Steele Investments
Part 7
by Melinda
 
As it happened, in the morning it was Sam Spade, the slightly shady shamus, and not Remington Steele who paid a visit upon the Widow Stanton. Though he made no conscious decision to do so, he stepped out of Steele's shoes the moment that the front door of the Stanton residence swung open. Samuel Spade took over.
 
Grace Stanton's initial reaction to his unannounced presence was telling--and probably the last honest emotion he would get from the woman. Her entire face lit with complete surprise. "Mr. Steele! What can I do for you?"
 
Sam Spade sized the bird up with hard, steely eyes. "I'm following a lead on a case, Mrs. Stanton, and your name has surfaced in conjunction. Has anyone, supposedly representing my agency, contacted you regarding some investments? Tell me about it from the very beginning."
 
Grace settled right into the role of wide-eyed innocent. She was a very bad girl playing at being good. "Why Mr. Steele, I have no idea what you're talking about," she protested.
 
"Really, sister, there's a dangerous man with a gun out there. He's tried to kill me once already; you might be next." It was a small white lie; the man with the gun was already dead. However, it made a convincing threat.
 
Grace's baby blues widened, and she brought her hand to cover her heart in a salute to coy dismay. "I swear, Mr. Steele, I have absolutely no idea, and you do have the strangest way of talking."
 
"No illicit attempts to blackmail you?" Her marriage to the deceased Willis Stanton had been a sham because her prior marriage to Harry Swan had never been annulled or terminated. If her secret ever got out, her $140 million worth of trust funds would go bye-bye. It made her a prime target for an intrepid entrepreneur looking to make a fast buck.
 
"Mr. Steele, is that a threat?" Fear made her even more pliable, and she reached out, clinging beseechingly to his arm.
 
He shook her free. "Don't be absurd, angel. Remington Steele is a man of integrity. Your bribe for twenty-five grand--I tore it up."
 
Grace had no reaction to the pronouncement other than puzzlement and disbelief. Obviously, a woman like her could not envision or conceive of anyone's throwing away a juicy bribe. Hardly surprising. It took a woman of integrity to conceive of a man like Remington Steele. Grace Stanton simply could not measure up to Laura Holt.
 
"You really don't know?"
 
Remarkably, Grace appeared to be telling the truth. She was not an unconvincing liar, but he came from a world where no one was what they seemed, and men could only be measured by their actions. In that world of empty words, Grace Stanton was a guppy swimming with sharks. He saw right through her.
 
She shook her head, and from the way she looked at him, she obviously thought him crazy. "Well now, that's very interesting," he said thoughtfully, dropping out of Sam Spade and into Remington Steele.
 
He had two fingers pressed to his lips in an absent gesture of deep thought. He dropped them and turned to leave. "Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Stanton."
 
"Wait--" Her confusion had redoubled. "That's it? That's all you wanted from me?"
 
"That's it," he confirmed and departed, his thoughts preoccupied with what he had learned.
 
~~~
 
He arrived on the movie set of Amazon Fever just as the sun was nearing its zenith. It was a small production lot located between obscurity and ignominy, but it was still possessed of enough cheap glamour to excite an enthusiastic movie buff like him.
 
He approached the movie security gate, removing his Armani sunglasses once he stood in front of the guard booth. A hefty middle-aged man wearing a guard's gray polyester suit sat inside, buried in an issue of Sports Spectrum. Trickles of sweat rolled along the sides of the man's ruddy face, and a small fan labored to penetrate the wall of afternoon heat.
 
"Remington Steele to see Veronica Kirk," he announced with the affected self-important pomp that never fell out of fashion in Los Angeles. Remington Steele's public prominence had not yet lost its foreign flavor, especially given his prior personal preference for anonymity.
 
The guard looked up, bestowing a bored glance upon him, obviously recognizing neither name nor face of Remington Steele. Still, to his credit, he gave his clipboard a cursory review before delivering the rejection. "Ms. Kirk isn't accepting visitors without a prior invitation, and you're not on the list, Mr. Steele."
 
"Call in and announce me," he insisted with a quick jab at the guard's phone. "She'll see me." This time his confidence was absolute and well-founded. Veronica had never once turned him away--regardless of whether he called in advance.
 
The guard shrugged and picked up the phone, probably thinking it the fastest and easiest way to be rid of him. The conversation was short, and the guard's entire demeanor was transformed when he hung up the receiver.
 
"I'm sorry, Mr. Steele," he apologized. "Go right in. They're shooting today on lot three."
 
He nodded and went, folding his sunglasses and placing them within a pocket. Veronica Kirk was the final--and most favored--of the four former clients that he had visited that morning.
 
He had almost reached lot three when Veronica Kirk burst out of the building. The actress was swathed in peacock-blue flowing silk and moving toward him lickity-split.
 
"Dimples! It's been weeks since your last visit! Come here and let me see you, you devil!" Veronica cried, rushing toward him with open arms.
 
"Veronica! You look absolutely ravishing, my dear!" With a grin infectious and wholly genuine, he threw out his arms and swept the actress up into a bear hug. It was an Old World display of affection--a demonstrativeness that he often sorely missed. Americans were so reluctant and reticent--his Laura especially.
 
"How have you been, Dimples? Has Laura been taking good care of you?" Veronica asked, kissing his cheek and then taking his hands in hers in order to look him over with a critical eye.
 
"Alas, Miss Holt is dedicated to her career." He linked elbows with Veronica, settling her hand upon his forearm in courtly manner. "For the most part, I am left to pine, grateful for the few small scraps of attention that she chooses to throw my way." He gave a mournful sigh, affecting great pain.
 
"That woman is a fool--a blind fool!"
 
"Aww, now enough about me. Tell me how your movie is coming along." He held the door for her, and they made their way into the thankfully air-conditioned building.
 
They engaged in chitchat and pleasantries until he eventually made his way around to the real reason for his visit. "Veronica, has anyone--allegedly representing my agency or an affiliate--approached you for money?"
 
Her eyebrows drew together and her lips formed an "O." "No, Dimples, no, but--" Her concern was great. "Do you need money? Are you in trouble? How much do you need?" She was up, reaching for her checkbook.
 
He caught her hand. "Veronica, no--thank you--but no. I ask merely for reasons having to do with a case that I'm currently investigating."
 
She heaved a sigh of relief and sank back onto the divan. "No, no one has approached me," she said. "But if you ever need anything, Dimples, anything at all--you ask. Promise?"
 
"I will; I promise." He patted and then leaned over to kiss the back of her hand. And he had the answer to his question--short of interviewing every single client for whom the agency had ever worked. Whatever was going on, the agency's clientele was not being victimized as part of the scam.
 
To Part 8
Back FileCabinet E-Mail Next