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

Beaumont.”
    “My, my. So what does it all mean?” She picked at a stray thread in the hem of her skirt.
    “It means that probably whoever killed Brian also killed Tabitha and that maybe they both knew something they shouldn’t have known. Was Dr. Jerry with you and Hartmann last night?”
    “Babycakes, a ménage à trois? How quaint.”
    “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
    “Actually, Dr. Jerry’s not my type. Besides, Barbie’s family is some sort of Jewish royalty.”
    “Jewish royalty? What’s that?”
    “Dickie keeps calling her the Princess Orlafsky.” Smith was perfectly serious.
    Wetzon broke up, laughing so hard she almost fell off her chair. “I may never recover from this,” she gasped.
    Smith was offended. “I really don’t understand you, Wetzon. Can we get on with this? I do have some important business calls to make.”
    “Okay, okay. Here goes.” She squelched a giggle. “Quickly, after my dance class I was near the Park Royale, so I wandered over, thinking I might run into you.” Liar , she thought. She went on to tell Smith about stealing the key and getting caught in the closet for hours. “By the princess, I assume.”
    Eyes sparkling, Smith cried, “I love it!”
    “You would.”
    “And there I was in the living room and you were hiding in the closet.” She clapped her hands, gleefully.
    “Yup.” Now she had Smith’s undivided attention. “Barbara, incidentally, has bimbo taste in clothes. Feather boas, bugle beads, and—” She stopped dead.
    “And what?”
    “Sequins.”
    “Sequins? Everyone is wearing sequins these days.”
    “Then Dr. Jerry wasn’t with you and Hartmann last night?”
    “I thought I told you he wasn’t,” Smith said, annoyed. “Why do I have to repeat myself? He went off to talk to the caterer about the bar missa.”
    “Bar mitzvah.”
    “Whatever. It’s at the Palace. He’s inviting us. I told him we would be delighted.”
    “Oh, shit, I hate affairs like that.”
    “There you go again. Wetzon, listen to me when I tell you it’s important for us to meet these people. They have Power. The cards are telling me—”
    “Fuck the cards!”
    “I’m ignoring that, because you’re obviously upset about your personal life. Dr. Jerry is a very nice, almost simple man, considering what a celebrity he is.”
    Wetzon curled her lip at Smith. A jury would definitely acquit her if she murdered Smith right now. “Celebrity?”
    “Well, aside from the talk show, he’s written some sort of philosophical book called The Loving Logs of Life.”
    “Give me a break.”
    “No, I’m not kidding. He got a huge advance from the people that published that kindergarten book.”
    “I’m not finished with my story, Smith, if you don’t mind.”
    “Oh, for pitysakes. Go on.” She groaned and fluffed her curls. “It’s taking you forever.”
    “Because you keep interrupting me.” Wetzon slammed her pencil down and it bounced up and flew across the room.
    “Temper, temper,” Smith chided. She fluttered her lashes at Wetzon.
    I’ll kill her , Wetzon thought. Slowly. “May I finish, please?”
    “Be my guest.”
    “I got caught in the closet while the princess was dressing, and I fell asleep.”
    Smith rolled her eyes heavenward.
    “Then when I woke up and crawled out of the closet, I was so foggy, I answered the phone when it rang. But I disguised my voice.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “Shut up, Smith. Listen to this, because it’s important. It was Rona, and she thought I was Penny Ann. She said Tabitha had called her, terrified, and asked her to meet at the Lincoln Center fountain.”
    “Oh, no!” Smith yowled. “Not Rona. We’ll lose our entire investment in her.”
    “She’s left-handed, too.”
    “Excuse me,” B.B. said, knocking.
    Wetzon pointed her finger at Smith. “Don’t start.”
    “Yes, B.B., dear,” Smith said sweetly.
    “Neil Munchen on the phone for either of you.”
    “I’ll take it.” Smith grabbed the phone. “Hello, Xenia Smith here.”
    Wetzon drifted into the reception room and poured herself a cup of coffee, wondering what the head of retail at Rosenkind, Luwisher wanted. B.B. was on the telephone in his cubbyhole coaxing a broker to “explore another situation.” She smiled and looked down at Max’s orderly desk. He’d be in later. She wandered back to the open doorway.
    “Well, really.” Smith looked at Wetzon and arched her brow. “How should I know, Neil?” Pause. “Of