Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

tacky as I had assumed. My first-impression instincts had obviously taken a hike. J.T. was probably God reincarnated as a slick salesman and Mrs. Brissart was the devil himself. I came back to the present as J.T. explained that the plans only represented a small part of the entire project.
    “Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit?” I asked while I followed him into his office—another tastefully appointed room totally out of character with the slime ball in front of me.
    J.T. fingered several messages on his desk. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean the land isn’t yours. Mrs. Brissart will not sign the papers.”
    J.T. looked up and smirked. “She will.”
    “How can you be so certain? I think she’s made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with you or your company. And not just your company. She doesn’t want the land developed, period.”
    “Well, first, it’s not just her land. And second, I have a way with people.” He smiled at me and I felt my skin crawl. “She’s not in a fighting mood right about now, so she should be putty in my hands.”
    I looked at him with an open mouth. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning on approaching Mrs. Brissart at a time like this? Her grandson just died. Murdered, in case you forgot.”
    “Exactly. Now is when she would be most vulnerable.”
    “You can’t be serious,” I sputtered, trying in vain to maintain my control.
    “No. I’m not that uncaring, Alex. I can call you Alex? I thought I would wait another week or so.”
    “I can’t bear to hear another word of this. I can understand why Mrs. Brissart wants nothing to do with the lot of you,” I said while heading out the door.
    “I’ll make sure you’re invited to our next soirée.” J.T. called.
    I slammed the door to Rand, Alpers, and Smit, and stopped in the hallway trying to catch my breath. “Well,” I said, happy to find my instincts still intact after all. My first impression of J.T. Smit had been right on the mark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

    “I can show you to your seats now, if you’d like to follow me.”
    John and I threaded our way past other diners to a table for two in the rear of the restaurant. One of the main attractions of Ginnalli’s was their open-fire pizzas, and I liked sitting close to the fire. The restaurant always smells of fresh garlic and tonight was no exception. I was hungrier than I thought despite all the pickles at lunch.
    A young man came up to our table with a basket of small bits of fried pizza dough. He added some fresh butter and told us our waiter would be back shortly to take our orders.
    Though an Italian restaurant, from the outside the place looked like a weathered fish shack complete with well-worn grayed shingles. The inside certainly smelled like an Italian restaurant but the requisite fishing net and glass floats adorned a side wall. This was, after all, New England and I guess they felt they had a style to uphold.
    “I can never decide what to have. Now if I were Samantha, I’d order a couple of things and be done with it, but, oh, let’s see...” I read the menu. I knew every item on it by heart but still had a hard time deciding. “Okay, I’m going to have a caprese to start and then a marguerita pizza.” I folded the menu and put it to one side.
    John smeared a piece of dough with some butter and smiled. “That’s what you always have.”
    “Yes, and I know that you always get the pasta with four cheeses, which is the other thing I want. This way I can have mine and some of yours, too.”
    “Well, maybe I’ll change this time just to be mean, and maybe that way I can actually get a whole dish to myself.”
    “Won’t work.” I smiled at him over the breadbasket. “I like everything on the menu so whatever you have I’ll take a bite. Just consider me your official food taster.”
    We came to Ginnalli’s often. It was the best Italian restaurant in town, probably the best restaurant in town, period. Papa Ginnalli believed no amount of garlic was too much and I wholeheartedly agreed.
    After we placed our orders, I asked, “How’d it go today?” I hated asking too much, but John seemed so fed up with the family I suspected he welcomed the chance to unload on me.
    “The same. I’m really getting tired of these people. May and June, no, June and May , as I’ve been corrected on several occasions, are really something. But I spent most of the day talking with Stuart.”
    “Stuart? He wasn’t there Monday night. Did he