JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) by J. A. Jance Page A

rather make predictions about the party.”
    “In other words, focus on my problems instead of yours?”
    “Right.”
    Alex gave me a quick smile that was more a reprieve than a pardon. She’d humor me and let me off the hook temporarily, but eventually I would owe her a full blow-by-blow account. I went for the deferment, thinking that later I’d be better able to talk about Kelly Beaumont and Jeremy Todd Cartwright III.
    Leaning back against the window casing, Alex sipped her wine, studying faces as people began to filter into the Members’ Lounge. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
    “Who all is coming to the party besides Guy Lewis? Who’s this mysterious ‘she’? Whenever you mention her, sparks fly.”
    “Monica Davenport,” Alex answered, lowering her voice. “She was my immediate predecessor as director of development at the Rep. Monica’s down here now, working for the Festival in the same capacity. She and the T.W. were good pals back home in Seattle. In fact, I think Guy Lewis met Daphne at one of Monica’s fundraisers.”
    “T.W?” I asked, not quite comprehending and thinking I must have missed something. “What’s a T.W?”
    Exasperated by my stupidity, Alex rolled her eyes. “Surely, you know about trophy wives,” she answered. “I thought every middle-aged man in America wanted one.”
    “I don’t speak initials,” I returned. “Too subtle. Men are usually a little more explicit. Further more, I have it on good authority that T.W.s, as you call them, can be quite troublesome.”
    “Really.” Alex grinned. “Well, Daphne Lewis fits the T.W. profile—twenty years younger than Guy if she’s a day. According to my sources, she’s a fast worker. The previous Mrs. Lewis moved out of the house one day, and Daphne moved in the next.”
    It felt weird. Hours earlier I had heard Guy Lewis’ slightly different version of this same story. Unlike Alex, I knew life with the second Mrs. Lewis wasn’t all sweetness and light.
    “I never met Maggie Lewis,” Alex continued. “I’ve heard she was tough as nails and put together like a Mack truck. You may have noticed, Daphne is definitely made of finer stuff.”
    “I noticed,” I agreed, remembering how Daphne Lewis had looked the night of the charity auction. With her blond-bombshell hairdo and a beaded, split-up-the-side white satin dress, she had easily qualified as one of the most glamorous women in a roomful of top-drawer competition.
    “I guess that’s okay,” Alex said. “Someone like Guy Lewis is rich enough to pay his money and take his choice. And he did pay. Through the nose. From what I heard, the divorce lawyers made out like bandits.”
    And would again, I thought, remembering Guy’s comments at the meeting. Still, given the choice between a woman built like an eighteen-wheeler and someone like Daphne, most men would choose the latter. If they had the chance.
    “You don’t like Guy Lewis very much, do you?” I said.
    Alex shrugged. “I don’t have to like him,” she replied, “but I have to get along with him, and with Daphne, too.”
    A new group of people came into the room. One of them, a well-dressed woman about Alex’s age, breezed through, nodding and greeting people along the way. “Hi, Monica,” someone said.
    Like an interceptor missile breaking away from its host plane, Alexis Downey rose from where she sat and glided toward the newcomer with her hand outstretched and an amazingly cordial smile pasted on her lips. “Why, Monica Davenport,” Alex gushed. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to see you while I’m here.”
    Monica smiled back, but I doubt she was thrilled. Outwardly, Monica and Alex looked like long-lost chums, but I noted a razor-sharp undercurrent in their exchange of barbed pleasantries. Observing them at work was enough to convince me I’d never cut it in the theater-development game. I’m not that tough.
    The next time the door opened, Romeo and Juliet strolled inside.