chamber—everyone who is anyone is being invited.”
“Can I cut the ribbon?” Ronald asked his father, the eagerness and excitement clear in his voice.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Scroogen said. “Someone important, like the mayor, has to cut the ribbon.”
Brett saw what might have been anger or disappointment or both flare through Ronald’s eyes as he rose to his feet and stalked silently away from the breakfast table.
Dole didn’t even look up from his refilled coffee cup. Although not a fan of Dole’s son, Brett felt sorry for him at that moment. No doubt about it, Scroogen could be pretty damn insensitive.
“So, did you ever find out who the redhead was with those old fogys?” Scroogen asked.
The lady’s stunning face and figure flashed through Brett’s mind and with it a very annoying automatic tightening of the muscles down his back.
“She’s Octavia Osborne,” he said, concentrating his eyes on the swirling coffee in his cup. “Mab’s granddaughter.”
“How did you find out?”
“She came to see me last night just before you called.”
“Why did she come to see you?”
Brett looked up at the suspicious tone that had entered Dole’s voice. Did this guy trust anybody?
“To try to warn me away,” Brett answered. “Her threats were dramatic, but empty. Neither Mab Osborne nor her granddaughter can stop progress, no matter how much they might want to.”
“So you’re sure this granddaughter can’t cause any trouble?”
“I’m sure,” Brett said, his words replete with confidence. “Octavia Osborne is no one to worry about. The law is on your side, and I’m here to see it’s enforced.”
The telephone blared at the instant Brett had finished giving his client that positive and unwavering assurance. Nancy got up to answer it and brought the cordless receiver to the table to hand to her husband.
“It’s the foreman at the construction site, dear.”
Dole took the phone. “Yeah?”
Brett watched his uncle’s greenish-tinged face turn positively purple. Finally, Dole threw his napkin onto the floor and flew to his feet.
“What?” he yelled into the mouthpiece.
* * *
OCTAVIA’S GENUINE appreciation flowed through her voice. “Mab, this new community center of yours is outstanding. Its long rectangular shape, myriad skylights, ribbons of leaded glass windows and spotless white tile floor make it marvelously open and spacious. And the soft upholstered furniture you’ve selected adds just the right amount of warmth.”
Mab beamed. “I admit I had my doubts at first about the simplicity of the center’s design, but the natural light and clean lines are effective and efficient. We can cordon off any area with partitions, or open up the whole floor space for a large event, like our annual Christmas party coming up in a couple of weeks. How much better it will be now that we don’t have to crowd everyone into that old barn. Constance’s design was right, as always.”
“Constance Kope designed this center?” Octavia asked. “That little lady who was on your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ program yesterday?”
“Yes, Constance and her husband owned an architectural design firm before he became ill, and they both retired a few years back. She has an infallible eye for what works.”
“When I think that your Silver Power League single-handedly created this building and all its beauty, I am in awe, Mab.”
Mab smiled proudly. “Wait until you see the greenhouse. Douglas Twitch engineered its habitat to maintain temperature, moisture and lighting control.”
“Douglas is an environmental engineer?” Octavia asked.
“A very fine one, who was put out to pasture only because the big firm he worked at for forty years checked the calendar instead of his contributions.”
“I thought you and Douglas didn’t get along.”
“His mental limitations are irksome. But the greenhouse he designed is an engineering marvel.”
Octavia chuckled at her grandmother’s unmitigated contradiction on the intellectual credentials of Douglas Twitch.
“Lead the way to this greenhouse, Mab.”
“No, first I want you to see what we are doing to raise money for our rent. It’s just a stopgap measure, of course. I’m counting on you to put all your legal training to work to come up with something more permanent. But for now, well, our members are busy working on them over in this room.”
Octavia gave her watch a quick glance. “Them?” she repeated.
Mab smiled. “Come see for yourself.”
Octavia followed her grandmother to the other side of a partition and saw that an assembly line of sorts had been set up. Seniors sat on both sides of a long set of tables drawn close to the windows to receive an optimum of natural light.
Each member of the assembly line had a task. The first attached legs to a stuffed doll’s torso. The second affixed arms that crossed over the doll’s chest. The third screwed on a head. The fourth, hair. And so on down the line until the finished doll emerged at the end, holding in its fist a white piece of paper filled with scribbles.
Octavia picked up one of the completed dolls, examined its thin, ashen-colored hair, tiny dark eyes, sour puss, baggy olive pants and green-and-black-checkered suspenders, and chuckled.
“This doll looks exactly like Scroogen.”
“Squeeze it,” Mab urged.
Octavia did. “Read it and weep, I’m raising your rent.”
Octavia laughed. “It sounds exactly like him, too.”
“John Winslow did the voice. He’s very good at mimicking.”
“When do they go on sale?”
“Today. I’m advertising them on the radio this afternoon. We’re calling it the Scroogen Doll.”
Octavia shook her head as she set the sour-pussed, eight-inch specimen back on the table. “No, could be a legal problem there. Better call it the Scrooge Doll.”
“But we want people to associate it with Scroogen,” Mab protested.
“You think someone could mistake it for anyone else?”
“I guess not. The design is ours, a couple of our members got the materials wholesale, and the rest of our members are doing all the assembly. Our profit is nearly eighty-five percent on each doll. If we can just sell enough of them, we can stave off the Scrooge’s kicking us out for another two months.”
“You’re a marvel, Mab.”
“But as I said, Octavia, it’s only a stopgap measure. We need to find a substantial and consistent money-maker to meet the Scrooge’s ridiculous rent. Although, I must tell you, it galls me to think the money we’re working so hard to raise is all going to line that man’s pockets.”
“Yes, it galls me, too,” Octavia agreed.
“Have you thought of a way to stop him?”
“Let’s just say I’m working on it.”
“What is it, Octavia?”
“What’s what, Mab?”
“Ever since you arrived at my house this morning with your bags and a promise to stay awhile, you’ve been deliberately deflecting my every question about what you did yesterday, and you’ve been purposely vague about how you plan to attack this