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

freezer she found a bag of coffee beans marked “Decaf’ in pencil. On a shelf, a coffee grinder, filters. Carlos’s machine was electric, and soon it was dripping luscious-smelling coffee into its fat-bellied pot. She felt entirely detached from what had happened, almost as if she were in a hotel. And she didn’t even care that she hadn’t read the Sunday Times.
    It was after ten when she came down to earth and remembered to call Rona.
    “Can you meet me for a drink this afternoon?” Rona was brisk and cool. “Actually, I’d like both of you there.”
    “Both? You mean Smith, too?”
    “Yes. I’ll have the transfer papers for you to sign.”
    Transfer papers? What was she talking about? “Rona, I’m sorry. I’m a little confused. What transfer papers?”
    “I’ll need both yours and your husband’s signatures, because it’s a joint account.” There was an edge in Rona’s voice.
    Huh? It took Wetzon only a second. “You’re not alone.”
    “That’s right.”
    Wetzon chewed her lip. “Smith’s in the country. I don’t know if she’ll be back tonight or tomorrow morning. What about holding it till the morning?”
    “No!” Rona was vehement.
    “All right. How’s four o’clock? I’ll see if I can get Smith back here.”
    “Fine. The Mark.”
    Wetzon punched out Smith’s number, fully expecting a tirade. Smith did not disappoint her.
    “You are the limit, Wetzon. People do worry about you, you know. You don’t care. You only think about yourself.”
    “Excuse me? I suppose it was your apartment that was flooded and your ceiling that fell in?”
    There was a pause. “See. You do that all the time. You always turn things around to suit yourself.”
    Wetzon hung up on her.
    The phone rang.
    “Hello.”
    “We were cut off, sweetie pie. Your phone must be waterlogged.”
    “We were not—” Oh, screw it , she thought. It was like trying to have a conversation with a bowl of chili.
    “Are you in your apartment, sugar?”
    “No, Smith. Read my lips. I had a major flood. My apartment is unlivable.”
    “Oh, you poor baby,” Smith cooed.
    “No, don’t do that, Smith, because I’ll come apart, and I hate feeling sorry for myself.” She said with determination, “This is just a minor blip in an otherwise perfect life. I’m in Carlos’s apartment in the Village. I’ve got call forwarding.”
    “Carlos! You’re staying with him and not me?”
    “Will you stop that, please?” The feud between Smith and Carlos was unrelenting, no holds barred. He called her the Barracuda and she called him the Degenerate. Carlos blamed Smith for Wetzon’s defection from the theater and felt that Smith was selfish and self-serving, while Smith was homophobic and resented Wetzon’s affection for Carlos and was always trying to undermine it. Which was truly an impossible dream. But that didn’t stop either Carlos or Smith from taking pokes at one another as Wetzon struggled to keep the peace.
    Since Carlos had become a successful choreographer and a celebrity, Smith had somewhat tempered her abuse of him whenever his name came up. She now called him “that gay person.”
    Carlos was vain and self-centered, too, but for those he cared deeply about he was loving, generous with his talent, his attention, and his money. He was Wetzon’s best friend.
    “Is it Jake Donahue?”
    “What are you talking about, Smith?”
    “Your dinner date tonight.”
    Wetzon groaned. “Will you stop? I called you because Rona wants to see us this afternoon for a drink. She insisted on both of us being there.”
    “Rona Middleton? What for?”
    “If I knew, don’t you think I would tell you? I don’t know. Someone was with her, so she was talking as if I was a client. She left a message for me last night that something important had come up.” When Smith didn’t say anything, Wetzon said, “I made it for four at The Mark and told her I wasn’t sure I could get you. So if you don’t want—”
    “Of course I’ll be there.” Smith was suddenly so agreeable that Wetzon wondered what was up.
    “Is everything all right with you and Twoey?”
    “Perfect.” She said it quickly, spitting it out. “It’s just that Janet is coming in from Paris this afternoon and Twoey has to go out to Kennedy to meet her.” She didn’t bother keeping the resentment out of her voice. “He’s having dinner with her tonight.”
    Janet Barnes was Twoey’s mother, a still-beautiful, domineering, redheaded widow. Last