twenty-seven

“Mr. Martini,” I said, linking my arm through his, “I have a proposition for you.”

“I’ll do it,” Nigel said immediately.

“Don’t you want to hear what it is first?”

“Mother said never play hard to get.”

I laughed. “Your mother said no such thing.”

Nigel cocked his head. “You might be right about that. Now that I think about it, it was dark and I….”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was going to suggest that you make me your dirtiest martini, we finish watching the tapes, and find what we’re looking for.”

“In the tapes or in the martinis?” he asked.

“Both if you’re lucky,” I answered.

Nigel grinned at me. “I do like the way you think, Mrs. Martini.”

An hour later, Nigel and I were comfortably settled in our home office, with martinis, a remote, and notepad all within easy reach.

The footage was what you’d expect from a fourteen-year-old with her first handheld camcorder. There were a lot of jerky shots and segments when it was apparent that Danielle was looking at something with her own eyes and not through the camera lens. Not surprisingly, most of Danielle’s footage was of John Cummings. There could be no doubt that she had a massive crush on the then twenty-three-year-old actor; she kept him in the focus of her lens as much as possible. It wasn’t hard to see why. John was a good-looking man, but at age twenty-three he still had that non-threatening puppy-dog quality that made him a safe crush for teenage girls.

I was well into my second martini when Nigel picked up the remote and paused the tape. “You know what I think?” he said.

“What?”

“I think Melanie was pregnant.”

“Because she threw up?”

“Well, that and what she just said to Frank. I don’t think that’s yogurt she’s holding up there. I think it’s pudding.”

I frowned at him. “Pudding?”

He nodded. “‘In the pudding club’ is slang for being pregnant. I think that’s a cup of pudding Melanie is holding when she says, ‘I’m in the club.’”

“Wait. It is? Seriously?”

He nodded again. “Seriously.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that?” I asked.

“I was in the Hasty Pudding Club at Harvard. Among other things, I learned how to make a mean pot of hasty pudding.” He paused and added, “Of course, my Spotted dick was something of a legend.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know why I always assume you’re kidding.”

I paused the tape and rewound it. “It seems someone else knew what it meant, too.” I pointed to the figure just visible on the left side of the screen. Eyes round with understanding slowly morphed into an expression of furious disgust. Nigel sat back and looked at me with surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a low whistle.

“Probably,” I agreed, leaning over and kissing him lightly on the mouth. “But first let’s have dinner. How do omelets sound?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll have mine with onions.”

Nigel laughed. “Fine. I’ll make you an omelet, but no onions.”

I smiled at him. “Deal.”