The Baking Channel employees had the good taste to swap out the reception room’s 1950s kitchen decor for a somber color scheme. The gingham chair where I had sat waiting for Bowers had been replaced by a black leather armchair, and the couches were covered with black cotton cloth that tied together behind each piece of furniture in a gigantic, somber bow. On one wall, a large publicity shot of Elvira smiled down upon the room.
The pages, who made rounds with trays of beverages and hors d’oeuvres, wore black pants and white shirts. Heather Ozu had toned down the Florida orange look with a burgundy shirt-dress and matching four-inch heels. Her expression changed from boredom to sympathy whenever anyone approached her. The same young man who clung to her side at the premiere was back on duty, listening attentively when he wasn’t rushing to keep her drink filled.
Donna Pederson, she of the gluten-free cookies, approached us as if she were the hostess of the event. “Would you like something to drink?” She wiggled her fingers and called, “Yoo-hoo!”, and Linda the Page brought over a selection of lemonade or coffee.
“Where are your kids?” I asked Donna.
“There’s a babysitting service at our hotel. I didn’t think they’d enjoy this.”
“Probably not.”
“The Baking Channel is putting us up until the police say we can go home, which is lucky. I’d never be able to afford it myself.”
“How long is that?” I asked, my gaze darting to my own houseguest.
Donna shrugged. “Until they say otherwise, which is inconvenient, but what are you going to do?” As Donna’s mud-brown eyes opened wide in her best can-you-believe-this-is-happening expression, she couldn’t keep her thin lips from curving up in pleasurable excitement. “I still can’t believe it. A murder took place only a few yards from all of us while we celebrated the show’s phenomenal success. A tragedy.”
Auntie inadvertently hit on the source when she raised her lemonade and gave a toast.
“Here’s to the Blue-Ribbon Queen.”
Donna clutched my arm. “But that’s just it. She can’t be the queen anymore, can she?” Her eyes searched out Heather Ozu. “This isn’t the right time to broach the subject, but shouldn’t the Baking Channel appoint a new queen? And soon?”
I objected. “That might not be sensitive. Elvira hasn’t even been buried yet.”
“But it is! And it’s smart business. Just think of the public’s point of view. Every time they think of Blue-Ribbon Babes, they’ll be reminded that the queen is a corpse! That’s just depressing. The company nee-s to consider the repercussions that a dead queen, especially a murdered queen, will have on Jane Q. Public’s perception of their company and the show. In this day and age, the American people need heroes. Live heroes!”
I wouldn’t categorize the winner of a baking contest as a hero, but Donna had obviously given the subject serious thought. She might have a point, but her enthusiasm made me wonder, once again, if it would be worth murder to claim the title of Blue-Ribbon Queen and a $2,000 check. If she were the killer, there must be more to her motive.
“You’re a nutritionist, right? I suppose if you had the title for your gluten-free baking it would help spread the word on healthy eating.”
“You’ll have to find another way to say your baked goods are flourless, because gluten free doesn’t sound that tasty,” Auntie said, with her usual tact.
“Technically, there are flours without gluten, but you’re exactly right about people’s perception being wrong, wrong, wrong.” She jabbed a finger at Auntie and stepped forward so suddenly that my aunt took a stumbling step back. “Do you have any idea how many products have wheat in them? It’s everywhere you look, and it’s as insidious as carbon monoxide.”
“Too bad you can’t invent a gluten detector,” Auntie said. “You might sleep better at night.”
A fanatical light in her eyes, Donna launched into her stump speech for gluten-free goods.
“My dream is to open a bakery that people with celiac disease can be proud to call their own. For too long, they’ve been banished to small sections of the grocery store. For too long, they’ve been forced to bring little baggies of food to family celebrations. I want to free them from that unfair burden. I want them to come out into the fresh air and shop like normal people. I mean, just buying a birthday cake can be murder!”
Donna covered her mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”
She might not have meant to say it out loud, but the idea of murdering someone to get your dream bakery up and running was an even better motive for murder than a silly baking title. And having been a contestant on the show, she would know exactly where Betty’s cast iron skillet would be placed after her cornbread segment, giving her a ready weapon.
“Why don’t you let me see if your shop will be a success?” Auntie held up her tarot cards and told Donna to choose one.
“I don’t believe in that nonsense. You make your own future through planning and hard work.”
And murder? I wondered.
“A peek now might save you time later if the whole venture’s going to flop.”
Auntie doesn’t appreciate criticism, and I knew Madame Guinevere was planning a particularly ominous combination of cards, should Donna relent, but the gluten-free baker missed the threat as she waved at Fiona Flynn and beckoned her to join our group.
“This is my new best friend,” Donna said with a laugh. “She made me look so good the other night.”
“It wasn’t hard,” Fiona said with a practiced diplomacy that would have gotten her a seat on the UN. If beauty perfection hovered so close to Fiona’s fingertips, I did wonder why she couldn’t spare some of that magic for herself. She currently wore a gypsy blouse in forest green, a jean skirt, and combat boots. Her bleached hair stuck out in a ponytail at the side of her head, like Chrissy from Three’s Company.
“Do you work on all the Baking Channel shows?” Auntie asked.
“All of them.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Every—last—flipping, one.”
I studied her—shoulders slumped, mouth strained around the edges from the effort of making it look as if it was a joke.
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“I’m burning out. Let’s face it. There’s only one look the producers want for these shows, and it’s pretty tame. I miss going crazy with colors, like zebra stripes or a bleached flower in the part of electric blue hair.”
Her former clientele must have been circus performers.
“I don’t think that would fly here,” I agreed, “although Heather has those bleached bangs.”
Fiona stuck her nose in the air. “Ms. Ozu goes to her own personal stylist. That’s fine with me, because I’ve got bigger things in mind.”
She couldn’t keep the grin off her face, though she kept her voice cool and collected. “I’m going to open my own shop in Tucson. It’s a college town. Young people are more experimental with their looks. I should fit right in.”
With her bleached, dry locks, Fiona didn’t strike me as having her fingertips on the pulse of Arizona’s youth, but then how would I know? I hadn’t qualified as a youth for many years.
“Can you afford to take the risk?” Donna asked. “It costs a lot to own your own place. Trust me. I’ve done all the homework, and the startup alone can drain your bank account.”
“My grandmother left me some money.”
“Your granny’s dead?” Auntie clucked with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said, averting her eyes. “She was old.”
Her lack of sympathy startled me into blurting out, “Was this the same grandmother who generously took you into her home, so you could pursue a job at Saguaro Studios?”
She raised her chin to challenge my disapproving gaze. “Yeah. Her.”
“Huh. That was sudden.”
Something wasn’t right. A few nights ago, Granny had been the key to Fiona’s new life in Arizona, and today her death hardly made a blip on Fiona’s emotional radar. I continued to stare.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She was the first to blink, which meant I had the upper hand, and I took advantage of my position to work in a question about the night of the premiere.
“I meant to ask you. At the reception, you saw someone you knew. Who was it?”
Her face flushed a mottled red. “I was mistaken. I thought it was my former boss, but it wasn’t.”
She excused herself. Actually, she just turned and walked away. As I watched her leave, I spotted Linda the Page as she wandered the room with a tray of cookies, and I made a beeline across the room.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“As long as we keep moving,” Linda said. “We’re short-staffed tonight.”
I walked alongside her as she offered her tray to the guests we passed.
“You came up to Elvira and told her that she was wanted by the photographer.”
“That’s right.”
“Who told you?”
“Jeremy.” Off my puzzled look, she pointed out the young man who looked as if he were about to genuflect to the Baking Channel’s star. “He’s Heather Ozu’s assistant, which means butt-kisser and slave. I wouldn’t have his job for the world.”
“Who told him?”
“I was offering drinks to the VIPs. Heather, Natasha, Jeremy—although he only thinks he’s a VIP. There were family members. I just can’t remember. But I’m sure if Jeremy was involved, then the order must have come from Heather Ozu.”
Her face scrunched up. “Of course, if I’d known she was going to be murdered…”
“How could you know?” I snatched the last cookie from her tray. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you think the family blames me?”
She pushed her long hair behind her ear and blinked to hold back the tears. No kid should have to carry that kind of worry around.
“They don’t. I’m certain.” I gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. A determined murderer would have found another way to get Elvira onto the set.”
That cheered her up. Now if only I could figure out a way to bring up the subject of murder to Jeremy.
I wandered back over to Donna and Auntie, because they were positioned a few feet away from where Heather Ozu held court with the show’s director with Jeremy looking on and admiring, Natasha Young, and the producer, Bert Hamilton. I considered my approach. Should I rush in and intimidate them into answering me? Play dumb so they wouldn’t suspect my crafty questions? Josh the truth out of them? Auntie solved my problem. She swept over and inserted herself into the conversation.
She held out her cards to Natasha. “Pick one.”
Natasha was a nice person and a good sport, because she played along and picked a card. I listened closely. It’s actually a pleasure to see Auntie at work. She’s a pro at reading people. Heather and Bert looked on with amused expressions, and Donna and I both edged forward, which meant even the gluten-free baker was susceptible to the thrill of psychic phenomena.
“The Ace of Pentacles.” Auntie shuffled it back into the deck.
If I were reading the cards for Natasha, I would take into consideration how focused and professional Natasha’s behavior was on the set. I’d assume that she was looking forward to an upward career trajectory, and that Blue-Ribbon Babes wouldn’t mark the high point on her reel.
“That’s a good career card,” Auntie said. “It represents new opportunities.”
“Which could be good or bad,” Natasha said. “Bad if it means the end of this show.”
“Heaven forbid,” Bert said, putting his hand to his heart for dramatic effect.
“This show is not going to end anytime soon,” Heather said. “If anything, our ratings are going to skyrocket because of the extra drama.”
Auntie leaned closer to Natasha. “But good if that means a new opportunity for you.” She looked her up and down, trying to pick up clues. I followed her gaze and noted that Natasha wore a necklace of colorful paper beads, just like the ones they sold for charity. The director was a kind woman. Charms shaped like countries dangled from a silver bracelet. A stylistic choice? Or did Natasha dream of travel?
“Maybe this job was holding you back from your real purpose.”
Natasha’s gave Auntie a keen glance and murmured, “Now I wonder what makes you say that.”
“I don’t make these things up. The cards know. You just need a pro to interpret them for you. This is just a free sample. My usual readings are much more in depth. Pick another one and I’ll fill in the details because I like you.”
Natasha complied.
“There’s more?” Heather rolled her eyes.
“Two of Wands.” Auntie gave a brief nod. “You don’t let things happen by chance. You’ve got goals. I see continuing education in your future as well as travel. Perhaps a job helping people.”
Auntie hit home. Natasha’s eyes opened wide, and then she grinned.
“That is so amazing! How about you Bert? Don’t you want to find out what the future holds?”
“Why not?” He gamely pulled the Emperor card. “Does that mean I’ll be in charge of the station someday?” He swept his arm to take in the room. “King of my castle? Where’s my crown?”
He was making light of Auntie’s prediction, but there’s always truth to humor. I would focus on his desire to be at the top of his profession, if I were reading him.
“It definitely indicates a position of authority, and you’ll have the respect of your peers.”
His embarrassed laughter showed she scored another one.
“Heather?”
Auntie held out the cards. Heather opened her mouth to say something but stopped. Her gaze went from the cards to Auntie’s face, which was free of any expression.
“I’m sure Ms. Ozu doesn’t need a fortune teller to guide her already stellar career path,” Jeremy said, a condescending smirk on his lips.
When Heather’s fingers dove into the middle of the pack, he changed his tune from apprehension to approbation. “Of course, it’s all in fun.”
He peered over her shoulders and looked at her choice. The Four of Cups, and it was upside down.
“Hmmm.” Auntie held up the pack. “Want to pick another one?”
Heather held Auntie’s gaze. “What’s it mean? Not that I buy into magic.”
My aunt gave a little sigh. “You may have missed an opportunity.”
“What opportunity?”
Auntie pretended to give it some thought. “Maybe it’s one you haven’t heard of yet, like my little idea. It could save your show.”
“The show doesn’t need saving,” Heather snapped, but her protest stopped there. Like any savvy businesswoman, she knew to listen to every idea, no matter how impracticable or foolish, and then discard the nonsense. Her eyes remained narrowed, and she spoke with the tone of a queen commanding the peon to share her side of the story. “Tell me what’s on your mind.
“I’m well known for my talents with tarot, and I thought, well, wouldn’t it be interesting if I read the cards for each guest on the show? Then you could follow up later to see if I was right. Short-term predictions, of course, and completely baking-related.”
Well done, Auntie.
Heather sized up my aunt, probably evaluating her ability to draw revenue. “You’re working with the police on the murder.” She included me in this statement.
Jeremy gave a start, but since Heather didn’t seem nervous, he held his place like an anxious hound on a lead.
“You’re helping them?” Donna demanded. “How? Are you a professional?”
“We both are,” Auntie answered without missing a beat.
“Interesting idea,” Bert said, but he sounded amused. “We’d definitely have to get you a new publicity photo,” he said to both Auntie and me, and then he tempered his laughter with a gallant bow of his head. “The picture in the Gazette doesn’t do either of you justice.”
Heather touched my aunt’s arm in a business-friendly manner. “Why don’t you stop by sometime and we can discuss it?”
“Probably won’t happen. My aunt has to get back to Wisconsin,” I said, hoping to crush Auntie’s aspirations to be a public embarrassment.
“I at least have to stay for the funeral and pay my respects.”
That was hard to argue, and it gave me another idea.
“You know,” I said, “it was awfully nice of you to have this memorial. You must have gotten to know Elvira pretty well over the course of putting together the premiere episode.”
Bert was the first to respond. “I don’t think I’d say I knew her. I was there for the interviews, of course. She had a big personality, and it came across on camera when we tested her. Didn’t you think so?” He directed his question at Natasha.
“Definitely,” Natasha said. “We didn’t really talk about anything personal, though. It was all about hitting her mark and finding the best angle to shoot her from. As for the memorial? I don’t like social events, but tonight is different. A woman died on the set, and we all have to put on a united front.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Bert added. “The compassionate thing to do.
Natasha stuck out her chin. “I don’t know that I’d take it that far. It’s not as if we’re doing it for Elvira.” She motioned around the room. “How many people are here because they really cared about the woman? Heck, I wouldn’t have recognized her on the street.” She shook her head, looking a bit depressed. “Technically, this is another publicity event.”
“I bet you got to know her pretty well,” I said to Heather, “and even you, Donna.”
Heather sipped from a bottled water. “I don’t meet the guests until the show. It adds spontaneity, although with the way Elvira behaved, it would have been nice to have had a warning.”
“She didn’t behave well,” I said with sympathy. “I would have been so angry if a contestant, lucky enough to be a guest on my show, said nasty things about the sponsors I depended on. How did Cocolite take it?”
“I understand their stock went up,” Bert offered. “The buying public has the response instincts of a teenage girl. You say it’s not good for them, and they’ve got to have it.”
“That’s a relief,” I said, disappointed over another dead motive.
“We never really got a chance to chat,” Donna said. “Before the show, I was pretty nervous, and then afterward, we took all these publicity shots. It was grueling, and I thought it would never end. By the time we finished, my girls were starving. I just had time to drop in at the reception for a quick hello before I took them back to the hotel for pizza.”
Heather added, “I barely had a chance to snack on something before you discovered the body and the evening came to an end.”
She made it sound as if the celebration of the year screeched to a halt because of my inconsiderate blunder.
I gave Jeremy my most innocent smile. “I heard the photographer asked you to find Elvira. You’re the one who sent her to her death. Not intentionally, of course.”
“Photog—Elvir—” All the color drained from Jeremy’s face. He took a long drink from his water bottle, probably to gather his thoughts, because as soon as he drained the last drops, he said, “I didn’t talk to the photographer.”
“Then who told you to get Elvira?”
His glance moved from face to face, searching for the right answer. “I don’t know. It just came up.”
“But who brought it up?”
“I don’t know. Someone.”
It was tough on Jeremy, because if he named one of the three faces staring at him, he’d be fingering a boss, or at least management. I questioned them one at a time, starting with the nicest person in the room.
“Natasha?”
“I remember knowing that Elvira was wanted on the set by the photographer, but I can’t tell you who told me.”
“I remember hearing about it, too,” Bert said.
“Do you remember who told you?”
He turned to Natasha. “Was it you?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I heard it from Heather.”
“If so,” Heather said, “I was just repeating what I’d heard.”
The killer had been clever. What do people do when they hear a bit of news? Repeat it. And gossip is very hard to trace back to the source.
Someone caught Heather’s eye, and she excused herself, but not before Auntie pressed a business card on her, Natasha, and Bert. Jeremy bumped my arm as he skittered after his boss, and coffee splashed down the front of my blouse.
“Figures. It’s dry clean.” I dabbed at my front until my napkin was soggy. “I guess I should be happy it’s not red wine.”
“Try soda water.”
The advice came from our friend from the premiere, Jane, and she looked as neatly pressed as ever, in a powder-blue cotton dress. She was followed by her neighbor Bea. The duo had become a trio, because the group now included Lola, who still wore enough jangling jewelry to arm an art fair. I thanked her, told Auntie I’d be right back, and headed for the exit that she said led to the restrooms.
I ran into another maze of temporary flats and wondered which direction to take. I headed left. The hallway took another left, and I could see where the passageway ended up ahead. There was an open door, and I stepped through and stared. I was back on the Blue-Ribbon Babes set. Yellow tape surrounded the kitchen, but everything else had been removed. The cameras were probably in use somewhere else, and the bleachers had been folded back up flat against the wall.
Anyone could have left the reception, killed Elvira, and then come back in, unnoticed. Should be simple to figure out, right? Why not start with everyone who used the facilities that night, since they could have followed the same route I just used? I imagined myself running through the reception, shocking people by asking, “Did you use the potty the night Elvira died?” Almost sounded like a 70s song title. I held back a giggle.
Rather than retrace my steps through the maze, I crossed the room and took the original route back to the reception room. An event of some excitement was taking place directly inside the door. People crowded around, and in the center of the pileup, I could see a white head of hair that stood taller than the rest—the cowboy who caught Auntie’s eye during the taping. Next to him were a man in his thirties, the woman with the bright ginger hair, Mayor Haskins and his wife, Toni.
I’d hit it off with Toni when we’d met at a fundraiser for her husband last month. A quiet, friendly woman who abhorred the spotlight, she stood on the periphery of the crowd, so I made my way around and joined her.
“Frankie!” She brightened at the site of a familiar face. “Were you part of the studio audience, or did you know Elvira personally?”
“An audience member,” I said, nodding to where Mayor Haskins was fending off the fans. “I don’t remember seeing the two of you here that night.”
“We weren’t. We only came to the reception for Elvira’s sake. Can you believe someone asked Mike for an autograph? It’s highly inappropriate. I realize this isn’t a wake, but shouldn’t the focus be on the family and Elvira herself? We were afraid his appearance might detract from the solemnity of the occasion, but when they asked us to come, Mike thought we should, out of respect. Elvira volunteered on his campaign.”
“Really?”
“She did a lot of volunteer work in the community—fundraisers and charity events. She dedicated a lot of time to prolife and anti-pornography causes. A really energetic woman. She’ll be missed.” Toni glanced at the smiling faces that surrounded us, chatting and laughing as if they were at a cocktail party. “Maybe not by anyone here, but definitely by those she helped.”
“I wonder if she made any enemies.” I wondered out loud.
“Unfortunately, I can’t pick out just one. Elvira had been involved in protests for years, long before I knew her. People can get pretty riled up for their cause, so there probably were protestors from the opposing side who didn’t like her.”
“I’m only here because my aunt had tickets to the show. I didn’t know the lady at all.”
“It’s such a shame. This tragedy comes at a time when the family was already in mourning.” Toni motioned toward the woman with the red hair and lowered her voice. “That’s Catherine, Elvira’s daughter-in-law. She just suffered a miscarriage. Her second or third. It’s so sad. She and her husband, Tim, desperately want a family.”
I must have been staring, because Catherine’s gaze met mine, and she wandered over and joined us.
“Catherine,” Toni said, “I’d like you to meet Frankie Chandler, a friend of ours.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
“It’s still too hard to believe,” she said. “Elvira just wasn’t the type to get murdered, if that doesn’t sound too crazy.”
Toni quickly said, “I know exactly what you mean. She had a strong personality. It’s hard to believe anyone could get the better of her.”
That reminded me of my aunt’s sentiment when she heard I’d been involved in a murder. We’re not that sort. What kind of person did you have to be to wind up a murder victim? I decided that you’d simply have to make someone dislike you enough to want to eliminate you.
Up close, Catherine oozed Sex Appeal. Her thick, red curls broke free in spots from a classy French braid. Her chosen nail polish—a feminine, soft rose—made her long, slender fingers appear more delicate, and her skin, even though it was the pale coloring that so often goes with red hair, had a healthy, natural glow. The two-piece black suit accentuated her curves even though her white, lace blouse came with a high neck. It was an expensive suit, tailored to fit, and I wondered what profession would provide the perfect environment for the competent, feminine look.
I sucked in my breath as it occurred to me that she was dressed for Love Your Face success. Jennifer Peters, the woman who murdered her maid and almost killed me in my own home, was a Love Your Face rep. She had the same professional-yet-feminine look.
“What is it you do?” I blurted out.
Catherine blushed. “I haven’t worked outside the home in many years, since before Tim and I moved here. We’ve been trying to start a family,” her voice caught, and she took a steadying breath.“So I haven’t taken on work. I’m grateful I don’t have to.”
“Grateful for what?” The man who’d been standing by the cowboy joined us, and by the way he wrapped his arm around Catherine’s shoulder in a protective gesture, I assumed he was Elvira Jenkins’ son, and I took a closer look.
A large man with the sturdy physique of a boxer, he wore his brown hair cropped short, and his dark hazel eyes, though surrounded by laugh lines, reflected the sadness of a basset hound.
“My husband, Tim,” Catherine said. “I was just saying how nice it is that, even in this economy, I can afford to stay home.”
He rubbed her back, and his smile strained around the edges. “Why shouldn’t you? Being a wife and—and a homemaker is a full-time job.”
I thought he might have been about to say wife and mother, and I felt a twinge of sadness for him.
“What did you do before you got married?” I asked.
“Public relations.” Catherine gave a wry grin to Toni. “Pretty similar to politics, actually.”
Tim winked at her. “A lot of your clients were politicos, weren’t they?”
Catherine shot him a warning look.
“Sounds exciting. Was that in Arizona?”
“Out east. And it wasn’t all that exciting.” She shot another look at Tim, and it sounded like a dig. “But I was good at it.”
“The best,” Tim said, and he kissed her cheek.
Her cheeks flushed. However, Catherine’s blush wasn’t a pinkish flush of pleasure and embarrassment that Regency romance readers would recognize with a sigh. This was the scarlet that accompanied unpleasant thoughts.
“My business was very successful until—” She took a quavering breath. “Then I met Tim and, well, things changed.”
We suffered through an awkward silence, something I’m incapable of enduring.
“It sounds like your mother had a lot of energy.” I said to Tim. A lame choice of words, but I thought it might move us back to safer topics.
Catherine answered for her husband. “That she had. It was always Elvira’s way or the highway, but she always kept everybody’s best intentions at heart.”
I’d known people like that, and though I wouldn’t want any of them to get killed, I wouldn’t mind if they mysteriously evaporated.
“Why don’t you come to our house this Thursday night?” The offer came from Toni. “Catherine and Tim will be there. It’s a thank you to everyone who helped with Mike’s campaign.”
While she jotted the details on the back of a grocery receipt she found in her purse, the man with the white hair joined us. Catherine introduced him as Stan Jenkins, her father-in-law. I repeated my condolences.
“It’s a shock,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high and gentle for such a big man. Almost hoarse. Maybe he’d been crying over this touching tribute, but it didn’t look like it. Eyes clear. Not shaky. Definitely recovered enough to take back his bird. I broached the subject in a roundabout way.
“You probably miss Petey.”
His brows shot up. “I forgot all about that bird. Petey was Elvira’s baby.”
I cleared my throat. “He probably misses home. He’s been squawking and talking nonstop.”
“Talking?” Toni asked.
“Well, just a word here and there. Mostly about Emily, my cat. Meow, Meow, Meow!” I plastered on a grin to make sure Stan didn’t think I was complaining. “Did you want him back yet?”
“You know, it would be a blessing if you could handle him for a few more days while I get my bearings. I don’t feel anyone, including an animal, should have to depend on me right now.”
His eyes moistened up, and I felt like a jerk for bringing it up. “No problem. You just let me know when you’re ready.”
I dug through my purse to find a business card. “I’ve got my number right here.”
A hand reached around me and held out a tarot card. “This has my cell phone number.”
Stan took a step back, and his expression suggested the need for a shot of whiskey. “Gertie?”
Auntie broke into a huge grin. “Hello, Bull.”