same kind of window treatment and the same type of
substantial, old-fashioned, masculine pieces she had seen in the other room. She had to admit
that they invoked a certain period atmosphere and made a statement that suited the fictional
image of the private investigation business.
But in her opinion, the client chair in which she sat was far too large and too overwhelming to
make a visitor feel comfortable. Furthermore, Truax's massive desk was not in the right place
in the room to create the best energy flow. In addition there was a mirror hanging on the wall
that was both badly proportioned and badly positioned.
Several heavy metal filing cabinets were lined up side by side against the rear wall. They were
ancient and not particularly attractive, but she supposed an investigator needed a place for
files.
New bookshelves had been recently installed on either side of the door. Unfortunately, Truax
had chosen to go with inexpensive metal shelving that did nothing to add to the ambience of
the room. Half of the shelves were already loaded with volumes. She could see more of the
same sort of impressive, academic-looking tomes she had seen in the packing box outside.
Who would have expected a private investigator to possess a serious book collection? Maybe
her concept of the profession, formed as it had been by mystery novels, television, and old
films, was not entirely accurate.
Ethan's surroundings did not answer her silent questions; instead they raised new ones and
made her all the more curious about him.
One thing was clear, he commanded his space; it did not command him.
Ethan opened a desk drawer, took out a yellow notepad, and put it on the desk in front of
him. "Why don't we start with your name?"
"Zoe Luce. I own a design firm here in town. Enhanced Interiors."
"You're a decorator," he said flatly.
"Interior designer."
"Whatever."
"Do you have some sort of underlying hostility toward people in my profession?"
"I had a bad experience with a decorator once."
"Well, for the record," Zoe said, "I think that I'm having a really bad experience with a private
investigator. This could color my attitude toward folks in your field for years to come."
He tapped the pen on the notepad and contemplated her in silence for a while.
"Sorry," he said eventually. "Let's try this again. What do you want me to do for you, Zoe
Luce?"
"I thought we were going to talk about money first."
"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot." He put down the pen, rested his arms on the desk, and linked his
fingers. "Like I said, if you're shopping by price, you're stuck with me. My hourly rates are
considerably less than those charged over at Radnor, and I have only a two-hour minimum."
That news had an elevating effect on her mood. "What about expenses? Mileage and meals,
that kind of thing?"
"You aren't responsible for mileage or meals within the city limits. You will be billed for
miscellaneous expenses and for any costs incurred if I have to travel outside Whispering
Springs. Don't worry, you'll get receipts."
He thinks I'm an idiot. Annoyed, she crossed her legs very deliberately. She sat back into
investigator and people in that line were supposed to notice things.
"No, of course not," she replied.
She went quickly to the huge, overstuffed, oversized armchair that sat in front of the desk. It
almost swallowed her whole when she sat down in it.
Ethan went behind his desk, a massive, scarred hunk of oak that was even larger and sturdier
than the one in the other room, and sat down. The chair gave a squeak of protest.
She examined the room with what she told herself was professional interest but which she
suspected was actually deep personal curiosity. Everything connected to Ethan Truax
fascinated her for some strange reason, and you could tell so much about a person by the
space he or she inhabited.
The inner office was furnished with the same kind of window treatment and the same type of
substantial, old-fashioned, masculine pieces she had seen in the other room. She had to admit
that they invoked a certain period atmosphere and made a statement that suited the fictional
image of the private investigation business.
But in her opinion, the client chair in which she sat was far too large and too overwhelming to
make a visitor feel comfortable. Furthermore, Truax's massive desk was not in the right place
in the room to create the best energy flow. In addition there was a mirror hanging on the wall
that was both badly proportioned and badly positioned.
Several heavy metal filing cabinets were lined up side by side against the rear wall. They were
ancient and not particularly attractive, but she supposed an investigator needed a place for
files.
New bookshelves had been recently installed on either side of the door. Unfortunately, Truax
had chosen to go with inexpensive metal shelving that did nothing to add to the ambience of
the room. Half of the shelves were already loaded with volumes. She could see more of the
same sort of impressive, academic-looking tomes she had seen in the packing box outside.
Who would have expected a private investigator to possess a serious book collection? Maybe
her concept of the profession, formed as it had been by mystery novels, television, and old
films, was not entirely accurate.
Ethan's surroundings did not answer her silent questions; instead they raised new ones and
made her all the more curious about him.
One thing was clear, he commanded his space; it did not command him.
Ethan opened a desk drawer, took out a yellow notepad, and put it on the desk in front of
him. "Why don't we start with your name?"
"Zoe Luce. I own a design firm here in town. Enhanced Interiors."
"You're a decorator," he said flatly.
"Interior designer."
"Whatever."
"Do you have some sort of underlying hostility toward people in my profession?"
"I had a bad experience with a decorator once."
"Well, for the record," Zoe said, "I think that I'm having a really bad experience with a private
investigator. This could color my attitude toward folks in your field for years to come."
He tapped the pen on the notepad and contemplated her in silence for a while.
"Sorry," he said eventually. "Let's try this again. What do you want me to do for you, Zoe
Luce?"
"I thought we were going to talk about money first."
"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot." He put down the pen, rested his arms on the desk, and linked his
fingers. "Like I said, if you're shopping by price, you're stuck with me. My hourly rates are
considerably less than those charged over at Radnor, and I have only a two-hour minimum."
That news had an elevating effect on her mood. "What about expenses? Mileage and meals,
that kind of thing?"
"You aren't responsible for mileage or meals within the city limits. You will be billed for
miscellaneous expenses and for any costs incurred if I have to travel outside Whispering
Springs. Don't worry, you'll get receipts."
He thinks I'm an idiot. Annoyed, she crossed her legs very deliberately. She sat back into