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

blouse with a schoolgirl collar.
    “This is Penny Ann Boyd,” Rona said, with a withering glance at her drab companion. Poor Penny Ann’s rounded shoulders slumped.
    “Penny Ann Brown?” Smith’s smile was artless.
    “Boyd,” Wetzon said, kicking her under the table.
    “Well, don’t stand there. Sit down,” Rona commanded, dropping into the closest chair. She was casual in washed silk blue jeans, a mauve turtleneck, cowboy boots. Her blond curls fit like a pot cover on top of her head, and the expression on her gaunt face was angry. “Barbie is parking the car.”
    Thrilling, Wetzon thought . A meeting of the girls’ basketball team .
    “Weeeell.” Now Smith’s smile was silky. “Why don’t you tell us—”
    Rona beckoned to a passing waiter. “A martini—very dry.” She pointed to Penny Ann. “She’ll have the same.”
    “Oh, no Rona, I couldn’t ... not with the Valium ... and all ...” Penny Ann’s voice was as pallid as her skin.
    “Well, order something,” Rona said impatiently, “so we can get on with it.”
    “Tea with lemon, please.” Penny Ann’s lips trembled. The poor thing looked scared to death. Of Rona?
    A pretty woman in a black leather bomber jacket and a long swinging black skirt was heading toward them. Her hair was a wild cascade of red curls, and she had the fragile pink complexion of some redheads. She shook hands firmly with Smith and then Wetzon, saying, “I’m Barbara Gordon.” Surrounding pale-green eyes were fine white rims. Wild-animal eyes, wolf eyes. “Rum and Coke,” she told the waiter, and sat down next to Wetzon. She emitted a faint woodsy perfume.
    When the waiter left, Rona looked at Penny Ann. “Tell them.”
    Penny Ann mewed before she spoke. It was disconcerting. “It’s ... I mean, my ... it’s about my ... daughter. Tabitha Ann.”
    Smith choked, put her hand over her mouth, and cleared her throat, using the motion to cloak her roll of eyes at Wetzon. “Please go on, dear,” Smith said sweetly. “My allergies ...”
    Barbara Gordon lowered her eyelids halfway and stared at Smith. She was onto her.
    Wetzon turned her attention to something in her purse. Smith was going to set her off in an avalanche of giggles if she kept this up. She pressed her lips together and gave Smith another nudge under the table. Barbara Gordon was no fool.
    The waiter brought a cup and saucer, a small teapot, a dish of lemon slices and Rona’s martini, Barbara’s rum and Coke, set everything up, and left them. The gin vapors intruded. Wetzon was straightaway nauseated, she and gin having disagreed many years ago after she’d had her first cocktail, a pink lady.
    “Tabby Ann’s run away!” Penny Ann was obviously dismayed by the force of her exclamation. She looked from Rona to Barbara for help.
    Rona dug her olive out of the glass and gnawed at it. She was silent.
    Barbara leaned behind Rona to pat Penny Ann on the shoulder. “Don’t lose it, Penny Ann.”
    What the hell did this have to do with them? Wetzon thought. And Smith nodded, picking up on her mental trail.
    “God save us, Penny Ann, you are hopeless.” Rona took a swallow of the martini. “Tabitha Ann happens to be my godchild.”
    Tears rolled out from under Penny Ann’s glasses.
    “Oh, Rona, go easy on her,” Barbara said. She’d slurped up the rum and Coke awfully fast.
    “What does this have to do with us?” Smith looked pointedly at her watch.
    “Brian stole our money,” Penny Ann began, and stopped when Rona raised her eyes to the ceiling and groaned. “After Wilson died.” Penny Ann began to make gulping noises.
    “Oh, dear God,” Smith said. “She’s hyperventilating.”
    Wetzon patted Penny Ann’s hand. “Just relax. You’re with friends.” Smith whacked her under the table.
    “Wilson had a brain tumor and was dead six months after he was diagnosed,” Barbara said.
    Rona added, as if to mitigate her involvement, “When Penny Ann got her settlement, I was having Megan....”
    “I gave him my money to invest for us. For our security. For Tabby Ann’s college ...”
    “How much was it?” Wetzon asked. Brian was a piece of work.
    “Two hundred thou,” Rona said. “The dirtball put it in stock-index options. All she has left is about fifteen thou, and that’s after taking out a second mortgage on the house.”
    “You gave him discretion?” Wetzon was incredulous. Why did people do that?
    Penny Ann whimpered. “I just signed the papers he sent