apparently the man wasn’t averse to pushing his luck. Because right now Jackie was screeching—and before
I met Jackie I never knew that it was possible to
screech in a near-whisper—into the mouthpiece.
‘‘What do you mean your dark blue suit? It’s a formal
wedding, Derwin. Formal! And every other man at the affair will be in a tuxedo.’’
There was a pause, during which Jackie rolled her
eyes heavenward. Acknowledging her with a wave, I
intended to head for my cubbyhole. But she held up
one hand, signifying that I was to wait.
‘‘Listen,’’ she said to Derwin a moment later, ‘‘I will
not—repeat not—be embarrassed in front of all my friends. And that’s that.’’ She stopped laying down the law at this point to allow for his rebuttal, after which her voice suddenly took on a deceptively reasonable tone.
‘‘You’re right, Derwin. I suppose that if you’re not com
fortable spending the money to rent a tux, it isn’t fair of me to try and force you to do it. Besides, even though
I’d love for you to come with me, there’s no reason I can’t go by myself. Charlotte mentioned that they
were expecting quite a few unattached people.’’
And now Jackie leaned back in her chair and let
Derwin entangle himself in the net, a smile spreading slowly over her face.
She looked over at me, mouthed ‘‘one minute,’’ and
then, enormously pleased with herself, went on to
wrap up things with Derwin. ‘‘Believe me, Derwin,
I’m not angry. I told you I— What was that? No, I really wouldn’t feel right about it, honestly. I wouldn’t
want you to—We-ll, if you insist . . . but only if you’re
sure,’’ she was magnanimous enough to finally agree.
‘‘I’ll meet you at that rental place on Fifth at twelve thirty, okay?’’
Once she and Derwin had said their good-byes,
Jackie remarked tersely, ‘‘Men can be such a trial.’’
(Unfortunately, I had no up-to-date information on
this subject.) ‘‘I just wanted to tell you that your den
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tist’s office called. There was a cancellation, and they can see you on Thursday at four. They asked that you
get in touch with them by noon today if you can make
it. Want the number?’’
‘‘I have it.’’
‘‘You’re not going to call, are you?’’ she accused.
‘‘No. I can’t make it Thursday.’’
‘‘ Can’t—or won’t?’’
Well, if Jackie thought she was dealing with another
Derwin here, I was about to set her straight. ‘‘You decide, why don’t you?’’ I suggested snippily as I
flounced down the hall.
The instant my bottom made contact with the desk
chair, I rummaged around in my shoulder bag for this
crumpled slip of paper I’d dumped in there that morn
ing. Then, after checking the phone number written
on it, I lifted the receiver.
But I suppose I’d better backtrack a bit . . .
I had gone to bed at around one a.m. yesterday,
thoroughly exhausted. But did this mean I’d been able
to sleep? Ha! I kept agonizing over the investigation—
and my growing lack of confidence with regard to the
outcome. I was engaged in acting out my frustration
by pounding the living daylights out of my pillow
when it came to me: ‘‘Vincent What’s-his-name!’’ The
recollection propelled me to a sitting position, and I switched on the light. Getting out of bed, I hurried over to the closet and removed my yellow linen suit, fishing in the pocket for the paper Kathy Marin at
Silver Oaks had given me.
I opened it up. DOMINICK GALLO, it read. (Okay, so
I’d screwed up a little on the name.) Right below that
was the waiter’s home telephone number. I smoothed
out the paper and laid it on the bureau before re
turning to bed, where I soon proceeded to inflict an
other round of abuse on my pillow.
Anyhow, I was presently listening irritably to a re
corded telephone message at the Gallo home. ‘‘We’re
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141
away right now,’’ a young female voice was saying.
Must be the man’s daughter, I speculated. ‘‘We’ll be back on Sunday, August thirty-first. Uh, that’s Labor
Day weekend,’’ she added for the caller’s edification. Well, it’s not that I really expected that Dominick Gallo would be spending his free time at home. But
then again, not everybody takes off for Pago Pago on their vacation, right? Or even for Coney Island, for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, though. While I
didn’t figure Gallo would prove to be any more of an asset to the case than anyone else at Silver Oaks had been, I couldn’t afford not to talk to him, particularly with the way things seemed to be shaping up. Which
is why I was so ticked off that he wasn’t available here
and now. Patience, I concede, has never been one of my long suits.
And by the way, I lectured silently—and to no one at all—as I hung up the phone, that family should be aware that it’s not overly clever to announce to the world how long you intend to be gone. I mean, the Gallos were liable to come back to find that somebody had given them a housecleaning they didn’t appreciate. I spent the rest of the day transcribing my notes.
But my output wasn’t anywhere near as impressive as
it had been on Monday, when my stubby little fingers had moved at a rate of speed that was probably a first
for them—and most likely a last, as well. I have a feeling, though, that I’d subconsciously slowed down
today. The reason being that I was far from eager to review yesterday’s get-together with Carla Fremont.
The thing is, I had little hope that I’d learn anything
from a study of that meeting. And having already
pretty much dismissed this Dominick Gallo from my
mind—he was not only currently out of town, but he
was a long shot to begin with—I would then be forced
to ask myself the question I most dread having to deal
with in an investigation:
Where do I go from here?
Chapter 22
I was not in the best of moods when I got home from
the office. And I had no intention of going within five
feet of either the refrigerator or the stove that night. So borrowing from Ellen’s at-least-three-times-weekly
game plan, I called our local Chinese takeout. Unfor
tunately, Little Dragon is known more for the quantity
than for the quality of its food. However, their stuff isn’t that bad if you’re really hungry—which I was.
Anyhow, it was a couple of minutes before seven
thirty, and I was just polishing off a humongous com
bination plate when the phone rang.
‘‘Hello,’’ I said. Or at any rate, that’s what I wanted
to say, only my mouth was full of fried rice so I don’t
think it came out that way.
‘‘Er, Desiree?’’
I hastily gulped down the rice. ‘‘Yes, this is Desiree.’’
‘‘This is Nick Grainger,’’ the voice informed me un
necessarily. ‘‘Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting your sup
per or anything.’’
Now, I was all set to tell him that I’d already fin
ished eating. But then something—I later decided it
was the Fates—made me bite back
the words. ‘‘Oh,
no,’’ I substituted for the truth, ‘‘as a matter of fact, I just got in.’’
‘‘Listen, I know this is last-minute notice—and I
apologize—but until about two minutes ago, when my
brother canceled on me, I didn’t expect to be free to
night. Since I am, though, I was wondering if there was any possibility of your having dinner with me later.’’
I hesitated for a split second. After all, as much as
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143
I enjoy food—and contrary to what you may have
assumed—my stomach is not really expandable. But
Nick put his own interpretation on this fleeting mo
ment of indecision.
‘‘Please say you’ve forgiven me for D’Agostino’s,
Desiree. I can’t believe I behaved so stupidly. I was hoping for the opportunity to prove to you that I’m not as big a jerk as I gave you reason to believe I am.’’
‘‘All right, I’m willing to reassess you,’’ I responded
with this inane little titter.
‘‘Great. I’m still at work—I have a florist shop about
six blocks from our mutual apartment building—but
I’ll be closing in half an hour. I can pick you up in around forty minutes, if that’s okay.’’
‘‘Can you give me an hour?’’ Then I realized that
my apartment could betray me—the place smelled like
Eau de Chinese Takeout. ‘‘And it’s really not neces
sary that you call for me. Why don’t I meet you
somewhere?’’
‘‘Sure, if you’d rather do that. What kind of food
do you prefer?’’
Now, the thing is, I didn’t see where this made much
difference. How was I going to be able to find room for anything anyway? So I foolishly answered, ‘‘All
kinds. You choose.’’
‘‘Do you like Chinese?’’
Oh, shit! ‘‘Yes, I do.’’ I never got a chance to add the ‘‘but.’’ Which is probably just as well, because what could I possibly have told the man? ‘‘I’ve had enough Chinese food for one night, thank you very
much. However, for the pleasure of your company I’m
willing to eat a second supper of another ethnic ori
gin—and stuff myself to the point of explosion.’’ Lis
ten, no matter how I phrased it, that’s what it would have boiled down to. And talk about a lease-breaker!
I mean, it was enough to induce a guy to relocate to the wilds of New Jersey. At any rate, before I was able to put my foot in it, Nick named a rather elegant
Chinese restaurant about a ten-minute cab ride from
my apartment.
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‘‘See you in an hour,’’ he confirmed.
‘‘Could we make that an hour and ten minutes?’’ I
said, tacking on the travel time.
‘‘Sure,’’ Nick agreed with a laugh. ‘‘Whatever you
say.’’
I don’t know how I ever managed to get myself
ready that evening. Between my nervousness at finally
going on this long-hoped-for date and the fear that
I’d gag the instant I looked at anything edible, I was a wreck.
I was so discombobulated that I tripped getting out
of the shower, and only a last-minute grab for the
towel rack prevented me from flying head first across
the bathroom. Plus, my hand was so unsteady that I
had to redo my eye makeup twice. But it was either that or show up resembling a cross between an owl
and a chipmunk. Even my wig gave me grief that
night. And who did it think it was, anyway—my real
hair?
I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late—
which actually wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The maitre d’ ushered me to the booth where Nick
was seated sipping a glass of white wine. And let me tell you, a skinny little fellow with a buck-toothed grin
can have the impact of a Mel Gibson on certain mem
bers of the female gender. Namely me.
He got to his feet immediately, and I noticed the
impeccable fit of his light blue sports jacket. The man
was like something out of GQ, I thought appre
ciatively.
He gave me a brief hug. And then, as I slid into
the booth: ‘‘I hope you’re hungry.’’
‘‘Umm, to be honest, I had a very late lunch.’’ (This
being as close to honest as I intended to get.)
‘‘I’m sorry to hear that. The food’s really good. But
could be you already know that. Have you been
here before?’’
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145
‘‘No, but I’ve heard some very really nice things
abut this place.’’
‘‘Well, why don’t we relax over drinks for a while. Maybe you’ll work up an appetite.’’
I was cringing inside. But I forced a smile. ‘‘Maybe,’’
I said.
Chapter 23
Moments after my merlot had been served—Nick was
still working on a glass of chardonnay—he said qui
etly, ‘‘I’d like to tell you why I was . . . well, the way I was at D’Agostino’s the other night.’’
‘‘Please,’’ I protested, ‘‘that isn’t necessary.’’
‘‘Maybe not for you, but it is for me. I was pretty upset when I ran into you, Desiree. Of course,’’ he put in quickly, ‘‘that still didn’t give me license to act like such a fool, but I want you to know that I don’t normally behave like that—honestly. Less than an
hour earlier, though, there was . . . uh . . . I’d had a confrontation with my ex-wife.’’ He reddened. Despite
his insistence on going into this, I could see that Nick wasn’t any too comfortable discussing his personal life
with a virtual stranger.
Nevertheless, I got the idea that he felt compelled
to explain further, so I all but tripped over my words in an attempt to cut him off. ‘‘I can understand why you might not have been in a very sociable mood.’’
He was determined to continue, however, although
with obvious reluctance. ‘‘It wasn’t the fact of my ar
guing with Tiffany—our fights are practically legend
ary.’’ What did the man expect from a woman named Tiffany, anyhow? (And in case you’re thinking what I imagine you might be, there’s a big difference between
a Desiree and a Tiffany.) ‘‘But this had to do with my
son—he’s nine years old,’’ Nick was saying. ‘‘I’d gone to her apartment to pick him up—and for the second
week in a row she gave me some cockamamie excuse
about why I couldn’t have Derek for the weekend. I
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147
was really worried about this being the start of some sort of pattern—you can never be certain with Tiffany.
So believe me, Desiree, I wasn’t fit company for any
one that evening.’’ His smile was forced. ‘‘Not even for myself.’’
I was groping for something encouraging to say, but
at the same time, I was leery of coming across as too Pollyanna-ish. I finally settled for, ‘‘Let’s hope you’re wrong—about that being a pattern.’’
‘‘Apparently I am—or was. Tiffany called the next
day to assure me there would be no problem this
weekend.’’
‘‘Well, that’s good.’’
‘‘Seems that way. But we’ll see.’’ And then, anxious
now to move off the to
pic, Nick said hastily, ‘‘Tell me
about you, though. Somebody mentioned that you’re
a private detective.’’
‘‘Word certainly gets around in our building, doesn’t it?’’
He chuckled. ‘‘Don’t knock it. Gossip’s an impor
tant learning tool. Anyhow, what sort of private de
tecting do you do?’’
‘‘You mean do I have a specialty?’’
‘‘Yes, do you?’’
‘‘Uh-uh. I’ve investigated everything from a missing
boa constrictor to murder. Although lately murder has
taken a big lead over my boa constrictor-type cases.’’
‘‘Are you conducting a murder investigation now?’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, I am.’’
‘‘I’d like to hear about it.’’
Well, since he appeared to be genuinely interested,
I went into a very sketchy recitation about Bobbie
Jean and the four shower attendees who utterly de
spised her.
‘‘So?’’ Nick put to me when I’d finished.
I looked at him, puzzled.
‘‘So which of them do you believe poisoned her?’’
‘‘I’m beginning to think that none of them did.’’
At this point the headwaiter stopped at the table to
ask if we were ready to see the menu yet.
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Nick left it to me. ‘‘Desiree?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ I said valiantly. I mean, sooner or later I had to bite the bullet, right?
The wine helped. Only not enough. Probably be
cause, as usual, I was limiting myself to just one glass.
Anything more than that and there was a good possi
bility I’d wind up sliding under the table. Actually, I’m exaggerating. But after that first glass of wine I have a tendency to slur my words a bit—something I
wasn’t too keen on demonstrating this evening.
Still, by the time my shrimp with black bean sauce
arrived (I’d begged off any appetizers), I was able to look straight at the little buggers without blanching. And almost immediately I resorted to this strategy I have for dealing with situations like this. (A strategy, incidentally, that I rarely find the need to press into service.) Here’s how it works. First I start moving my food around the plate with such apparent zest that
nobody seems to notice how few trips the fork makes
to my mouth. Then later, at the appropriate moment,
I casually drop my napkin over the plate, concealing what remains of the dinner. Which tonight would con
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