Too Many Cooks

Chapter 2

Marlene South left Sisters of Serenity as though shot from a cannon. Five years of uniforms, religion-laced academics and strict curfews had pushed her to the very extremes of her limited patience and she would attend further institutions of education over her dead body only. Acting was her goal. Hours of secretly studying at the school of TV soap operas filled Marlene with a confidence borne of naiveté. With a cruel disdain for gratitude, she blew her parents off, packed a bag and headed for the theatre's bright lights—any theatre.

In less than the blink of an eye, Marlene discovered that her talent was non-existent and in a very short time she found herself earning less than a living, writhing about a well-used pole in a dingy, smoky club called Rumps. Between the mandatory salary, necessary to keep the licensing and the tax people satisfied, and meager tips, she soon realized that things had to change. One particular denizen of Rumps attached himself to Marlene through copious but stingy contributions at each of her performances and on one particular night, when a violent thunderstorm sent floods roaring through the streets, he was the only customer the club could boast.

A brief explanation of the gift horse adage by her boss found Marlene sharing a booth and a watered down drink with her erstwhile admirer. As it turned out, the customer ran a small travel agency called Fly Away Today, which coincidentally needed another sales person. With the incentive of more money on a regular basis, Marlene accepted the offer and the obvious reason behind it and became the new sales representative for Fly Away Today.

Within two years, word of mouth brought Marlene's talent for setting up and selling vacations, to the ear of a major agency that dealt only in corporate vacations and in the time it used to take for her to writhe once around the pole at Rumps, she kissed Fly Away Today and her blubbering employer goodbye. Success followed Marlene in her chosen career, making her the first choice of corporations to plan and execute their conventions, holidays and confidential getaways. That was how she met Carleton Trasker.

*****

"WOT THE HELL—" Elora George rose from behind her crap table-sized desk and in a few solid strides, crossed the large office and snatched open the carved mahogany door. "BOORLAND! Get yure wee ass in here p-r-r-r-ronto!" She spun on spindly heels and marched back to her chair, plopping down and crossing her brown, muscled legs.

"Miss George, you ca—"

"Close that door, Boorland."

He did, and approached the massive desk tentatively. "You, uh- called, Miss George?"

"Aye, I did. Is this yure memo I find soiling my in basket then?" She sailed the piece of paper toward him.

Hoyt swallowed a grin. It was always all he could do when faced with the Amazon-sized, caramel-coloured Elora George incongruously speaking with a Scottish brogue. "M-memo?" He lifted the paper to his owlish glasses and nodded. "Yes, ma'am, it is."

"I di' nae recall requesting information on this subject, Boorland. Did I ask for something? Were you tasked wi' bringing me updates then?" Her dark eyes flashed ominously.

"Uh not specifically, ma'am. Mister Ditchburn asked me to archive some files that had been hanging around untouched, I happened to have the Trasker file up when he came by and he asked about it."

"Wot exactly did he ask, Boorland?"

"He wanted to know about any information I'd discovered."

"Aboot the young man one of yure sairches turned up?"

"Yes. He expressed an interest and told me just to update it and archive it."

"Did he now, and what exactly were his instructions?"