The Groaning Board

honestly, you and Dick Tracy
are finished?” Wetzon nodded.
    Smith gave an audible sigh. “I was
afraid you’d make a terrible mistake and marry him. What did it?”
    “An old girlfriend.”
    Smith snapped into a sitting
position. “Oh, poor, poor sweetie pie, he had someone on the side?” She walked
back inside and Wetzon followed her.
    “No, Smith.” It was disconcerting how
Smith always went for the worst scenario. “This old girlfriend, Sheila—he knew
her years before me—died mysteriously.”
    “So?”
    “He couldn’t handle it. I asked a lot
of questions, offered help. He wanted out. That’s all she wrote.”
    “You are a very lucky woman. I have
to tell you.“
    “There’s more, Smith.”
    “About him?”
    “No. It turns out that Micklynn
Devora was a good friend of Sheila’s. And she would like me... us... me to do
some checking into the murder.” There, she’d said it.
    “An investigation.” Smith clapped her
hands gleefully, then picked up her Tarot deck and began to shuffle the cards.
“Yes! Yes!”
    “Management consulting.”
    Holding the deck out to Wetzon, she
said, “Cut.” Wetzon sighed and cut the cards. “What are you doing?“
    “You know what I’m doing. Breathe on
the cards.”
    “Do I have to?”
    “Yes.”
    After Wetzon breathed on the cards
and handed them back to Smith, Smith began to lay out the Celtic Cross.
    A buzzer sounded and then Darlene’s
voice filled the room. “Twoey Barnes on line two for you, Smith. And on line
three, Bill Veeder for you, Wetzon.”
    Smith lifted her eyes from the cards.
“What do you think?” She gave Wetzon a solemn wink.
    “Tell them we’re in a meeting and
we’ll call back,” Wetzon said.
    “Now we’re talking!” Smith held out
her hand and Wetzon shook it. The intercom clicked off. They gave each other a
slow bow.
    “Where were we?” Wetzon said.
    Smith was studying the cards and didn’t
respond.
    “Smith?”
    “How did this Sheila person die?”
    “She was poisoned by some corn
muffins.”
    “Oh, dear, oh, dear, I hope you got
us paid upfront.”
    “I did, but what do you mean?”
    “Because, trust me on this, sweetie
pie, our client is the murderer.”

Chapter Thirty-One

     
     
     
    Metzger
called just before lunch. “Any more weird calls?”
    “No.” She was angry with him. Why?
She couldn’t really say. Maybe because he was connected to Silvestri, who was
the true cause of her anger.
    “I alerted the Annoyance Call Bureau.
They’ll get the trace to me directly. Remember, you’ve got to hang up, pick up
again, and press star fifty-seven to make it work.”
    “Fine.”
    “You’re mad at me.”
    “No.”
    “Then whydja run away?”
    “I didn’t run away. You were taking
forever at Silvestri’s and I was going to be late for a sit-down dinner. I knew
you’d understand,” she added sweetly.
    “You’re mad as hell because of Sil—”
    “If you say another word about him,
Artie, I will be mad as hell. I won’t discuss it with you or Rita or
anybody. It’s over.”
    “Aw, come on, Leslie. You know that’s
not for real.”
    She thought about that. Wasn’t it?
“What’s not for real? I’ve met someone else, Artie.” Chew on that for a while.
“That’s for real. He laughs, he cries, he communicates.“
    “Come on, Leslie, you know it’s hard
for us. We see so much...”
    Goddam, she thought. He was going to
give her all the usual bullshit about cops. She blurted out, “I hate to
disappoint you, Artie, but this guy’s a cop too.”
    After a palpable silence, Metzger
said, “Do I know him?“
    “Maybe. Maybe not. Would you mind
asking your friend to drop off my keys?”
    “Ask him yourself. I’m not getting in
the middle of this. You both beat the shit out of me.”
    Wetzon laughed. The phones were too
quiet. Only the second line was engaged and the third, which she was on. Smith
had gone to Saks and Darlene was back at the dentist. When the first button lit
up, she said, “Artie, hold on. I want to ask you about something else.” She put
him on hold and pressed the first button. “Smith and Wetzon.”
    She knew who it was even before she
heard the breathing. And the breathing itself was heavier than before, as if
he’d been running. “Get a life, you son of a bitch!” she screamed into the
phone, hung up, picked up again, pressed star fifty-seven. She came back to
Metzger. “Guess who it was,” she said. Fury had seared away her fear, for the
time being.