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

she reached for the container of ice cream.
    “Don’t mind me.” Louie got up, padded across the floor, and opened her window on the fire escape. “I want to see how much damage he did to my poor aloe plant.” She was back in a minute, hugging a big earthenware pot. “Only chipped, but I’m going to need more earth. All these roots are exposed....” Her voice drifted off. “That’s funny.”
    “Everything here looks fine, Louie. I love your apartment, so I think you’ll take good care of mine. When do we talk about colors?” When Louie didn’t answer, Wetzon looked up. Louie had set the pot with the plant in the sink. “What’s funny?”
    Louie’s hands were crusty with damp dirt. “Look at this. How do you suppose this got here?”
    Wetzon got up and came over to the sink. In Louie’s hand, glinting in the dirt, were three gold sequins.

33.
    “M Y LORD, YOU look ghastly” was Smith’s greeting the next morning. She had the phone to her ear. “Rose, please.”
    “Thanks awfully. I needed that.” Wetzon hung her Burberry in the closet and slammed the door. “Listen, Tabitha—”
    “Oh, sugar, is it supposed to rain?” Smith was in disgustingly good spirits.
    “How would I know? Smith, Tabitha—”
    “Hi, Rose sweetie, is my dress ready? Oh, good. I’ll be by later.” She disconnected and stared at Wetzon.
    Wetzon flopped into her chair, took the folders, suspect sheets, legal pad, and New York Times from her briefcase and stacked everything to the right of her telephone. Then she called Rona. When the machine answered, she hung up.
    “Oh, my, aren’t we in a foul humor. Do you want to tell me about it?”
    Wetzon punched out another number. Rona’s sales assistant answered and told Wetzon that Rona was in a meeting.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Never mind, I’ll call back.” Oh, Wetzon, why pick on the sales assistant, she asked herself. Have you sunk that low? She looked down at the pile of pink phone messages on her desk and put her head on top of them. “I’m so tired.”
    “I left a message on your stupid machine last night. Tsk, tsk, when the cat’s away ...”
    Raising her head, Wetzon mumbled testily, “And where were you last night, if I may ask?”
    “Well, let’s see.” Smith looked so pleased with herself, Wetzon’s fingers itched to strangle her. “Would that be before dinner or after dinner?”
    Wetzon fanned her messages out on the desk. Dr. Jerome Gordon had called. Oh, God. “How was Hallelujah Hartmann’s performance?” She went down her list of calls to be made.
    “Brilliant. All around.”
    Something in Smith’s voice made Wetzon put down her pen and look at her partner. “What am I missing?”
    “I did hear you ask me how he performed, didn’t I?”
    “You didn’t ...”
    “Didn’t what?” Smith gave Wetzon a slow, guileless smile.
    “With Richard Hartmann. He’s such a slug.”
    “Well, now, sweetie pie, I wouldn’t say that.” There was a prickly note in Smith’s voice.
    Wetzon threw up her hands. “What about Twoey, for godsakes?”
    “Twoey’s a sweet boy, of course, but—” .
    “Don’t say another word.” I can’t take it , she thought distractedly. Not today. Not ever.
    B.B. knocked on their door and opened it to Smith’s honeyed “Yes, B.B. dear?”
    “Mr. Hartmann for you, Smith.”
    “I’ve got to talk to you,” Wetzon said, spinning her finger in the air impatiently. “So make it fast.”
    Smith gave her a smug smile and reached for the phone.
    Wetzon looked again at her list of calls. She had to touch base with some of these brokers whose suspect sheets she’d been carrying around with her to call at night, but her nights had been ... well ... She picked up the stack of material she’d removed from her briefcase and dumped the newspaper under her desk. Fumbling through the folders and suspect sheets, she pulled out a wad of strange papers wrapped in a rubber band. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. But Smith didn’t even look up.
    Turning her back to Smith, Wetzon slipped off the rubber band and unfolded the handful of papers she’d grabbed from the hatbox in Dr. Jerry’s closet. What she saw in front of her were statements— someone’s brokerage statements from Bliss Norderman. Someone named Mrs. Leonora Foley, Alcott Arms, 510 West Seventy-second Street, New York, New York 10023. The broker of record was Brian Middleton. Well, all right now. The statements covered January, February,