Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

looked up. “Wouldn’t what?”
    “Believe how gracious you were. How gracious were you?”
    “I told them I wouldn’t sue them for false arrest.”
    “They are indicting George Weaver and the monsignor for stuff like money laundering and fraud.”
    “The FBI has totally lost its mind. Terrorists, they should be chasing terrorists. Instead, they single out a sweet, innocent judge and an addled old priest. I don’t know what this world is coming to. Enough of that, however.” She flashed her brilliant smile at Wetzon. “A little celebration is in order.” She fished her Tarot cards from her purse and kissed them, then planted them on her desk. “Precious babies, I rely on you.”
    “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Smith. That’s worth celebrating.” Wetzon moved the suspect sheets on her desk, uncovering the envelope that had come by messenger. It was from Veeder, Farber, & Gorodet, its return address, Bill’s office in Rockefeller Center.
    “But sweetie, I’m not the one we’re celebrating.”
    “Who then?” Wetzon sliced open the envelope. It was a legal letter requesting her appearance at the reading of the last will and testament of William M. Veeder, Esq. at four o’clock this afternoon at Bill’s apartment in the Museum Tower. It was signed Lincoln N. Farber, Esq. Her hand shook. She dropped the letter.
    Smith perched on her desk, crossing one fabulous leg over the other. She blew on her fingers and rubbed them on her lapel. “You were not returning Lincoln’s phone calls, so I had to take the bull by the horns, and lead you, as I always do.”
    “Wait a minute, Smith. Lincoln?” Wetzon was too confused to be outraged, but that would come.
    “Listen carefully, sweetie pie. I was at Saks. Just a hop, skip, and jump from Bill’s office in Rockefeller Center.”
    “Smith, tell me you didn’t go over there and introduce yourself.”
    “Well—”
    “This is humiliating. You are not my keeper.”
    “Humpf. Someone has to be and I at least have your best interests at heart. They are reading the will this afternoon and we have to be there.”
    “No, we don’t. Watch this.” She crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. She was angry, angry at Smith’s use of the word we, at her interference, angry at Bill Veeder for dying the way he did, angry with herself for not being able to control the frightening turmoil rushing through her, as if the air was being sucked out of her.
    “You are such a child,” Smith was saying, oblivious to Wetzon’s plight. “Of course, we have to be there. It appears that our darling Bill has left you a sizable inheritance.”

56
    “A CAVIAR pie, would you believe? And champagne, which she drinks and seems to always forget I don’t.” While Smith was in the bathroom brushing caviar and hard boiled egg out of her teeth, Wetzon gave Carlos the short version of everything that had happened the day before.
    “Birdie, she’s up to something,” Carlos said. “I can smell it all the way across town.”
    “Yes, it’s my inheritance from Bill Veeder. She’s set on it. Boy, will she be disappointed. Even if he doesn’t leave anything to Evelyn, he does have a son.”
    “When will you know for sure?”
    “This afternoon at four, at the reading of his will. I got a special invitation by messenger this morning. So I guess I’m named.” She swished her tongue over her teeth, relishing the sweet salty tang of the caviar. No toothbrush for her.
    “And where, dear heart, is this extraordinary event going to take place?”
    “Carlos love, are you keeping track of me?”
    “I’m thinking maybe I should tag along and hold your hand.”
    “Smith’s going to do that, I’m afraid.”
    “Well, Birdie darling, this is what I think: you should keep everyone informed as to your whereabouts until the men who tried to kill you are put away.”
    “Bill’s apartment in the Museum Tower.”
    “What about it?”
    “That’s where the reading is going to be.”
    “Make sure your cell is working, o intrepid one.”
    Wetzon disconnected, picked up the suspect sheets Max had left for her, and walked downstairs.
    “Wetzon,” Max said, “I have Silvestri on line three. Where do you want to take it?”
    Cheryl was in her office, on the phone. Sean was not around.
    “Sean had a lunch appointment,” Max said.
    “Put Silvestri through here.” She sat down at Sean’s desk, pressed three. “Hi.”
    “How are you?”
    “Holding up.”
    “How bad is