“Stud talk, guy to guy.”
“It’s what we do.”
“On the other hand, maybe that was a ploy, big fella,” Amanda said. “He confesses to what you already know so he doesn’t have to tell you anything new.”
“You could be right.”
Amanda smiled. “So we’ve basically reversed positions. I’m liking Jill and possibly Don, and you’re not.”
“That’s what we do, right? The old open-minded waltz.”
Moments later, when he’d finished his coffee: “I’d feel a whole lot better if we had some kind of forensics.”
“Let’s see what happens when we test the Newells’ guns. Any reason we didn’t take them last night?”
“I told Donnie I’d hold off. He didn’t want to give Jill the idea that he might be even a remote suspect.”
“When’s the right time, Will, after he’s dumped the guns?”
“I took down the serial numbers. He’s not gonna dump anything.”
“One minute you’ve got a hard-on for him, the next minute you let him off the hook? I don’t understand you.”
Barnes turned to her. “Right now, even if the Newells are involved, we got shit on the case. If we rule their guns out, we’ll have less than shit.”
“So we engage in major denial to forestall disappointment? You are not making sense. We need to go back today and get the guns.”
“Suit yourself, but my gut says it isn’t either of them.”
“So who does your gut say it is?”
“So far my gut’s only good at eliminating suspects, not catching them.”
Amanda regarded her partner- paler than usual and his hands had a slight tremor. “Maybe you should ease off on the all-black, Will.”
“It’s not the coffee, Mandy, it’s being back here. I used to clear brush over there.” Pointing. “Couldn’t have been more than fourteen, no one ever offered me a drink…yeah, I’m a bundle of raw nerve endings. Tom Clancy was right: you can’t go home. Furthermore, you shouldn’t even if you could.”
“That was Thomas Wolfe.”
“Thomas Wolfe? The writer in the white suit?”
“That’s Tom Wolfe.”
Barnes was irritated. “What I’m trying to say is I’ll be happy to get the hell out of here.”
The interior of the mansion was hot and close and noisy. A horde of well-wishers drank Chardonnay, munched on tea sandwiches and made small talk. Lucille Grayson held court from a camel-back, ruby brocade chair in a simple black dress, black stockings and black orthopedic shoes. Her makeup was discreet, her eyes dry as a San Joaquin summer.
When she saw Barnes, she cocked a beckoning finger. He quickly made his way through the crowd. “Again, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Grayson.”
Lucille couldn’t hear him. She shouted, “Go into the parlor. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
Barnes had no idea where the parlor was. He’d never gotten past the front room.
Davida had always met him outdoors. Stealing away was part of the thrill.
The two of them, under the stars, smelling the menthol of eucalyptus, faint overtones of horseshit.
Her hair, the quick uptake of her breath…
He sidled through the crowd and searched for the parlor.
This day and age, who had a parlor? Amanda, as stylish as any of Lucille’s friends, saw him and made her way over.
“She wants to meet us in the parlor, wherever that is.”
“House like this it would be off the side with a porch view.”
She pointed and he followed, once again groping through the mob until he felt a hard tap on his shoulder.
He looked back, faced Jane Meyerhoff’s steely eyes.
She yelled, “Something I can help you with?”
“Where’s the parlor?”
“Why?”
“Meeting Lucille there.”
Jane pointed exactly where Amanda had. Grabbing Barnes’s hand, she accompanied the two detectives to a carved door, then stepped forward and flung it open.
The room was musty, high-ceilinged, draped in heavy red velvet fringed with gold. Nail-head chairs and tufted ottomans were arranged in formal seatings. A mirror-backed walnut bar was stocked with bottles and crystal stemware.
To Barnes’s eye, it resembled a Spaghetti Western whorehouse. He wondered if Davida had brought any boys here.
Jane closed the door behind her and looked Amanda over. Both of them in black suits, svelte, groomed like champs. Like a photo from a charity luncheon.
“Jane Meyerhoff.” She proffered a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Amanda Isis.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Water.”
Jane’s eyes drifted to Barnes.
“I drink whatever you’re pouring.”
“Well,” said Jane, inspecting the bottles, “Lucille has Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie…aren’t you a bourbon man?”
“At times.”
“The second row is Wild Turkey, Knob Creek- ”
“Jane, anything’s fine. And just a finger’s worth. We’re paying our respects but we’re also working.”
“Working with Lucille?”
“Wherever it takes. Thanks for directing us.”
“Not a problem.” Jane poured the drinks, allowed herself two fingers of vodka. “Lucille asked me to handle things today. You know, help marshal the great unwashed.” Tilting her head toward the door. Waves of chatter leaked through the wood. “I didn’t speak. It might’ve provoked Minette.”
“Not the time or the place,” Amanda said.
“Precisely.”
Barnes said, “You and Minette don’t get along?”
Jane took a long swallow of vodka. “No one gets along with Minette. If you’ll excuse me, I should see how Lucille’s doing.” She hurried out.
Amanda said, “Sensitive topic, Minette.”
Before Barnes could answer, the door opened and Lucille entered, holding a cane and clutching Jane’s arm.
Barnes pulled out a chair and Jane eased the old woman into it.
“Something to drink, Lucille?”
“Johnny Walker, rocks. Red or black, at this point I’m not tasting anything.”
As Jane poured: “Make it a double, dear.”
“Thanks so much for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Grayson,” Amanda said.
Lucille gripped the handle of her walking stick. Carved ivory- a woman’s bust. “Perhaps I should thank you. It’s a good excuse to get the hell out of there.”