Edited to Death by Linda Lee Peterson Page B

up. Plus, I wasn’t so sure our pal Inspector Moon believed
     I was a real, live photographer at Quentin’s place the other day. Thought I’d better
     show up with the tools of the trade.”
    “Are you serious?” I asked. “You really think Moon didn’t believe you were a photographer?”
    “Hey,” said Calvin, “they always suspect the black guy first.”
    Michael snorted. “Not when he shows up with French cuffs and expensive cuff links,
     looking like an overpaid investment banker.”
    Calvin’s eyes lit up. “That’s just the look I was going for. Most photographers dress
     like bums. I love spending money on clothes. I’ve got one of those personal shoppers
     at Saks. She thinks I’m going to cave in and sleep with her some day, so she’s always
     scouting the good sale stuff for me.”
    I didn’t want to look at Michael. I knew he’d be wearing one of those looks that loosely
     translates into, “Sure, lawyers may be dull, but they’re not certifiable lightweights
     like the people you hang out with.”
    “That is really shallow and disgusting,” I said.
    Calvin smiled, “Isn’t it? But cool threads, huh?”
    “Are you ever going to come across for Ms. Shopper?” asked Michael.
    Calvin shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s good looking, but she’s got that fortysomething
     obsession about her body. She’s always rubbing her throat because I know she’s worried
     about her jawline. Of course, she’d probably put all that worry into one fine lay.”
    Michael chuckled. “Sounds great to me.”
    I looked at both of them. “Male bonding is so six weeks ago,” I said.
    They managed to look reprimanded, vaguely delighted, and very, very chummy all at
     once. It was a little nauseating, but far preferable to Michael acting sullen and
     jealous.
    “Let’s go get a drink and hear some more about Calvin’s love life,” said Michael.
    “Later,” I said. “We’re invited back to Quentin’s flat.”
    Calvin sighed, “Really? Do we have to go? That place creeps me out.”
    “We do,” I said firmly. The two of them looked as if they were concocting excuses
     on the spot. “Besides,” I added, “I want to corner Michael’s pal, Inspector Moon.
     I’d like to know just what progress the cops are making.”
    And, of course, I was looking for an opportunity to retrieve my diaphragm from Quent’s
     bedroom.

8
    Mourning at Quentin’s
    It was Quentin’s kind of party.
    All traces of the violence that prompted the gathering had been tidied away. No yellow
     police tape. No uniformed officers. No vulgar arrangements from florists, just wildly
     expensive Peruvian lilies in tall black ceramic vases. Stuart had supervised the catering.
     There was sushi and sashimi and warm sake and cold Tsing-Tao beer. And lots of mourners,
     consoling themselves with good things to eat and drink. Claire was sitting in a corner,
     smoking, pouting, and leafing through a magazine. It wasn’t Small Town .
    Michael surveyed the scene in disgust. “This is no wake,” he said. “This looks like
     a fund-raiser for the society to preserve leather interiors in upscale cars.”
    Calvin nudged me. “Is he always so hostile?”
    “Just in the face of tasteful materialism,” I said. “It’s got something to do with
     Catholic guilt.”
    “You white people,” said Calvin, “You’re so confusing. I thought it was Jewish guilt
     and Catholic shame.”
    “Welcome to the magic of mixed marriages,” I said. “You get the combo meal.”
    Michael had roamed away and returned with three bottles of beer. “Quick,” he said,
     “take a swig out of the bottle before Stuart comes by and ruins it by pouring it into
     a glass.”
    We swigged. “Come on, Michael,” I said. “Everyone grieves in his or her own way. Quentin
     would love all this—gossip, music, lots of well-dressed people.”
    He shook his head. “It’s missing something.”
    “Like what?” asked Calvin.
    “Casseroles. Chocolate cake.