Her Best Friend (3 page)

Quinn had been as good as his word and e-mailed her a precisely written statement to read during the meeting. It cited precedents and bylaws and subsections and clauses. She couldn’t follow most of it, but she figured that probably meant that the majority of the councillors wouldn’t be able to, either, which was good. She wanted them to be intimidated. She wanted them to know they were going to have a fight on their hands if they tried to push this thing through.

Her great-grandfather had built the Grand in 1929. He’d commissioned an architect in Sydney and imported marble from Carrara and light fittings from Venice. He’d created a wonderful legacy for the community. No way was Amy going to roll over while some greedy developer turned it to dust and replaced it with a bunch of shoe-box-size apartments.

She dressed carefully for the big meeting. A borrowed suit from Denise, neat and black and businesslike. A pair of new shoes that hurt her toes but gave her an extra four inches in height—very necessary since she was only five feet tall and often mistaken for a kid. She pulled her shoulder-length curly blond hair into a bun and painted her face with more makeup than she usually wore. She didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a kid tonight.

It was only a short drive to the council chambers. Amy’s new shoes pinched her feet as she walked across the gravel parking lot toward the front entrance. By the end of the evening she doubted she’d be able to feel her pinky toes, but if she won the Grand, she figured it would be well worth the sacrifice of two small digits.

She saw her family and friends the moment she walked into the meeting room. The public gallery was full of familiar faces—her parents, the Joneses, Denise, Maria, Katherine. Cheryl and Eric from work, a few of the customers from her parents’ store.

A better turnout than she’d hoped for. Which was good, right?

She made her way to the front row where tables were provided for members of the public who wanted to make notes or present evidence. She put down her bag and took a deep breath. So far, so good.

Then she looked up and saw Barry Ulrich standing with his lawyer, a young guy in a slick suit. They were talking to Reg Hanover and a couple of the other councillors, and everyone was smiling and nodding as though they were in complete and utter agreement with each other.

Amy could feel the blood drain out of her face.

Barry had brought his lawyer. And all she had was a statement from Quinn and her own very inexpert understanding of the council bylaws. She pressed a hand to her stomach. If she messed this up, it was over. The Grand would be smashed to pieces. There was no coming back from that.

Barry glanced over and caught her eye. His smile broadened and he gave her a friendly little wave. As though this was a cocktail party, and he the host.

Goddamn.

She should have hired a lawyer. She’d resisted because of the expense, but it was stupid to economize when failing at this hurdle meant the end of the game. What had she been thinking with her puny little statement and her cheering squad?

“Sorry I’m late,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind her. “My flight was delayed, and there was construction on the freeway.”

A shiny black leather briefcase landed on the table.

Amy turned and blinked at the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing beside her.

“Quinn,” she said. “You came.”

Quinn pulled a file and a legal pad from his briefcase then clicked it shut again. Only when he was satisfied that he was ready to roll did he look Amy fully in the face.

Her blond curls had been tamed into a conservative bun, and her face was less full and her cheekbones more prominent than when he’d last seen her. His gaze got caught for a moment on her lower lip, full and shiny with gloss, then slid lower to take in her neat little suit and towering high heels.

He frowned.

“You look different.” He wasn’t sure if he liked it. Whenever he pictured Amy in his mind’s eye, her hair was always wild and her clothes mismatched. Most importantly, she was always laughing. The woman standing in front of him looked as though she’d had all the laughter drained out of her.

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Since when did you start wearing suits?”

“Since I borrowed this from Denise.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“I did a bit of checking into Ulrich,” he said. “Guy’s got some serious connections around town. Figured you might need someone to ride shotgun.”

Her gaze searched his face just as his had searched hers. He wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, if she could see past the mask he’d worn for months now.

Before either of them could say any more, a middle-aged man wearing the ugliest tie he’d ever seen banged a wooden gavel on the long table placed before the council members.

“This council meeting is now in session. I call upon the secretary, Councillor McMahon, to read over the minutes from the previous meeting.”

A gray-haired woman with a severely short haircut began to drone her way through the minutes. Quinn turned to Amy but she spoke before he could get the question out of his mouth.

“Reg Hanover,” she said. “He’s the chairman, and Dulcie McMahon is the one speaking.”

Quinn drew a quick representation of the council table on his notepad and labeled the central position and the secretary. Amy reached across and slid his pen from his hand, an old trick of hers from high school. She angled his notepad toward herself and started jotting names in the other six seats along the table, indicating official roles where applicable. He glanced at her profile as she wrote. She might have swapped her usual bright, haphazard fashion for a suit and high heels, but she still poked the tip of her tongue between her lips when she was concentrating.

He suppressed a smile.

She glanced up at him and quirked an eyebrow.
What?

He shrugged.
Nothing.

She pushed his notepad toward him.

“What happened to Hamilton Island?” she asked quietly, one eye on the councillors.

“It’ll keep. I wanted to make sure you were over the line first.”

A flurry of yays drew his attention to the front of the room as the councillors voted to accept the minutes as a true record of the last meeting.

Quinn could feel someone watching him and he glanced to his left to find a man in his midfifties scowling at him. Ulrich, if Quinn didn’t miss his guess. The older man had the flushed complexion of a heavy drinker and his pale blond hair was brushed carefully to try to disguise the fact that it was thinning.

Quinn held the man’s gaze for a few long seconds. Ulrich’s scowl deepened, then he looked away.

It was enough to tell Quinn that the guy was a hothead. Which meant this meeting had the potential to get interesting. Quinn smiled slightly as he returned his attention to the front of the room. He’d never been afraid of a fight.

Amy sat straighter as the chairman cleared his throat.

“First up on the agenda is the sale of the Grand Picture Theatre to Ulrich Construction. All councillors have received copies of a proposal from Ulrich Construction to redevelop the property into an apartment building offering luxury accommodation for tourists visiting the area,” the chairman said.

He shuffled the papers in front of him then glanced quickly around the room—avoiding looking directly at Amy, Quinn noted. Guilty little rat.

Reg went on to read from the most flowery sections of Ulrich’s proposal, effectively selling the project on the other man’s behalf. Not hard to work out which side Hanover thought his bread was buttered on.

Amy’s hands tightened on her pen until her knuckles were white. He leaned closer to her ear. “We’re not leaving until the Grand is safe. I promise.”

He could smell her perfume, something sweet and light. One of her curls had escaped her bun to brush her cheek. She nodded her understanding but retained her death grip on the pen. He understood her fear. He doubted she’d be able to relax until after this meeting was over.

“Council has reviewed the proposal and considers it to be of benefit to the greater community of Daylesford,” the chairman said. “However, in accordance with policy, we now invite any members of the public who may wish to comment to take the floor.”

His words were still echoing around the chamber as Amy stood, her chair scraping across the floor.

“I have a few questions for council,” she said. There was a nervous quaver in her voice, but her chin was high and her shoulders square. “I’d like to know what measures the council has in place to ensure that Ulrich Construction’s development will preserve the unique architectural features of the Grand Picture Theatre. Features which are detailed in the town’s own historical register.”

“I’m not conversant with the exact wording of the register, Amy, but what you must understand is—”

“I have copies,” Amy said, holding up a handful of photocopies.

A woman with garnet-red hair popped up from her seat in the front of the public gallery. She winked at Quinn as she crossed the room and took the copies from Amy. It took him a moment to realize it was Denise Jenkins. She’d had mousy brown hair when he’d last seen her.

“Thanks, ’Nise,” Amy whispered.

“Kick ass, sweetie,” Denise whispered back. Then she turned to distribute the copies to the council members.

“I have a copy for you, too, Mr. Ulrich, in case you aren’t aware that both the interior and exterior of the theatre are listed for protection,” Amy said.

She held a sheet out, but both Ulrich and his lawyer ignored her. Surprise, surprise. The last thing they wanted was to hear about the architectural features they planned to turn to rubble at the earliest opportunity.

Amy shrugged, then launched into her argument. She was passionate and articulate, her small body vibrating with determination. Quinn alternated between making notes and watching her face. Despite the circumstances, despite the distance that had grown between them, it was good to see her. To look into her familiar brown eyes and hear her voice.

Opening salvo fired, Amy sat. She glanced at him and he smiled. She offered him a nervous grimace in return.

Ulrich’s lawyer stood next, launching into a soliloquy on the “extraordinary and prohibitively expensive” accommodations Ulrich had built into his plans to preserve the theatre’s historic facade, painting the other man as a community benefactor sacrificing personal wealth for the good of all.

“What a load of bullshit,” Amy muttered under her breath.

“Come on, the guy’s clearly a saint,” Quinn murmured. “One step away from being recognized by the Pope.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Reg said when the lawyer was done. “I think we’ve all heard enough to make an informed decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’re ready to vote.”

Quinn almost laughed at the clumsiness of the other man’s tactics. They’d barely opened discussion, yet the chairman was trying to ram the vote through. Quinn was suddenly very, very glad that he’d decided to ditch his vacation.

An angry murmur went up from the gallery. Amy started to stand again, but he caught her arm.

“My turn, I think,” he said quietly.

He rose. “Before you start tallying votes, Chairman Hanover, I’d like to draw the council’s attention to a number of recent findings in the Victorian Supreme Court. It might be helpful for council to understand what penalties have been applied to cases where historically listed sites have been exploited by unscrupulous developers.”

That brought Ulrich’s lawyer to his feet.

“I object to the inference that my client is unscrupulous,” the younger man said.

“Go right ahead. But you might want to remember that we’re not in a court of law so there’s no one to actually uphold your objection,” Quinn said. “But please, feel free if it increases your billable hours.”

Ulrich’s lawyer turned a dull brick-red. Quinn refocused on the council members. Eight men and women, all of them looking decidedly uncomfortable. They were about to get more so.

“I’d also like to remind councillors that when they were elected to office they took an oath which binds them to a code of conduct which requires them to uphold all the bylaws of the county, not simply those which are deemed convenient at the time.”

Several of the councillors shifted in their seats. Quinn undid the button on his jacket and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He had the floor, and he wasn’t giving it up until he had these bastards on the run.

“Where was I? Right, the State of Victoria versus Simpkin-Gist Construction…”