Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

rose; his brows drew together in fury.
    I nodded.
    “You mean, did the mighty Ms. Swedlow grace my humble abode that day and say, ‘Rick, I think I’ll get murdered this afternoon and I wanted to make sure I checked it out with you first’?”
    I was sick of his kids’ games. “I mean, when the two of you broke up.”
    “Broke up? What do you mean broke up?” He sounded so taken aback, I knew I’d made a mistake.
    “You didn’t break up then. You were still seeing each other.”
    “Seeing each other? You mean romantically?”
    I nodded.
    “I don’t get this. First you tell me I’m where I’m not, and then you tell me Sadie was my girlfriend.”
    “She wasn’t?”
    “No. Read my lips: Uh-uh. Never. Not even a little bit. No way, Jose.”
    I leaned back, exhaling. “I guess I was misinformed.”
    “Someone
told
you that?” He was starting to get red in the face, either from the champagne, the sun, or high emotion.
    I didn’t say anything.
    He whispered, “Marty.” And then he practically yelled, “That
bitch
!"
    People turned to stare, and he dropped his voice. “
Marty
and I were involved. Not Sadie and me. Not that I wouldn’t have loved to. But Sadie wasn’t like that.”
    “Wasn’t like what? Didn’t sleep around?”
    “Didn’t even flirt. All business. But in a nice way.” He got that look men get when they’re talking about a woman they’ve admired but couldn’t get—kind of like brown-robed saints in religious paintings, staring up at the sky, at angels, or maybe at Lucy-with-diamonds. To be perfectly frank, it’s a look of utter idiocy.
    “Tell me about you and Marty,” I said.
    “She hit on me at a party, after we got that last exhibit up. Amber was at her mom’s, so why not?”
    “When was it?”
    “I don’t know. Eight or ten months.”
    “Can you get any closer? It’s important.” (Well, maybe not important, but it would sure provide some insight into Marty’s marriage.)
    “I remember now. It was at Christmas—I was feeling sorry for myself.”
    “Before Sadie came here?”
    “Oh, sure.”
    “So Marty cheated on Don.” I shouldn’t have said it aloud.
    “With anything in pants.”
    “What?”
    “Hubby traveled a lot.”
    “I wonder how he met Sadie.”
    “Party at
their
house. Marty was always throwing them—I guess she thought it was the corporate thing to do. I watched it happen. Marty was so busy chasing Julio, she didn’t even notice they sat down on the floor by the hearth and stayed there for an hour and a half.”
    That I could believe. I said, “How long did you and Marty keep seeing each other?”
    “Month or two, I guess. It kind of petered out. Just one of those things.”
    “Can you think of any reason she’d say you and Sadie were involved?”
    “Oh, she thought so. I guess she and I ran out of gas about the time Sadie got here. So then when Sadie’d been here a couple of months, and she saw how much competition she was, she, like, started calling me again.” He pulled his hat down against the sun. “I wasn’t interested, you know what I mean? I guess I was in love with Katy. I didn’t want to see her anymore. So she accused me of porking Sadie. She had this
thing
against Sadie.”
    “Well, Sadie did shoplift her husband in her own house.”
    “Sadie, hell. That dude was
ready
, you know that?”
    “Want some more coffee?”
    He swiveled his neck for the waitress. “Wouldn’t mind another drop of champagne.”
    “I’m going to the ladies’.”
    I felt as if I’d been the one drinking to excess. This brunch was beginning to feel like time spent in the Twilight Zone. Ricky seemed to be taking each of my assumptions and systematically destroying them. Could I believe him?
    On some things, probably. But which ones?
    I’d have to sort that out later. For now, what was left? Ah, yes, I remembered. His changed status at the aquarium.
    Returning refreshed and re-lipsticked, I said, “Could we talk about something that could help your case?”
    “What case? I thought I was off the hook.”
    “I hope you are. But I thought of something that might help if Tillman and Jacobson start sniffing around again.”
    “Which one’s which? Is Jacobson the woman?” He was starting to slur.
    “Yes. Sergeant Paula.”
    “She’s kind of good-looking.”
    I lifted an eyebrow, which prompted a slightly unwelcome knee-pat: “Course, you are, too.”
    “Tell me, Ricky, who were you hitting on at Marty’s party? With Marty and