Gemma Bright’s show had just ended when Hiho braked the Nissan Z near the entrance to WWBC. Leaving him to deal with the illegally parked car, I worked my way through the crowd of departing ladies. Each was lugging a copy of the massive Da Mare.
Willard Mitry was still onstage, getting de-miked. But it was another of the show’s guests who caught my eye: Adoree, engaged in conversation with Gemma and a woman with too much makeup whom I didn’t recognize.
Gemma, whose roving eyes covered more territory than radar, was the first to spot me. “Billy!” she exclaimed, waving me forward.
I suppose Mitry must have turned in my direction, but I wasn’t staring at him. Adoree was regarding me without expression.
“Adoree, you must meet Billy Blessing,” Gemma said.
“We’ve met,” Adoree said.
“Lovely of you to drop by, Billy,” Gemma said. “Oh, and this is Will—”
“Billy interviewed me this morning,” Mitry said.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to run,” Adoree said. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and began walking away, followed by the woman in excessive makeup.
“Give me a minute,” I said to Mitry and Gemma, and ran after them, catching up as they entered the greenroom.
“Adoree …,” I began.
She turned. “I’m in something of a rush, Billy.”
“I’m Candy Mott, with RDL Publicity, Chef Blessing,” the woman with Adoree said, extending her hand. “We’re handling prepub on the film.”
“A pleasure,” I said, shaking her hand. “Could you give us a minute, Ms. Mott?”
“Not more than that,” she said, walking away. “We have a key luncheon.”
Momentarily alone, Adoree said, “Well, Billy?”
“Evidently I did something to upset you last night,” I said. “I wanted to apologize.”
“Fine,” she said. “Apology accepted.”
She turned to go.
“Wait. Clearly I’ve offended you, and I—”
“You disappeared last night,” she said. “I was disappointed when you did not return. But that was probably a good thing. I do not need to make any more mistakes with men of your type.”
“I didn’t return because …” I paused before I could get the lie out of my mouth. “Men of my type? What the heck are you talking about?”
“Of course you would deny it.”
“Deny what?” I realized I was shouting.
“You are a voleur. A thief.”
“I’m a chef. I feed people. I entertain people. I do not rob people.”
“Ah. Now, perhaps, you are a chef. Mais vous êtes dans les rues a faire ses combines.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You were—how do you say?—a hustler on the streets.”
“Who told you this?”
“No one told me. I … overheard a discussion.”
“A discussion about me? At the dinner last night?”
“It does not matter when or where. Do you deny you were a criminel?”
I hesitated, then replied, “No. I won’t deny it.”
“Soit!”
“No. Not soit! It was more than twenty-five years ago. Adoree, it’s very important I know who was talking about my past.”
“Why, if they spoke the truth?”
“Because their knowledge of things I’ve done may mean they are criminals themselves.”
She smiled. “Now you are making fun of me.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Do they know you overheard them?”
“I … I don’t believe so. They were helping one of the guests into a car in the garage. I was sitting in another car, awaiting … someone.”
“Listen to me. You must not let them know you overheard them. It could be dangerous for you.”
“You’re frightening me with this silly game, Billy. J’en ai assez!”
“It’s no game,” I said. “For both our sakes, tell me who they are.”
And Candy Mott picked that perfect moment to return. “Sorry, Adoree. We have to go.”
“Au revoir, Billy,” Adoree said.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
She merely shook her head from side to side.
And was gone.