Flamingo Place. Marcia King-Gamble
her buddies who made up most of the clerical staff.
Chere was back in twenty minutes huffing and puffing. “You betcha call that radio station,” she threatened.
Jen rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“You have to,” Chere said advancing. “My girls listen to WARP all day long. Tonight’s broadcast is hot. They got the mayor’s son coming to talk about you.”
“They do not. And even if they did I’m not being baited into responding.” Jen’s attention returned to her column. She muttered, “The mayor’s son can get on the radio and say whatever he wants. If I leave it alone and not take a defensive mode this whole thing will eventually blow over.”
“That’s what you think.” Chere snorted. “You haven’t lived in this town long enough.”
Jen glanced at her watch. If she didn’t leave right away she would be late for her lunch appointment. She’d insisted she make the reservations. She’d chosen home turf. They would be lunching at the Pink Flamingo restaurant. Out in the open and relatively safe.
“Save whatever else you have to say for later. I have to go,” Jen said, picking up her purse. “Make sure to answer the phones.”
Chere mumbled something under her breath. It was probably a good thing Jen didn’t hear.
Fifteen minutes later she hurried into the Pink Flamingo. Considering it was a weekday, it was crowded. The same hostess from the other night seated her. Today she wore a flamingo pink miniskirt and midriff-baring top. No sign of Trestin as yet. Jen followed the curvaceous young woman to a table in the center of the room, noticing the small butterfly tattooed on her lower back.
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