Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

She’ll know. I’ll get rid of it. I’ll put it out with the garbage.”
    “Oh, Smith, that’s cruel. Better that I take it back with me and drop it at the hotel. It’s important to her.”
    “Spare me.” Smith held up her palms to the ceiling.
    “We must be crazy, anyway. Reading people’s mail. Stealing things from the trunks of their cars. Those papers were probably destroyed.” She rose. “Can we eat something now, before I pass out?”
    They made themselves sandwiches and ate them on the deck.
    “This is fabulous chicken salad.”
    “The best-kept secret in Connecticut.”
    A skywriter wrote “Happy Birthday, Linda Silverman” across the lapis sky.
    “Who is Linda Silverman?” Wetzon asked. She’d scarfed down her sandwich and was working on her second beer. She was feeling mellow.
    “I have no idea,” Smith said. “But anyone who would have her name written across the sky like that has to be Jewish.”
    “Excuse me. Silverman? I would say that’s a Puerto Rican name. Damn it, Smith, what, may I ask, has that to do with anything?” Smith’s bigotry drove Wetzon up a wall. She stared daggers at Smith. “On second thought, don’t answer that, because you’re going to say things that will make me crazy.”
    Smith shrugged. “Whatever.” She stretched her legs out on the chaise. Pots of yellow and purple mums dotted the deck. “Let’s not argue. I’m feeling so good. Dickie Hartmann is such a love.”
    Wetzon got to her feet and began pacing nervously. Trust Smith to shatter her peace one way or the other. And she was about to shatter Smith’s right back.
    “Look, Smith, I don’t quite know how to say it, but you really should cool it with Hartmann.”
    “What are you talking about, sugar? He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
    “Mark is.”
    “Oh, for pitysakes, I know that. I mean, after Mark.”
    “I would think Twoey is—”
    “Twoey, Twoey—that’s all I keep hearing from you. If you think he’s such a prize, you can have him.”
    “You are an absolutely impossible person. I don’t know why I bother, but I want you to promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Do you promise?”
    Smith groaned. “You are so melodramatic.”
    “Promise.”
    Another groan. Then, “All right!”
    “This is important, Smith. It has to do with two murders. I don’t want to be the third.”
    “All right! I said I promise.”
    “I think Hartmann and Brian were involved in a money-laundering scam.”
    Smith sat up and put her feet on the deck with a thump. “I don’t believe it. Not Dickie. He’s a lawyer—”
    “Do I have to remind you that not all lawyers are honest?”
    “That’s not what I mean.” She smiled. “Dickie is too smart to be involved in a scam that’s obvious to you.” She lay back in the chaise.
    “I give up!” Wetzon went back to her nervous pacing.
    “If you’re going to go on like that, why don’t you get the watering can and water my plants? It’s downstairs next to the washer.” Smith began to shuffle her tarot cards.
    Wetzon watered the plants and set the can on the deck. Smith had spread her tarot cards out in a Celtic cross, and was murmuring, “Woman. Powerful woman.” She looked up. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”
    “Someone’s already been hurt.”
    “The murderer is a powerful woman.”
    “Like you, perchance?”
    “Spare me.” Smith gathered up her cards and placed them back in their silk bag. She watched Wetzon through slitted eyes. “What’s going on between you and Alton?”
    “Nothing.” Wetzon walked over to the rail and looked out at the Sound. Sailboats dotted the water, their sails fat with wind. She sighed.
    “You haven’t slept with him.” It was an accusation rather than a question.
    “No. Do we have to talk about it?”
    “Yes. You’re not still carrying a torch for—”
    Wetzon turned on her, snapping, “What if I am?”
    Smith smiled at her warmly, undeterred. “My advice is, do it with Alton. If it’s good, it’ll erase the residue of Dick Tracy and you’ll get attached. Trust me.”
    She sat there looking so smug, Wetzon wanted to kill her. “I’ll take it under advisement.” She drained the dregs of her beer.
    “Humpf.”
    “I heard some of ‘Ask Dr. Jerry’ on the radio while you were in the market. He’s pretty good for what it is.”
    “He’s more than that. I hear they have to turn advertisers away, and he’ll probably be syndicated once