“Ms. Newcomb, aren’t you being a trifle harsh?” Marjorie’s teeth gritted together only a little when she smiled. “ ‘Monkeys’? ‘Deathtrap’? And calling a bottle of Moët et Chandon ‘swill’? Tsk. I do apologize if you’ve misconstrued any of my words or actions. It was a privilege and a pleasure to deal with your parents.”

“I know,” Emily returned. “I saw the check Daddy handed over at the closing. We know a family or two back home who could live for a year on the commission you earned. And before your mind flashes into Beverly Hillbillies reruns, ‘back home’ for us was neither the backwoods nor the boondocks. Not all small Southern towns are drenched in hot-and-cold running possums.”

Marjorie’s fingers curled, her hands knotted. She wanted to squeeze Emily June’s slim, white neck like a toothpaste tube. “I thought you’d come to see me about the problems your family’s having with the Carème 6000, Ms. Newcomb,” she growled. “But if your sole purpose was to berate me for what you think is my attitude towards your family, congratulations on your fabulous ESP.”

Emily opened the Italian leather briefcase in her lap and yanked out a stack of papers. “You want me to cut to the chase? Here’s the scalpel.” She slapped the rustling pile onto Marjorie’s desk. “The house you sold to my parents is unsatisfactory and the Carème 6000 Mequizeen kitchen unit contained therein is a danger to life and limb. We want it removed and destroyed. We also want payment for acute psychological damage, loss of self-esteem, and being the victims of hate speech. The figure we want is here.” She pointed to a long line of numerals on the top page. “That’s if Paradise Purchased and the Mequizeen Company settle now. If this goes to court, I promise that figure will swell up like… like a tick on a hound dog.” She showed her teeth, then very deliberately added: “Hoo-ee.”