P is for Peril

"Who's the woman in the leather pants?"

"Celine, Harvey's wife of twenty-ump years. He walked out on her eight months ago and now he's come crawling back."

"Oh, right. Crystal mentioned he was in the middle of a nasty divorce."

"'Was' is correct. I guess the tab got too steep. He decided he was better off living with her than being stripped of his assets. He's a jerk, but I sometimes feel sorry for him. She drinks like a fish. Most of the year she's either checking into Betty Ford or checking herself out again. The rest of the time, she's goes off to some luxury spa-La Costa or the Golden Door. Nothing but the best for our girl."

"Aren't married people ever happy?"

"Oh sure. They're just not often happy with the person they're married to." I saw her gaze shift. "Uh-oh. I better go down. Talk to you later."

Anica slipped by me and headed down the stairs. I glanced over at the front door, where Pepper Gray had appeared. Anica spotted her and made her way over to the door. The two exchanged polite busses. Anica took her coat and then signaled the waiter, who veered in their direction with a tray of champagne glasses. Shorn of her white cap and white uniform, she seemed softer and prettier, less like a woman who'd perform extramarital first aid. I looked down at my silver-haired friend, wondering if he'd noticed her at the same time I had. Pepper moved into the great room. They had to be aware of each other, but neither paid the slightest attention-no nod of recognition, no greeting of any kind.

Celine looked up and her body grew still, a forkful of food poised over her plate. Anica took Pepper by the arm, guiding her through the French doors and out onto the deck. Celine's head seemed to swivel, her gaze glassy and fixed. She watched Pepper with all the caution of a rabbit when a fox is in range. Either she knew for a fact that her husband was philandering or her radar was superb, probably a little bit of both. It didn't take much to guess how the dynamic played out. He screwed around on her as compensation for the fact that she drank too much, and she drank too much to console herself for his screwing around. As I watched, she got up and left the room.

I waited on the stairs until the desserts had been arranged at one end of the table and then joined the buffet line, which had shrunk considerably. I wasn't particularly hungry, but a seat near Harvey Broadus had opened up and I wanted to take advantage. I filled my plate in haste and then crossed to the couch. He looked up as I approached. Nice blue eyes.

"Anybody sitting here?"

"No, go right ahead. I'm ready for dessert so you can save my place."

"Sure, no problem."

While he was gone, a woman in uniform came by picking up abandoned plates. I focused on the food, which turned out to be terrific, ate with the usual animal enthusiasm, trying not to snuffle, belch, o spill down my front. Broadus returned with his dessert plate and a fresh glass of wine. "Thought you might need this," he said, setting the wineglass on the coffee table next to me.

"Thanks. I was about to go in search of the fellow with the Chardon nay."

Broadus held out his hand. "Harry Broadus."

"Kinsey Millhone," I said, shaking hands with him. I surveyed his dessert plate: a brownie, a wedge of fresh fruit tart, and a chunk of coconut sheet cake. "That looks good."

"My sweet tooth." He sat down again and balanced his plate on one knee. He chose the sheet cake first. "I caught sight of you earlier, sitting on the stairs."

"I'm not one for crowds and I don't know a soul. What about you? Are you a friend of Crystal's or Dow's?"

"Both. I was in business with Dow."

"Pacific Meadows?"

"That's right. What sort of work do you do?" He moved on to the brownie, making short work of it.

"Mostly research," I said. I took a big bite of roll so I wouldn't have to elucidate.

"Sad day," he said. "I feel terrible about Dow, though I wasn't surprised. He was unbelievably anxious and depressed in the weeks before he disappeared."

Oh good. Gossiping at a wake about the dead. How fun. I said, "The poor guy. About what?"

"I don't want to go into it ... let's just say he left the clinic in a mess."

"Someone was telling me about that. Something to do with Medicare, wasn't it?" I took a bite of salad while he tackled the fruit tart.

"You heard about that?"

I nodded. "From a couple of different sources."

"I guess word must be out. That's too bad."