Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

recently.”
    Smith sat down hard. “Bill didn’t know about him. He wouldn’t have kept that a secret.”
    “Bill, we’re discovering, had a lot of secrets. Of course, he knew about his son. There’s no way Carolyn would have kept that from him. I’m sure junior is in a good college and Bill was paying for everything. So I’m sure that whatever this Farber person has to say, it’s not going to be about my inheritance.”
    “Why were you keeping this from me?” Smith looked tragic and Wetzon couldn’t help herself, she felt guilty. Smith always thought she knew everything, but she was often wrong. And this latest error in character judgment had truly wrecked her.
    “I wasn’t keeping anything from you, you dope. I said I had something extraordinary to tell you and you wouldn’t let me talk.”
    “He had a son,” Smith said, shaking her head back and forth like a punchy prizefighter. “Then why is this Farber person calling you about a will? It means he hasn’t left everything to this alleged son. Call him back this minute.”
    Crafty old Smith, Wetzon thought. “I don’t feel like it. I’ve had quite enough for today. So now why don’t you tell me who this out of town client is we’re supposed to be entertaining tonight.”
    Smith brightened. “It’s a surprise.”
    “Where are we having dinner?”
    “That’s a surprise, too.”
    It certainly was. When Wetzon followed Smith into hectic pre-theatre Gallagher’s Steak House, she scanned the diners. A man rose from a table along the side of the restaurant. “Good God,” she said.
    Their dinner engagement was with Laura Lee Day’s Uncle Weaver.

50
    U NCLE W EAVER , Wetzon thought. What the hell is he doing here? Somewhere in the back of Wetzon’s mind lurked a memory shard missing a Post-it.
    Gallagher’s, too. Retro, Laura Lee would have said. Just the place to rub elbows with dentists from Iowa and Catholic priests and football stars. A great old fashioned steak house with checked tablecloths and captain’s chairs, but definitely not a restaurant either Smith or Wetzon usually found herself in. Still, it was something of a landmark, dating back to the late twenties and having been opened by a Ziegfeld girl, Helen Gallagher, who also happened to be one of Ziegfeld’s former wives.
    A burly man, looking for all the world like an ex-cop, steered them to the maitre d’.
    Sides of beef hung aging for all the world to see in the open-to-view cold room on the right side of the entrance. And on the walls, photo after photo of sports figures, present and past.
    Sitting with Uncle Weaver was an elderly priest, skin pale and dry, poreless, wispy flaxen strands plastered to his pate. Priests were not unusual in Gallagher’s as it was a priestly favorite, but Uncle Weaver was a Baptist, a teetotaling, born again, pro life, Trent-Lott-loving Baptist.
    “Judge,” Smith gushed, holding out her hand to Uncle Weaver, an imposing yet benign man in his sixties, carrying the extra weight of an aging athlete. She hadn’t missed the bottle of champagne in the tall bucket.
    He brought Smith’s hand to his lips. “My dear, you are a lovely sight. Even more beautiful than I imagined after our telephone conversation this morning.” Wetzon received a peck on the cheek and a whiff of Uncle Weaver’s expensive cologne.
    “Uncle Weaver, what a surprise,” Wetzon said.
    “How are you, my dear? Let’s get you all seated. This is my friend, Msgr. Roberto Pietrosanta. I’m seeing him off to Rome tonight. Roberto,” he said, sotto voce with a broad wink, “is highly connected to the you-know-what.”
    “George does enjoy exaggerating,” the Monsignor said, with a show of humility, and a modicum of mystery. “Ladies.” His hands were soft as risen bread dough. He spoke American, no accent.
    Champagne? Well, Laura Lee’s Uncle Weaver was a flamboyant man. He’d ordered oysters and champagne at the Monkey Bar, when Laura Lee had dragged Wetzon off for drinks with him last time he was in the city. Laura Lee’s aunt, Bren Weaver, was her mother’s sister and Laura Lee’s favorite aunt. The family tended to tolerate Uncle Weaver as a harmless sort who bumbled his way through life exploiting the success of his high school buddies.
    But hadn’t Laura Lee said Uncle Weaver was having money trouble?
    “I didn’t know you were a judge, Uncle Weaver,” Wetzon said, watching Smith move her chair closer to the man.
    “Retired, my dear Leslie. Happily