Porter Island Chapter Six (standard:action, 1792 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Aug 20 2024	Views/Reads: 185/92	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Agent Betty McCloud is persuaded out of retirement for a special assignment. But she's not getting any younger, and this proves to be her most demanding assignment yet.

Chapter Six 

Betty headed back to the ballroom, turning things over as she went. If
the waiter had been acting on someone's behalf – the mayor, sheriff, 
bank manager, whatever, they were all possibilities in her eyes – they 
were going to know she caught him at it. 

She could find the other waiter inconspicuously and test him out on what
he knew, for starters. Just a few quick questions should do the trick, 
then keep a watchful eye on how things played out. 

Betty swept into the ballroom and quickly spotted the uniformed waiter
circulating, a tray of drinks in hand.  Snatching a champagne flute 
from the tray, she met his eyes. “I see your colleague has left you 
alone. Has he abandoned the ship already?” The waiter shrugged. “No 
idea, madam. Haven't seen him in a while.” Betty took a sip from the 
flute. “New fella, would you say? Couldn't cope with the strain?” 

“Never seen him before. I assume so. I asked my colleagues, actually.
Afraid he's a mystery to us all.” 

Betty had no reason to doubt it. Therefore, a bogus waiter. No point in
searching out the hospitality company; the fella was obviously a plant. 
Betty moved away, shouldering through the throng. 

“Not one for ‘excuse me's' are you?” 

“Pardon me?” Betty recognized the deep voice, turned around, and stared
into Sheriff Shriver's not unhandsome features. 

“My shoulders do the talking, as you've already noticed. 

“Indeed.” Shriver's eyes hardened. “Are you feeling unwell? Ms.
Thornton. You appear a little – flushed. 

It certainly wasn't concern she caught in his brown eyes, but then, of
course, he was talking garbage. She hardly ever flushed, even after 
sprinting in hot weather. He was fishing again, and she was telling him 
nothing. “I'm fine, Sheriff. You must be mistaken. I rarely get ill. If 
you'll excuse me, I must find my employer.” 

“Yes, you appear to have been deserting her. I was wondering where you
got to.” 

Ah, so now he was coming out with it. “I was just freshening up.” 

“There are restrooms here in the ballroom.” 

Betty smiled. “And upstairs, as you well know.” 

Shriver's eyes narrowed. Had he reddened a touch? 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

Betty shrugged her wide shoulders.  “I merely assumed that at some time
or other, you'd have familiarized yourself with the house. 

“And why should you assume that?” Shriver asked, his voice rising. “It
isn't my job to know your workings.  Now, if you'll excuse me ...” 
Betty shouldered Shriver aside, not for the first time letting him feel 
her power, striding through the guests toward Stapleton, now holding 
court with a couple of elderly ladies, and again ensuring that she held 
a prominent position. 

Shriver had been watching her, that, she knew, and his going on the
defensive had confirmed as much. But the question remained: why? 

“Well, our little wanderer returns.” Stapleton extended her hand toward
Betty, and as the elderly ladies turned, she bit back her irritation at 
Stapleton's demeaning behavior. 

“Kindly meet Mrs. Anthea Briggs and Mrs. Sylvia Wyse, both members of
the Porter Island women's guild. I've told them we shall be delighted 
to attend their latest function next Wednesday.” 



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