ago.”
“Perhaps they were unavoidably detained,” I suggested.
She looked at me but said nothing.
She was wearing a snazzy tuxedo suit: black satin-lapeled jacket and trousers with side satin stripes. No cummerbund, but she wore a poet shirt of pale pink silk with protruding cuffs of lace. Very debonair. Her only jewelry was a choker of diamonds. They appeared to be of two-carat size at least, and if they were genuine, which I believed they were, it was a costly bauble indeed.
“Sunny,” I said, “are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she admitted.
“Suppose you grab us two places at a table and I’ll fetch us plates of cholesterol.”
“All right,” she agreed. “But please make mine finger food; I don’t feel like digging into the curried lamb on rice or the beef bourguignonne. While you’re gone, can I get you a drink?”
“I have a—” I started and then looked down at my empty glass. “Good Lord,” I said, “I had forgotten about the high rate of evaporation in South Florida. Yes, I would appreciate a fresh something. A dry white would be nice if it’s available.”
Fifteen minutes later we were devouring heaps of the finger foods she had requested. There was an almost infinite variety and I recall fondly the shrimp that had been sautéed in garlic and oil and then chilled. That delight was enough to make me abjure bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life.
“Archy,” she said as we nibbled, “will you do me a favor?”
“Of course. Your wish is my command.”
She was not amused. “I intend to leave about eleven o’clock,” she said. “You stay as long as you like, but would you mind stopping by my place before you go home?”
“No problem.”
“There’s something important I must discuss with you, and this is not the place to talk about it.”
“It concerns the computer printout?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Bad?” I asked.
“Very,” she said.
8.
W E FINISHED SCARFING (although I could have managed seconds or even thirds) and ordered two more Frascatis at the bar. Carrying our drinks, we began a slow promenade through the crowd of celebrants.
“Sunny,” I said, “if you spot Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, will you point them out to me, please.”
“I’ll point them out,” she said, “but I won’t introduce you.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I don’t think that would be smart,” she said grimly, leaving me to wonder what on earth she meant.
We looked in at the dance floor and there was Detective Binky Watrous essaying a tango with a rather flashy young woman. The trio was playing “Jealousy,” and it was obvious Binky thought himself a reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino. It was an awesome sight and I began laughing.
Sunny permitted herself one soft chuckle. “His partner”—she said—”that’s Mitzi.”
I took another look. The wife of the CEO of Whitcomb Funeral Homes was a stunner. She wore a tight sheath of silver sequins and her black hair was long enough to sit on. For her to sit on, not you. She was heavily made up and I didn’t miss the lip gloss that appeared to be phosphorescent.
I don’t wish to be ungentlemanly but there was a flagrant looseness in her dancing as if restraint was foreign to her nature. I confess her sensuousness set the McNally testosterone flowing, but even as I reacted primitively to her physical advertisements I could not help wondering what Horace and Sarah, those aristocrats, thought of their somewhat brassy daughter-in-law.
“Would you care to dance?” I asked Sunny.
“Some other time,” she said shortly, and we continued our stroll.
It was in the living room, clamorous with phatic talk, that she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “There’s Oliver Whitcomb,” she said in a low voice. “At the bar. He’s the one wearing a white dinner jacket. He’s talking to that heavy man. I don’t know who he is.”
I stared. Oliver was a good-looking chap, no doubt about it, wearing an outfit similar to mine except
“Perhaps they were unavoidably detained,” I suggested.
She looked at me but said nothing.
She was wearing a snazzy tuxedo suit: black satin-lapeled jacket and trousers with side satin stripes. No cummerbund, but she wore a poet shirt of pale pink silk with protruding cuffs of lace. Very debonair. Her only jewelry was a choker of diamonds. They appeared to be of two-carat size at least, and if they were genuine, which I believed they were, it was a costly bauble indeed.
“Sunny,” I said, “are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she admitted.
“Suppose you grab us two places at a table and I’ll fetch us plates of cholesterol.”
“All right,” she agreed. “But please make mine finger food; I don’t feel like digging into the curried lamb on rice or the beef bourguignonne. While you’re gone, can I get you a drink?”
“I have a—” I started and then looked down at my empty glass. “Good Lord,” I said, “I had forgotten about the high rate of evaporation in South Florida. Yes, I would appreciate a fresh something. A dry white would be nice if it’s available.”
Fifteen minutes later we were devouring heaps of the finger foods she had requested. There was an almost infinite variety and I recall fondly the shrimp that had been sautéed in garlic and oil and then chilled. That delight was enough to make me abjure bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life.
“Archy,” she said as we nibbled, “will you do me a favor?”
“Of course. Your wish is my command.”
She was not amused. “I intend to leave about eleven o’clock,” she said. “You stay as long as you like, but would you mind stopping by my place before you go home?”
“No problem.”
“There’s something important I must discuss with you, and this is not the place to talk about it.”
“It concerns the computer printout?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Bad?” I asked.
“Very,” she said.
8.
W E FINISHED SCARFING (although I could have managed seconds or even thirds) and ordered two more Frascatis at the bar. Carrying our drinks, we began a slow promenade through the crowd of celebrants.
“Sunny,” I said, “if you spot Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, will you point them out to me, please.”
“I’ll point them out,” she said, “but I won’t introduce you.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I don’t think that would be smart,” she said grimly, leaving me to wonder what on earth she meant.
We looked in at the dance floor and there was Detective Binky Watrous essaying a tango with a rather flashy young woman. The trio was playing “Jealousy,” and it was obvious Binky thought himself a reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino. It was an awesome sight and I began laughing.
Sunny permitted herself one soft chuckle. “His partner”—she said—”that’s Mitzi.”
I took another look. The wife of the CEO of Whitcomb Funeral Homes was a stunner. She wore a tight sheath of silver sequins and her black hair was long enough to sit on. For her to sit on, not you. She was heavily made up and I didn’t miss the lip gloss that appeared to be phosphorescent.
I don’t wish to be ungentlemanly but there was a flagrant looseness in her dancing as if restraint was foreign to her nature. I confess her sensuousness set the McNally testosterone flowing, but even as I reacted primitively to her physical advertisements I could not help wondering what Horace and Sarah, those aristocrats, thought of their somewhat brassy daughter-in-law.
“Would you care to dance?” I asked Sunny.
“Some other time,” she said shortly, and we continued our stroll.
It was in the living room, clamorous with phatic talk, that she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “There’s Oliver Whitcomb,” she said in a low voice. “At the bar. He’s the one wearing a white dinner jacket. He’s talking to that heavy man. I don’t know who he is.”
I stared. Oliver was a good-looking chap, no doubt about it, wearing an outfit similar to mine except
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