A Lasting Impression

spice in the brew. “We should know something by March. I’m traveling to New Orleans at the first of the year to check on things.”
    “If you need assistance, I’m available. I always enjoy a warm beignet.” With a grin, Holbrook bit into a tea cake.
    Sutton smiled and looked about for Claire. He spotted her across the room, and his senses heightened. So much for her being nervous about not knowing anyone. Five—no, make that six—men swarmed around her, their infatuated grins better suited to a schoolyard than a grand salon. Claire said something, and all the men laughed. She shook her head at one of them in particular, then glanced in Sutton’s direction, and Sutton gathered the man had asked for either her first—or second—dance.
    He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous. All but one of the men was old enough to be her father, yet he knew that didn’t matter in the least. Two of them were widowers. And all of them, without exception, were wealthy.
    He spotted Lucius Polk speaking with Adelicia, and though he hadn’t planned on broaching this subject with Holbrook tonight, he decided the timing was right. Because should Adelicia marry again, his managerial position at Belmont would come to a swift end. “Sir, a while back you mentioned you were fairly certain you could make a position for me at the law offices. Do you think that opportunity might still be available . . . sometime in the near future?”
    Mr. Holbrook shifted his weight. “In the future, yes. In the near future, unfortunately . . . no.”
    Sutton looked over at him.
    “With the exception of the lawsuit we’re working on together,” he said low, “the number of cases in the firm has dwindled in recent months. It’s just a sign of the times. Same for everyone. But something happened that, frankly, I didn’t see coming. Wickliffe’s son-in-law will be starting at the firm within the week. The young man is an accountant by trade but couldn’t find work. New wife and a baby on the way . . .” Holbrook shook his head. “Jobs are scarce, and family takes care of family, you know.” He stopped, as though just realizing what he’d said. “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t mean for that to sound—”
    “Don’t, sir. Please. I understand.”
    “Your position here at Belmont hasn’t altered, has it?”
    Knowing he couldn’t very well tell him about Adelicia contemplating a third marriage, Sutton shook his head. “No, sir. My position hasn’t changed.”
    “Good, good.” Holbrook gripped his shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Because I think it might be a while before our offices can bring anyone else in on a primary basis. There may be work from time to time, mind you. And if we win this case we’re working on, that could also change the landscape considerably.”
    “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your consideration.” And he did, but Sutton couldn’t shake the feeling that he was balancing on a three-legged stool, with two legs already kicked out from underneath him, and the remaining leg cracked and held together with string.
    “Is the name Samuel Broderick familiar to you, Mr. Monroe?”
    “No, sir. Should it be?”
    “He runs a shipping company here in town. Took it over from his father a few years back. I knew Samuel the first quite well. Fine man. Served on several city committees with him. But his son . . .”
    “Fell far from the tree?”
    Sutton caught the way Holbrook’s eyes narrowed.
    “The jury within me is still deliberating that point. But if I were to wager a gamble, not only would Mildred have my wrinkled old hide, but I’d put everything I have on Broderick being rotten to the core.”
    “And your basis for that wager would be . . . ?”
    “Hunch, mostly.”
    Sutton laughed, assuming this exchange dealt with their current case. “Which will hold up well in court, sir.”
    “You’d be surprised how many cases I’ve won through the years with only a hunch to go on at first.” Holbrook started on his second tea cake.
    Sutton continued to watch Claire from across the room. “Can you tell me about this hunch of yours?”
    “I believe”—Holbrook’s voice lowered—“that Samuel Broderick is partnered with someone in the shipping of fraudulent art. And that the man he’s partnered with could well be associated with the gallery in New York that sold our client the fake Raphael.”
    Sutton turned to look beside him. “All that, from a hunch?”
    “Yes, but mind you, Mr.