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WHERE THE HECK was Sten? I stood just inside the entrance to the ballroom of the Crystal Harbor Country Club, scanning the ten elliptical poker tables for the lawyer’s distinctive tall frame. He had to be here. He always entered the annual charity tournament, even though, to my knowledge, he’d never come close to first place or even been one of the top five players, the lucky few who strolled out of there with serious swag and insufferably smug grins.
The prize for first place was always a luxury vehicle, which is how Irene came to own those three swell cars. Over the years she’d won a grand total of nine such pricey rides. Each time she’d had to sell one of the older ones just to make room in her three-car garage.
Speaking of which, I had to arrange a time for Patrick to pick up the vehicles he’d inherited. Considering my blossoming suspicions, I wasn’t eager for another one-on-one with him. Maybe I’d ask Dom to be present when I unlocked the garage and handed over the keys.
Colette had come in first place almost as many times as Irene, which is the only reason she and Burt had been able to drive their BMW. More often than not, they sold the prize, cash in hand being of more use to them than another car.
Second prize was most often a Rolex or something of that sort, and third prize was a paid vacation for two to Hawaii or the like. Fourth prize was almost always a pair of generous gift certificates to a Broadway play and a high-end Manhattan restaurant.
The powers that be capped the number of players at one hundred, and invariably there was a waiting list. This tournament enjoyed quite a reputation, and players flocked to it from as far away as Connecticut and Pennsylvania. The buy-in was five thousand dollars. Eighty percent of the resulting haul went to the Historical Society for its work in landmark preservation and maintaining the town’s little museum and botanical gardens. The rest went to the prizes.
The Historical Society didn’t skimp on the amenities, starting with the elegant country-club venue. Professional dealers dealt the cards and narrated the play-by-play. Uniformed wait staff circulated with top-shelf drinks. Masseuses wandered from player to player, dispensing shoulder rubs. On the other side of the expansive ballroom, buffet tables groaned under a gut-busting assortment of your snootier snacks, everything from shrimp and avocado sushi rolls at one end to bourbon-pecan mini tarts at the other. In truth, the buffet served mostly as a consolation prize for those who wiped out in the first hour or two of play. The most serious, skillful players weren’t thinking about sushi as they concentrated on the game and watched their stacks of chips grow.
There was always a buzz of excitement as players made their bets and won and lost hands, but this year the air crackled with an unprecedented energy. The players seemed more intense, more driven. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Within the past week, the tournament had lost its two most formidable players, Colette O’Rourke and Irene McAuliffe, long recognized as the practically unbeatable grande dames of the game in these here parts. Accomplished players who’d watched the coveted top prize go to one old lady or the other year after year now had a reasonable shot at taking home this year’s tricked-out red Mercedes and the bragging rights that went with it.
The Wild West had come to Crystal Harbor, New York.
I didn’t see Sten, but I did spy my ex-husband at a distant table. When I noticed who sat next to him, my heart tripped over its own aorta. Martin McAuliffe. Automatically my fingers slipped into my jacket pocket and felt the battered calling card Patrick had handed back to me an hour earlier. What was the padre doing here? I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten the dough for the buy-in.
On second thought, I could imagine it all too well. When you fenced a stolen bauble worth a hundred grand, you could afford to throw away a measly five thou on something like this. The tournament had started about an hour and a half ago and not only was he still in the game, but he had a respectable pile of chips in front of him. I frowned. Martin had more chips than Dom did, and Dom was a skilled player. I watched as the two men tossed some of those chips into the center. Martin said something and they both laughed.
Just then Martin glanced up, his blue eyes homing in on me like heat-seeking missiles. He lifted his glass of dark beer in a silent toast. Dom looked from Martin to me, his curiosity clearly piqued as he pondered the connection between his ex-wife and his new poker buddy.
Well, ponder away, I thought. To hell with you both. I skirted the tables, still hoping to find Sten. The other Posse members were present and accounted for. Jonah Diamond and Sophie Halperin shared a table with four other players and four empty seats representing folks who’d already bottomed out. Jonah appeared to be holding his own, but you wouldn’t know it by his glum, preoccupied expression. Who knew? Maybe that was his revealing tell. If I perused Irene’s exhaustive notes on her Poker Posse, the entry on him might read something along the lines of, Jonah looks like his dog ran away when he’s holding a full house or better.
Nina Wallace, in her capacity as president of the Historical Society, basically ran the tournament. Her responsibilities kept her too busy to play, which I’d assumed would irk her. However, she appeared to relish her role as Empress of All She Surveyed. At that particular moment she was consulting a clipboard and taking stock of the players left at each table.
I made my way toward the buffet area, where a dozen or so people stood snacking and chatting. These were the players who’d forfeited all their chips, and their five grand, early in the game. Sten Jakobsen was easy to spot among this crowd. He was six four, his blond hair and trim beard now mostly white. Intelligent amber eyes gazed out through wire-rimmed glasses. Age had diminished neither his regal posture nor his sharpness of wit. In short, the man had presence.
Sten kissed my cheek and gave my hand a fatherly squeeze. I’d been about to ask if we could find a quiet place to talk, but he beat me to it, handing his empty wineglass to a passing waiter and leading me to a corner near some kind of potted tree.
“Is that...” He squinted at the sleeve of my suede jacket. “Coffee grounds?”
I looked. Well, wasn’t that just lovely. I’d been in such a hurry to find Sten, I hadn’t noticed. There could be a rotten banana peel clinging to my back, for all I knew. I brushed the grounds off into the potted tree.
“I did not expect to see you before our meeting next Friday,” Sten said. He asked how I was doing, with his usual slow, measured delivery. “And the little dog?” he added.
I bit back a smile, knowing his aversion to uttering the little dog’s name. “Sexy Beast is fine. I’m here to ask you a favor. You’re the executor of Irene’s estate. You’re the one who can make decisions. Um, sensitive decisions.”
“Let us cut to the chase,” he said. “What is on your mind, Jane?”
“Has Irene been... Has the cremation occurred yet?” I held my breath.
“Possibly. It is scheduled for today.”
“Oh God,” I groaned. “Can you call them to stop it? If it’s not too late?”
If this seasoned lawyer was surprised by my request, he didn’t show it. “I could try if there is a compelling reason to do so.”
Don’t talk so damn slowly! I wanted to scream. In the time it took Sten to get to the end of a thought, Irene could go from being a hundred-thirty-pound dead person to a two-pound dead person.
“I have reason to believe someone might have poisoned Irene.” There. I’d said it out loud for the first time. It didn’t feel as weird as I’d thought it would. Sten didn’t react. Either he had a high regard for my judgment or he was really good at hiding his disdain.
“You want an autopsy performed,” he said.
I nodded, glancing around to make sure our conversation was still private. “I know Jonah signed the death certificate, I know he believes it was a heart attack. I’m not questioning his expertise, I just... There are things I can’t ignore.”
“What would these things be?” he asked.
I didn’t like implicating Patrick without firm proof, but I had no choice. I told Sten all about why I suspected the smoothies in general and Patrick in particular.
He pursed his lips. “It is not an overwhelming amount of evidence.”
“I know that, and it’s why we need the autopsy. They’ll check for chemicals that shouldn’t be there, right? Isn’t that part of it?”
“A toxicology screen is generally part of the process, yes,” Sten said, “but results can take weeks to come back.” He started to shake his head. “Jane, I do not think—”
“I have this, too.” I pulled the crushed Janey’s Place cup, securely double-bagged, out of my purse. I told him about my budding career as a dumpster diver. “This is what Patrick was looking for. So he could get rid of the evidence.” In a small voice I added, “Maybe,” and wondered how big a fool I was making of myself.
He sighed. “Well, if we are talking chain of evidence, there are definite problems with a cup pulled out of old garbage by a civilian.”
“Meaning it could be contaminated,” I said, “or deliberately messed with. I get that. But if you can get an autopsy done, and they find something suspicious in her system, they can compare it to what’s in here.”
I handed him the bag, and to his credit, he didn’t shy away from taking it. He turned it in his hand, examining it and thinking. I saw the beginning of another negative head-shake.
“Sten.” I took a step closer to him, lowered my volume. I wasn’t beyond playing dirty. “I know I’m not the only one Irene cared about. I know you two had a close friendship.”
His gaze snapped to my face. Suddenly he appeared even taller, if that was possible. I wondered if I’d gone too far, but I wasn’t about to backpedal now. Too much was at stake.
“Maybe not so much in recent years,” I continued, looking him right in the eye, “but for a long time you and Irene maintained a very close, very discreet... friendship.”
Sten had been married to the same woman for more than forty years. I happened to know that for the last thirty-eight of those years she’d been in and out of mental institutions and required a full-time aide at home. Theirs hadn’t been a marriage in the real sense for decades. Yet to his credit, he’d taken care of her in the most tender fashion the whole time. I didn’t blame him for any happiness he’d found with Irene, and I had no desire to cause him trouble.
He said, “I fail to see what bearing that has—”
“It’s only that I know how much she meant to you.” I beseeched him with my eyes. “We owe her this, Sten. If there’s even the smallest doubt.” I paused to collect myself. “You can tell me what an idiot I am later, after they find nothing. In the meantime, we have to try.”
He looked at me steadily. “You should have gone to law school.”
“You’ll do it?”
A ghost of a smile. “If I say no, I shall never hear the end of it.”
From me or from his conscience, I knew, now that I’d sown the seeds of suspicion in his mind.
“Excuse me.” Sten produced his cell phone, located a number on his contact list, and had a short, pointed conversation with Lenny Ahearn. “Call me back either way, Lenny.” He hung up and told me, “Irene has already been transferred to the crematory. He is going to cancel the cremation if it is not too late, and bring her back to the funeral home.”
I nodded. “But why the funeral home? Shouldn’t she be taken to the medical examiner’s office?”
He shook his head. “The ME would not be interested. Irene’s personal physician said she died of natural causes, and there is not enough evidence to the contrary. I can arrange for a private autopsy. I know a good pathologist who does this sort of thing. She can do it right at Ahearn’s.”
I chewed my lip. “But the toxicology results can take weeks, you said. Anything can happen in the meantime.” Like the murderer cramming sixteen million bucks into his Samsonite and hightailing it to Venezuela.
“We would be using a private lab,” he said, “and I can put a rush on it. At the very least, we should have preliminary results within a few days, even if the full report takes longer.”
“Sten, I’m dying to know why Irene left nearly everything to Patrick O’Rourke. What’s their connection?”
“I appreciate your curiosity,” he said, “but I do not feel it is appropriate for me to answer that question.”
Can’t say I was surprised, but I plowed on. “She also gave him the cars and the contents of a safe-deposit box. Any idea what’s in the box?”
“That is between Irene and Patrick.”
I sighed. “Well, can you at least tell me whether Patrick knew he was going to inherit this enormous bequest? Do you know whether she mentioned it to him before she died?”
Sten nodded. “He knew.”
Finally, an answer. And a helpful one at that.
His phone rang. My heart stopped. He listened for a few moments, thanked Lenny, and hung up. I could tell nothing from his maddeningly unreadable expression.
“Well?” I asked.
“She will be back at Ahearn’s within the hour,” he said, and I almost fainted with relief.
I grabbed his big, dry hand and squeezed it. I swallowed a lump of emotion. “Thank you, Sten.”
It might have been my imagination, but his eyes looked suspiciously shiny. He cleared his throat. “I shall call Joyce Huang. She is the pathologist I mentioned.” He indicated the bagged takeout cup. “And I shall get this to her.”
I hugged Sten, feeling lighter of mind than when I’d entered the ballroom. I wasn’t alone in this. Sten Jakobsen was in my camp, and he didn’t think I was crazy.
I detoured to the buffet tables, suddenly ravenous, wondering if anyone would notice if I opened my big purse and shoveled in a platter of Thai spring rolls. I’d just popped a steak-and-Stilton appetizer into my pie-hole when a pair of long arms snaked around my waist from behind. The padre! The steak tried to lodge itself halfway down my gullet, resulting in a fit of coughing and eye-squirting, plus some pointless pounding on my back by the owner of the arms, who spun me to face him.
Dom grinned. “You okay? Went down the wrong way, huh?”
“I wasn’t expecting to be grabbed like that.” I also wasn’t expecting to be held in a light embrace as my ex was now doing.
“There’s another reason to avoid meat,” he said. “Choking hazard.”
“Really?” I started to move away and was surprised when he didn’t let go. Which wasn’t really a problem since it felt so nice. “And here I thought being groped while eating was the choking hazard.”
His grin widened. “When I grope you, you’ll know it.” To illustrate, he slid a hand southward and squeezed my bottom.
I gave a little gasp. Where had that come from? In the seventeen years since our divorce, Dom had never stepped over the line. I’m not proud to admit I would have welcomed the occasional line-overstepping, but the man was perpetually in a relationship and he didn’t stray.
Something in his dark gaze put me on alert. Outwardly his attention was wholly on me, yet I couldn’t ignore a certain proprietary glint. I followed his brief glance and spied Martin McAuliffe at the other end of the buffet tables, hammering home a mini red-velvet cheesecake and studying us with an amused expression.
I shoved Dom away. A rush of angry blood scalded my cheeks. “Next time you want to put on a show, leave me out of it.”
I started to move past him. He caught my arm. “What’s wrong with you, Janey?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I tried to wrench out of his grasp. He wasn’t letting go. “I don’t like being used.”
“Used?” he said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My eyes burned with fury and humiliation. All that pathetic yearning, for so long, watching helplessly as he moved from wife to wife. Knowing that when he thought of me at all, it was as a youthful mistake.
I forced calm into my voice. “That little ass-grab was for the padre’s benefit, not mine.”
“Who?”
I nodded toward Martin, whose attention was no longer on us. He was chatting up the caterer, Maia Armstrong, an attractive Black woman in her mid-thirties. Maia and I often found ourselves in a position to refer clients to each other. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. They were both smiling.
“How do you know that guy?” Dom asked.
“None of your business. Let me go, Dom,” I growled.
He glanced around, saw we were drawing stares, and released my arm. The possessive smirk was gone, replaced by a baffled frown.
I knew where the bafflement came from. He wasn’t used to seeing me angry. Even back when we divorced, I wasn’t angry. I was hurt. Inconsolable. Heartbroken. Maybe I should have gotten angry.
“You’re wrong, Janey,” he said. “I put on that ‘show’ for your sake. To protect you.”
My bark of incredulous laughter brought him up short, but he recovered enough to add, “Martin McAuliffe is trouble. You shouldn’t get mixed up with him.”
“Oh please,” I said. Dom’s little display had been triggered by nothing more noble than male territoriality. The fact that the male in question had no desire for the territory being ass-grabbed was immaterial. It had been a reflex, like taking a crap.
“Your concern for my welfare stirs me deeply,” I said. “Now, stay the hell away from me.”
Seldom had I been blessed with such a righteous exit line, and I made good use of it. As I strode across the ballroom, I noticed that, due to player attrition, some tables were being consolidated. Players were taking advantage of the lull to stretch their legs, which explained Dom’s and Martin’s sudden interest in ass-grabbing and munchies, respectively.
A female voice called, “Jane!”
I halted in my tracks and saw Sophie Halperin hurrying toward me. My sudden stop caused someone to barrel into me from behind. It was Jonah, striding quickly toward the exit. He murmured an apology, but his distracted expression made me wonder if he even realized who he’d bumped into. Gee, maybe his dog had run away.
Sophie caught up to me, moving with surprising speed for someone so short and round. She was in her mid-fifties, with graying dark hair and a seemingly limitless wardrobe of colorful, flowing tunics and pants. I’d known Sophie almost as long as I’d known Irene. She was a longtime client as well as a friend.
“Didn’t expect him to bust out so early,” she said, watching Jonah’s swiftly retreating form.
“He looked like he was doing okay a little while ago,” I said.
“His mind was somewhere else. Played like a rookie the last few rounds. Almost like he wanted to get rid of his chips so he could get out of here. Half our table’s gone now, so they’re moving me.”
“Jonah told me you were in the emergency room Wednesday evening,” I said, “but that it was nothing serious?”
“Oh, that.” She made a face. “Waste of time. Got these pains in my calf as I was leaving the office at five. Made the mistake of calling Jonah, who, of course, insisted I go to Harbor Memorial. Thought it might be deep vein thrombosis. Doppler ultrasound turned up zilch.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Just one of those unexplained things,” she said. “Got to hand it to Jonah, though. I was there for four miserable hours and so was he.”
Yeah, I thought, because unlike most of us lowly mortals, you can afford to have a concierge physician at your beck and call. What I said was, “Hey, he’s got to take good care of you. You’re the damn mayor of this burg.”
“And as the damn mayor, I want to congratulate the newest Crystal Harbor homeowner.” She stuck out her hand and I shook it.
“Stumping for votes already?” I joked. “Next election isn’t for a year.”
“Never too early.” I wasn’t surprised Sophie knew about my inheritance. She was always the first to know anything in this town. She looked around and lowered her voice. “Looks like Nina Wallace is going to try to unseat me.”
“But she just got elected president of the Historical Society,” I said. “That’s a two-year commitment.”
She shrugged. “Does she care? I’ll have to bring my A-game. That woman does not run a civilized campaign.”
“I heard some things about last week’s election,” I said.
“Not to speak ill of the dead and all, but Irene gave as good as she got. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was something to her rumor about Nina.”
“Which rumor would that be?” I said.
Sophie snorted. “If you have to ask, you never heard it.”
Not being personally involved with the Crystal Harbor Historical Society, I had blessedly been spared the worst of the gossip. “I don’t even want to know,” I said.
“That’s good, ’cause I don’t spread unsubstantiated smears. I just listen to them,” she snickered.
“You call the rumor unsubstantiated,” I said, “yet you say there might be something to it?”
“Well, everyone knows Irene hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on Nina during the campaign.”
My jaw dropped. “Irene did that?”
Sophie’s expression said, Get real. “Come on, Jane, you knew her better than anyone. You going to stand there and tell me you’re shocked?”
I wished I could. I said nothing.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Nina won the election before the PI got very far in his snooping. He found out just enough to let Irene stir things up. Backfired on her, though—slinging dirt when she had no firm proof. Might’ve cost her the election.”
“Well, Nina sure seems settled in to her new role,” I said.
“Tell me about it.” Sophie looked around as if to make sure the subject of our conversation was out of earshot. Nina was over by the buffet tables, obviously complaining about something to Maia. Maybe the caviar turned out to be lumpfish instead of beluga. “President for a week and already she’s renaming the tournament.”
“Renaming it?” I said. “To what?”
Sophie spread her plump arms and intoned with mock reverence, “The Colette O’Grady O’Rourke Memorial Poker Tournament.”
“O’Grady and O’Rourke?” I said. “For real?” I knew Colette’s maiden name was O’Grady, but I doubted she’d used it as a middle name during her married life. Talk about an inharmonious mouthful.
“I mean, Nina and Colette were good friends, sure,” she said, “but everyone knows who this is really about.”
“Irene,” I agreed. “It’s a slap in the face to her. To her memory.” Irene and Colette had both been members of the Historical Society forever. They’d both served on the board, and both had been fixtures in the tournament. If anything, Irene’s financial contributions to the organization should have tipped the scale in her favor. Not that there was a compelling reason to rename the tournament after either woman.
“Winning the election isn’t enough for Nina,” Sophie said. “She has to totally stick it to her opponent. Who died. I mean, yeah, Irene ran a nasty campaign and all, but she lost. And then she died.” She spread her hands. “Like that’s not enough?”
“Can Nina decide this on her own?” I asked.
Sophie shook her head. “She blindsided the other board members this morning before the tournament started, forced a vote. No one but me had the balls to stand up to her. Bunch of spineless wimps.”
My eyebrows rose. “So the name change is really going through?”
“Madame President is going to announce it along with the winners later.” She nodded to a dealer across the room. “Listen, they’re waiting for me, I’ve got to go.”
“Before you do,” I said, “just something to keep in mind—if you know of anyone who needs a housekeeper, I think Maria Echevarría might be looking for work.”
Her eyes widened. “Irene’s Maria? I’ll hire her, and her guacamole. My Danielle just quit. She’s moving to London, where her boyfriend lives. They’re opening an art gallery.” Her eye-roll said, Good luck with that.
I managed to locate Maria’s phone number in my cell. Sophie shot her insistent dealer the one-minute sign with her index finger, muttering, “Yeah, kiss my ass, I’m the damn mayor of this burg,” and punched the number into her own phone.
No sooner had she joined her table than I noticed someone else sharing contact info on the other side of the ballroom. Martin scribbled something on a card—one of his gentleman’s calling cards, no doubt—and handed it to Veronica Sheffield.
Veronica happened to be one of my most lucrative repeat clients, the center of a galactic network of friends, relatives, and business associates, a rewarding percentage of whom dropped dead each year, compelling Veronica to invest in the usual gravesite visits, cremains dispersal, and sympathy-card writing, plus a host of bizarre assignments only her inventive and bored little mind could devise. Remember the dildo crafted from the boyfriend’s ashes? Yep. That was Veronica.
On top of all that, she required a chic new black outfit for each of the countless funerals she attended. I acted as private shopper for funeral finery and also peddled the worn-once outfits for her on eBay, earning a fee on both ends. Plus she regularly recommended my services to members of her book club, investment club, yacht club, beach club, and bowling league. Veronica was your basic Death Diva cash cow.
Once again, flirtatious smiles all around. Veronica was okay-looking, I supposed, and recently divorced, but she had to be ten years Martin’s senior. It was easier to understand his interest in Maia.
Just then Veronica looked over and noticed me noticing. Her smile fled, replaced by a flurry of nervous blinking, which happened to be her signature poker tell. I didn’t know how she’d lasted so long in today’s tournament. She usually blinked her way out of it within twenty minutes.
Martin followed the direction of her gaze and sent me a chipper wave before pumping Veronica’s hand and resuming his seat behind a veritable cordillera of chips. A pretty young masseuse pounced like a bobcat and started kneading his broad shoulders.
I scowled. Something about this stank.
“Don’t do that, you’ll get lines.” Nina appeared at my side and tapped my forehead. She inspected me more closely and added, “Well, more lines,” before mouthing, Botox.
Nina Wallace was the last person I wanted to see right then, the archetypal high school mean girl all grown up. I wrestled with my anger and disgust, recalling the syrupy false sympathy she’d extended to me yesterday at Janey’s Place.
Where was a great big pot of vegetarian chili when you needed it? God help her if she mentioned Irene.
“It just doesn’t seem the same without Irene, does it?” She produced a tissue and discreetly dabbed at her upper lip. Only then did I notice a sheen of perspiration and the pale cast of her skin.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Never better.” Her grin was so bright and earnest, it was hard not to believe her. Still...
“You look a little green around the gills,” I said. “Maybe you should sit down for a—”
Nina bolted out of the ballroom. I caught up with her as she sprinted down the hallway and into the ladies’ room. She didn’t have time to lock the stall door before her lunch said sayonara. I couldn’t help thinking of Irene and her recent indigestion.
I was ready with wet paper towels when she staggered to a sink to rinse her mouth. She blotted her face and offered a crooked smile. “Well, that was fun.”
The sumptuously appointed john had a separate seating area. I encouraged her to lie down on the couch. She waved off the suggestion.
“I’ll be fine now.” Gratefully she accepted a mint I fished out of my purse.
There weren’t too many reasons a woman would recover so quickly and cheerfully from a bout of vomiting. I watched her check her makeup and thought I detected a hint of self-satisfaction. Any connection to Irene’s malady instantly vaporized.
“Congratulations,” I said. “When are you due?”
She looked at my reflection, then turned to face me. “Please tell me it’s not that obvious.”
“Not to anyone who didn’t just watch you puke.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m about six weeks along. We’re not telling anyone yet, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention—”
“Of course not,” I assured her. “It’s nobody’s business until you decide to share it.”
She was visibly relieved. “Thanks.” She shot one more glance at the mirror. “Do I look okay?”
“Perfect.” I didn’t doubt that Nina Wallace would look more fashionable and put together at full term than I could ever hope to be on my best day.
She returned to the ballroom. I used the facilities and headed out of the building, having no reason to linger now that I’d accomplished my mission. The snow had ended, but it was still cold. Two men stood on the portico, smoking and talking. I recognized one of them as Malachy Wallace, a richer-than-Croesus investment banker and Nina’s much better half. He greeted me and introduced me to his pal Rich, who’d come down from Rochester for the tournament.
Unfortunately, Rich had already busted out. “I’m going to take out my indignation on that buffet table,” he said, depositing his cigarette butt in the elegant, sand-filled receptacle provided for that purpose. “Think I can eat five thousand dollars’ worth of hors d’oeuvres?”
“Start with those steak-and-Stilton thingies,” I suggested. “They’re to die for.”
He gave me a mock salute and disappeared inside. I turned to Mal Wallace, who was on the tall side, with thinning dark hair and an incipient spare tire. His best features were a strong, square jaw and the patience to put up with his high-maintenance wife. “You’re not playing?” I asked him.
“If Nina doesn’t get to play, I don’t.” If that bugged him, you couldn’t tell by his affable smile. “She put me to work today, helping out.”
“Is that why you’re hiding out here?”
He exhaled a stream of smoke. His smile widened and he shrugged.
I exchanged greetings with Lacey Vargas, the owner of UnderStatements, the lingerie boutique, as she exited the building. When she was out of earshot, I told Mal, “Congrats, by the way.”
He gave me a perplexed look as he discarded his cigarette butt.
“About the baby,” I said. “I sort of found out by accident. Nina just had a bout of morning sickness.”
He stared at me wide-eyed for a long moment, then his face lit up in a mile-wide grin. “She’s pregnant?”
I gasped. “You didn’t know? Oh my God, Mal, I’m so sorry. I just assumed she told you. I didn’t mean to beat her to it.”
Mal chuckled, beaming. He patted my arm. “Don’t worry about it. She did the same thing with the other two, waited to let me in on it. She likes to do it just right—make a romantic dinner, set the mood, all that nonsense I couldn’t care less about.”
“Well, I feel like the biggest dope.”
“I won’t tell her you spilled the beans,” he said. “I just hope she doesn’t wait too long to give me the good news. I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping this asinine grin off my face.”
