Chapter 7

Early in the morning, Tiffany, Please, came bustling into Amber’s room. She was followed in by a New York designer. Daddy was following in the rear. Now that the heir was disposed of, Tiff fully intended to convert the room into a nursery. Tiff was in an ‘interesting condition.’

The bed was slept in. The bedclothes were mounded up in the center of the bed.

“Excuse the mess,” Tiffany said to the expensive decorator, “that girl ... out the country and left her room a disaster.”

The bedclothes moved, Tiffany shrieked ... Amber jumped ... the bedclothes slid off and Amber had been sleeping like she always did ... in the nude. When she saw the designer, she did a little shrieking of her own.

“Very nice,” he said, looking.

“Amber,” said Daddy, “put some clothes on.”

She couldn’t ... every stitch she owned was in a First Class stateroom on the RMS Queen Elizabeth 2. The steamship was in the middle of the North Atlantic. The middle of the Atlantic is five and a half hours ahead of Atlanta. 6:00 AM in Atlanta was 12:30PM on the Liner. The passengers were just now understanding the realization that a 16 year old ‘child’ was missing. Most of them remembered with whom she was dancing last night. The search was on.

Her closets at home were bare ... as bare as Amber.

“Tiffany, fetch Amber a robe.”

There were a lot of things Daddy could have said to Tiffany that would have less effect than ‘fetch.’ Like a dog ... toss the ball... “go fetch.”

Tiff threw a screaming fit!

The Heir was back! How?

She’d paid how many thousands?

She fucked both assassins ... singly and both at a time. Not that it was a chore ... she’d been fucking, sucking, taking it up the ass, since before high school.

Fucking Amber’s Dad ... now THAT was a chore. He wasn’t even her baby daddy...

... and NOW he was telling her she had to share her hard earned clothing with a 16 year old who was SUPPOSED to BE DEAD! He didn’t ASK ... the ASSHOLE HAD THE NERVE...!

Yup ... screaming, thwarted three year old temper tantrum. Flat on her back, heels drumming ‘Wipe Out’ on the highly polished six inch wide boards of the hard maple floor of HIS daughter’s bedroom.

Tiffany blew her cool. She started FOAMING at the mouth, eyes rolled back, fists clenched beating the floor.

And right in what would the middle of a good thirty minute attention getter, she suddenly grabbed her abdomen, doubled up, and miscarried.

I suppose that would solve the problem...

No.

NOW she babbbled. The entire scheme ... names ... dates ... contacts. Everything came out ... an over-flowing sewer of vile, evil information. Tiffany confessed all. And didn’t realize she did.

The thoroughly competent interior designer had an extremely efficient, highly sensitive miniature recorder in his pocket. He was recording EVERY word.

Later, in court, he was asked why he had such a device. His explanation was that he had had difficulties with payment. The rich seemed to have faulty memories. They were unable to recall statements involving money, contracts, assent and settled color schemes. Some out of pocket purchases were denied. The designer had lost money ONCE. The recorder prevented that.

The court allowed the recording as evidence.

Amber had her daddy back.