Sand City Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

about his green,” Miriam told me as I started rinsing out the carafe.
    “His green? His golf course? Or his yacht club?” I asked. Charles Chamblis was not my favorite person in the world, to say the least. If I had a nemesis he would be it. Almost lost my job a couple of years ago because of him… but that’s another story. I found the filters and added a couple of scoops of coffee.
    “His color green, in last week’s real estate ad.”
    “So?” I said and poured in some water; the machine started making slurping noises.
    “So, somebody has to fix it. He’s running six more times.”
    “Talk to Jo.”
    “Jo only sold the ad. She has nothing to do with the color.”
    “Did you mention it to Amy?”
    Miriam rolled her eyes. “Amy does not make mistakes. You talk to her.”
    “In the studio yet?”
    She just nodded, then added, “Unless she snuck out the back door again.” Miriam floated off to her reception desk.
    “Alright, maybe I’ll call the press guys. I’m sure it’s no big deal.” I poured a cup of coffee and walked to the back room, the studio. It had been recently renovated: a new window for lots of natural light and a nice plush carpet on the floor. The drawing tables were still old but also recently refurbished. They just didn’t make tables like this anymore; they stood at the perfect angle for our paste-up sessions. They ringed the entire room except for the corner where the computer desk was.
    Amy sat against the far wall hunched over a drawing table with an exacto knife. In years past she might have been called a production artist or maybe a typesetter. Amy Webb was of course a computer software expert, an InDesign jockey, fluent in that page program. She seemed able to effortlessly produce all the ads, layout the final pages with a bit of direction, and get the paper to the printer every week with remarkable ease. Amy also seemed to know every typeface known to mankind, from Aachen bold to Zapf Dingbats. She could spot any of them from a mile away. I have to say though, there was something odd about Amy. She was nice and all, but every time you walked away from a conversation, you felt exhausted, emotionally exhausted. I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly, but I know I wasn’t alone. Miriam, Eleanor, even Melissa would back me up on this. Frank, Donald, Joey and Evan were all a little less objective about Amy, absolutely ready to give her the benefit of the doubt. Jason had yet to voice an opinion.
    “Hey Amy, how’s it going?”
    “Hi, Mr Jardel,” she said and looked up from behind her over-sized glasses. I always thought Amy could put Jo and Melissa to shame. When she sat up straight and took her glasses off, she was a real beauty. Young, maybe twenty five or so, with shoulder-length dirty blond hair cut in bangs that fell nearly to her eyes. Most of the time, it was tied back in a ponytail. There was also the black nail polish and the diamond stud in her nose. Tattoos too, probably, though none were visible yet. I wondered why she wasn’t at her computer.
    “Patrick is fine. No Mr Jardel, okay? Anyhow, what— I’m like five, six years older than you?”
    “Yeah, old and creepy.”
    “Thanks.” I tried to smile but couldn’t. “Anyhow... Amy, just wanted to say what a great job you’re doing. Everyone is real happy… well, except for Mr Chamblis.”
    “Oh, I heard. That’s not my fault. He chose Pantone coated number three-thirty-nine.” She opened a drawer and took out a sheet of stationery and a business card. “See? It matches exactly.”
    “Right. And you checked it with Jason?”
    “Arg, Jason. Talk about creepy and old. I hate that guy.”
    “Amy, he’s like two or three years younger than you.”
    “No, he’s already an old guy.”
    “Well you better learn to like him… especially if you want to learn how to code.”
    “Really?”
    “Well yeah, you said you were getting bored, so we’ll train you on how the website works. You can help out