Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

and pillaged by the time you got here.”
    Body language is not hard to read when it’s in response to something Smith’s said or done. Wetzon smothered a grin. The security man left the way he came, deck, stairs, garden.
    Smith stepped aside. “Cherry, sugar, close your mouth, it’s so unattractive, and clean up this mess.”
    It was then that Wetzon noticed the young woman who’d come up behind Smith. She was tall, taller than Wetzon anyway, but who wasn’t? Athletic in build, her hair was very short, straw colored, and faintly green, chlorine sign of a swimmer. Though she wore a boxy black suit, it gave off borrowed vibes, not having made the adjustment to her body, its folds and creases conforming to another identity. Behind horn rimmed glasses, however, her eyes were bright and intelligent. She handed Smith a wad of pink message slips.
    Wetzon ignored Smith and offered her hand. “Cherry? How do you do? I’m Leslie Wetzon.”
    “Cheryl,” she said, taking Wetzon’s hand, with enthusiasm. “Cheryl Orchard. Max is my grandpop, and he’s training me how to cold call. I’m your new junior associate.” She smiled at Smith with the same indulgence her grandfather showed Smith’s eccentricities, and went to the bathroom, returning with some wet towel paper. She got right to work cleaning up the broken china mug and spilled coffee. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
    When Cheryl left the room, Wetzon said, “Cherry Orchard, indeed.”
    Smith began collecting her shopping bags from the floor around Wetzon’s desk. “I see you’ve made yourself at home, sweetie pie.”
    “I do work here,” Wetzon said. “My memory is back.”
    “Does that mean we’re out of danger?” Smith stared at the message slips in her hand as if wondering how they got there. As was her wont, she tossed them unread into her wastebasket.
    “Aren’t you going to return the call from the White House?”
    “Finally!” Smith dove into the wastebasket and pulled out the messages, tore through them. “Oh, it’s one of your little jokes.” Her eyes teared. She threw her arms around Wetzon. “I’ve even missed your terrible little jokes. It’s so good to have you back.”
    Holding Wetzon at arm’s length, she said, “You look absolutely washed out, babycakes. And I know just the thing, a stone massage. It will do wonders for you. We’ll go together.” She clapped her hands and probably would have made the appointment then and there had not Bill Veeder’s photo flashed on the silent television screen and stopped her.
    Wetzon was transfixed as well. She turned up the sound.
    “ ... has been identified as William M. Veeder, prominent criminal attorney heading the Dooney Bellemore defense team in Los Angeles. The FBI will not comment further on a continuing investigation.” More pictures of Bill flashed on the screen, as if they’d emptied their files. A young and less suave Bill, with Evelyn. Bill with some of the beautiful women he’d romanced. Bill and Leslie Wetzon, Bill debonair in black tie, Leslie Wetzon looking like a deer caught in headlights.
    “ ... investigation concerning the explosion of a corporate jet belonging to reclusive financier Jason McLaughlin at Teterboro Airport six weeks ago. A total of four bodies, including William Veeder’s, have now been recovered and identified, the pilot Curtis Abimi; co-pilot, Reza Gondal; McLaughlin’s secretary, Natalie Nostrand—”
    Wetzon turned down the sound while Smith shrieked, “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”
    Choking up, Wetzon groped in her desk drawer for a tissue. “So that’s it,” she murmured.
    “You knew.”
    “Silvestri told me yesterday.”
    “He must have been thrilled.”
    “You misjudge him, Smith. He knew Bill loved me, Bill told him so. Silvestri wasn’t sure how I felt.”
    “Well, I could have told him. You’re crazy—were—I can’t even say it—about Bill.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “It can’t be true. It’s a mistake. They make mistakes all the time.” Wetzon handed her a tissue and she sniffled into it. It seemed odd to Wetzon that Smith was more emotionally engaged in Bill’s death than Wetzon was.
    “It’s no mistake,” Wetzon said. “The question is, what the hell was he doing there? He was supposed to be in L.A.”
    “I’ll never get over this,” Smith said with a sob. “He was so dear to me. So kind after—”
    Bill had been law partner of the late