Forty-three

“Clare Cosi,” Madame said. “This is Addy—”

The woman didn’t wait for a formal introduction. She practically lunged forward, extending her two hands to capture mine.

“Ms. Cosi, I want to thank you. Both Blair and Madame told me how you helped with…”

As her voice trailed off, she shook her head in obvious mortification. But Addison Ford Babcock looked none the worse for wear. Her emerald gown was unblemished, her makeup looked perfect, and every red hair of her French twist was still in place.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Your nephew had a bad night. It happens to all of us.”

Addy visibly relaxed. “Well, he’s in the hands of my chauffeur now and on his way home. I’m sure Ethan will feel quite ashamed of himself in the morning.”

“Perhaps he will.”

With thoughts of Professor Humphrey dismissed, I pressed on.

“It’s a thrill to meet you, Ms. Babcock. I absolutely adored your New Amsterdam novels, and I was excited to learn that you were a member of the Village Blend’s original Writer’s Block Lounge—”

“Oh, that old group?” She waved a bejeweled hand. “Ancient history. Just like me.” She laughed. “Though Madame tells me you’re starting the whole thing up again. Good for you.”

Her smile, so natural a moment ago, now seemed a little forced.

“I do realize it was many years ago,” I pressed, “but I have a favor to ask. Would you mind speaking with me about the people in the original group? One of them came back to our shop recently. His name is Jensen Van Dyne. Do you remember him?”

Her reaction surprised me. Instead of putting me off, Addy’s green eyes suddenly seemed to sharpen. “How about we talk over a nightcap?”

Before I could answer, she shook her head.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry—” She tapped a tiny, diamond-encrusted watch on her porcelain wrist. “I didn’t realize the time. It’s getting late, and you must be exhausted. Let’s meet tomorrow. Come to my place for brunch. You enjoy a good brunch, don’t you, Ms. Cosi?”

“Doesn’t everyone? And, please, call me Clare.”

“Let’s say eleven am. My cook will do it up right.”

“Thank you. That sounds lovely.”

“Here’s my address.” She thrust a business card into my hand. “Feel free to bring a date, or someone from your new writers’ lounge. I’ll be glad to answer any of your questions, Clare. I’m an open book!”

Addy flashed a final smile before she and Blair Woodbridge headed for the doors. After they departed, Madame gave me a sly look.

“What do you think?”

“About the brunch?” I asked. “Or the promise to be an open book?”

“Both.”

“I’m sure the brunch will be delicious. As for the open book, I guess we’ll see. You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

“Heavens, no.” Madame shook her head. “I tried to question Addy earlier in the evening about the original Writer’s Block group and that young actor who was killed, but I got nowhere. I believe you may have more luck persuading her to open up without me there.”

“You mean she’ll feel less guarded because I’m so far below her social station, and she’ll assume there’s little chance of me gossiping to anyone in her circle—besides you, of course.”

“I’m not in her circle, per se, just passing through. But you’re not wrong about Addy. She’s a snob.” Madame thought for a moment. “Bring someone from your staff. Someone not easily impressed. Someone who’ll put Addy off-balance and give you a better chance at excavating pieces of that ancient history.”

“I know just the person.”

“Good. Because I know you, Clare. If Addy’s book doesn’t open, I’m sure you’ll find some way to pry the cover loose.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always do.” Once again Madame gave me a tight hug. Then she tugged my hand.

“Come, dear. My driver will take us home.”