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

his book comes out.”
    “That’s impressive. And sad.”
    “Sad?”
    “His wife’s bananas, maybe worse.”
    “Anyone home?” Twoey had arrived.
    They gathered up their empty plates, bottles, and cans and found Twoey in the kitchen shaking live lobsters from a sack into the sink.
    “Sugar! I’ve missed you.” Smith and Twoey exchanged a lingering kiss, then Twoey winked at Wetzon.
    “What are you girls plotting now?” He rummaged in the fridge. “I need a brew.”
    Smith arranged the potatoes on a piece of foil and lit the oven. “How do you know we’re plotting anything? Wetzon drank the last beer.”
    He straightened. “No problem. I picked up a case on the way in. I’ll get it.”
    Each time Twoey opened a beer for himself, he opened one for Wetzon, too. Wetzon knew she was sloshed; she’d stopped counting after the fourth. She was dozing on the sofa while Twoey boiled the lobsters and Smith made the lemon butter sauce.
    Twoey had brought a bottle of Stag’s Leap white for dinner, and Wetzon switched from beer to wine.
    “So tell me what mischief you’ve been up to,” Twoey said. “Have you cleared Rona yet? We’re losing money every day she’s not in the office.”
    “No one’s working her book?” Smith asked.
    “Not yet. And she’s got the upfront we gave her sitting somewhere working for her.”
    “We are investigating thoroughly.” Smith collected the plates and dumped the shells in a plastic garbage bag.
    “Would you like anything, Wetzon?” Twoey was grinning at her, his face a mass of red freckles. Why was he grinning at her? “How about another beer?”
    “Okay.” Wetzon was sitting on the long bench that Smith used for chairs on one side of the table. She swayed.
    “Twoey, leave her alone. She’s had too much already.” Smith scowled at him.
    “I think she’s cute. Alton thinks she’s cute.”
    “You’re bad, Twoey.” Wetzon shook her finger at him, felt a burp start, and clamped her hand over her mouth. She could hear Smith banging dishes into the dishwasher, slamming cupboard doors.
    “Come on, Wetzon,” Twoey said. She was leaning slightly. She could feel it. He took her hand. “Wetzon’s going to show me how to do a soft-shoe, aren’t you, Wetzon?” He helped her up.
    She swayed unsteadily on her feet. He gave her his arm. “Okay, Twoey, watch me.” She dum-ta-di-dummed “Singing in the Rain.” “Come on, sing it with me. First you have to learn the brush step. See—front brush, back brush, side brush, Fuller brush.” She giggled, but she found her way. She always found her way.
    Twoey, all six feet of gangly arms and legs, tried, couldn’t follow, took off his shoes, began to follow, all the while propping Wetzon up and bracing himself with a bottle of beer. He collapsed on the couch, laughing.
    Wetzon put herself down very carefully on the bench and lay supine, one leg on the floor on either side, her arm over her eyes.
    “You are both disgustingly drunk,” Smith fumed. “I hate this. I’m going to bed.” She stamped off.
    “Oops,” Wetzon said. Her head lolled on the bench. The skylight was spinning over her head. She laughed.
    “I’m in the doghouse, I guess,” Twoey said. He grinned again and opened two more beers and handed one to her. Then he toasted her with his bottle.
    “We both are.” The hard plank of the bench felt solid on her back. She stuck her arm up and toasted him with her bottle.
    “I’m not that far gone,” he said. “I wanted to talk about Xenie’s birthday party.”
    She rolled her head in the direction of his voice. He was back on the couch. “Twoey—” She heard him say something about grilled salmon and, sometime later, chocolate truffles. “Twoey—” Did he say thirty people? “Twoey, listen.” He didn’t interrupt this time, and her words tumbled out. “Don’t say forty, whatever you do. She’s not taking to it well.”
    “Xenie? You’re wrong, Wetzon, but okay.”
    Through a blue haze Wetzon saw him tilt his head back and finish the beer. He rose, stumbling a little, and looked for his jacket. Wetzon lost track of him until he was a big shadow standing over her. The light glinted on his gold-rimmed glasses. She couldn’t see his eyes. “Look,” he said. What was he showing her?
    “I can’t move,” she said. “What’s that?” She commanded her eyes to focus. God, he was dangling diamond grapes in front of her face. “Gosh, Twoey, they’re gorgeous.”
    “They are,