Black Diaries

31. Loving Welcome

"What?" I stared at him, not sure I had heard correctly.

"Money," he repeated. "Green bills with the head of Washington or Jefferson or some other political personage of note on them, sometimes also referred to as 'dough' or 'cash'. How much of it do you make per year? I understand that you are a veterinarian. As far as I have been able to determine, the country's veterinarians make an average $91,250 per year, ranging from $50,480 to $141,680. Now, assuming that you are not completely incompetent and at the bottom of this scale, this is still hugely below the proceeds my grandson generates. What do you have to say to that?"

"Um..." I said.

Wow, Cassidy! Great way to make an impression.

Beside me, Elliot threw his grandfather a glare out of those deep, dark eyes of his that would have had me quailing in a corner. Old Mr. Winslow didn't even blink.

"Since we are on the subject of money," he continued, not waiting for my reply and piercing me with those sharp eyes of his, "how much money do you currently have in your bank account? I assume that it is not more than one measly million dollars?"

"Err... not really."

Okay... Second error of the night. Number one: judo-throwing the butler through the air. Number two: not owning a million plus dollars.

"I thought as much. Humph." He speared a piece of lobster with his fork and bit it in two without bothering to remove the shell. "Have you been previously convicted?"

My eyes went wide. "What?"

"Convicted. By the police. For a crime. Winslow Enterprises is an international corporation with billion dollar interests in respected branches of industry, young lady. I'm sure you'll understand we cannot afford to have our name connected to that of a criminal. Thus I asked: have you ever been convicted?"

No, Sir. The cops have never been able to catch me, so far. But they did find one of the four bodies.

I very, very briefly considered giving this reply. It would have been fun, just to see the look on the gnarled old face. But Elliot's hands appearing suddenly over mine and squeezing brought me back from fantasy to reality.

"Grandfather..." he said, warningly.

Turning my hand into his, I squeezed, to signal him that it was all right. It was a legitimate question after all. I mean, how should old Mr. Winslow know that his son's girlfriend wasn't a car thief, or a confidence trickster or, oh, let's say a serial killer? Such things happened in the best of families.

"No, Sir," I said with a friendly smile. "I have never been convicted."

Not yet, that is.

"Humph. Where do you come from, exactly?"

"Alabama, Sir."

"Where in Alabama?"

My hand tensed involuntarily, and I felt Elliot look at me, a slight marring his lovely brow.

"It's just a small town, Sir. I'm sure you haven't heard of it."

The old gentleman's eyes narrowed. "Try me."

Thankfully, his wife chose this moment to intercede on my behalf. "Oh, Joseph! Leave her alone, will you? The poor girl is quite nervous enough, I'm sure, without being subjected to your inquisition."

"Humph. So you are allowed to ask her questions, and I am not?"

"No, Joseph. You are allowed to ask her anything you want, as long as you avoid the subjects of her monetary position, her status, her morals, her dress, her ancestry, and most of all her hidden motives in dating our grandson, which, by the way, she doesn't have. Understood?"