Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

six-year-olds.”
    Mickey nodded. “It might wear thin after twenty or thirty years.”
    “Make that twenty or thirty minutes. I figure if you can get past an hour, you might as well marry him.”
    Mickey smiled. “How are you and Rob doing?”
    “Ouch. When you change the subject, you don’t mess around.”
    “Uh-oh. You two are fighting?”
    “I think he’s dumped me, actually.”
    “Whoa. Tell all, starting at the beginning.”
    I did and it took a surprisingly long time—I had to explain about the Trapper and the poisonings and the press conference before I could even get to the good-bye scene. “Not good-bye,” said Mickey. “No way.”
    Her theory was simple—Rob, though basically a prince of a fellow, simply turned into a sort of hairless werewolf when he was on a hot story, forgetting friends, loved ones, social conventions, obligations, and dates in his avid pursuit of the people’s right to know. No doubt he hadn’t dumped me at all, he’d be back soon, and wouldn’t even notice he’d been missing. In short, she thought I was upset about nothing.
    I felt better. “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I should be glad he’s not Alan.”
    “Oh, lay off Alan. He still might end up being your brother- in-law.”
    “You’re still sure about the baby?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Funny world, isn’t it? No wonder Mom has trouble adapting.”
    Mickey shook a finger at me. “She’d be a lot happier if you’d just dump that blue-eyed half-breed.”
    I left, laughing as I drove home. Poor Mom. She certainly did have trouble adapting. While it was true that Rob was only half Jewish and that was only half good enough for her, she’d admit it in the same breath she endorsed the Ku Klux Klan. Even to herself. Mom was a compassionate, caring, politically correct liberal, with heart perennially bleeding—and eight or ten nasty prejudices she didn’t even know she had. She was perfectly aware, though, that she didn’t much like her older daughter going out with Rob; and remembering that made me feel protective toward him, brought him back into my good graces.
    Until I got home, that is, and found the swine hadn’t called. Calling him, I got the same old message: He was gone for the weekend. I supposed I’d better believe it, and better resign myself to going to dinner alone.

7
     
    I met Chris and Bob at the Hayes Street Grill, one of the very few of the myriad newish eateries specializing in “California Cuisine” that, to me, managed to pull off the old San Francisco style—friendly, unpretentious decor (dark wood, white tablecloths) and a nice piece of fish. At the old-style restaurants—joints with names like Jack’s, Sam’s, John’s—your fish was simply grilled, and came, as likely as not, with thick, tempting fries. At the new joints, it had to be mesquite-grilled or, better yet, grilled over Nubian plumwood and garnished with an understated sprig of vitamin-packed cilantro. The fries were thinner, very crisp, very now, very today. Rarely were the customers grilled, but that night was an exception.
    The others were bellied up to the bar, waiting for a table. When I came in alone, Chris raised her eyebrows. “Where’s Rob, darlin’? Parking?”
    “I’m afraid he couldn’t make it.”
    “He’s not ill, is he?”
    “You had a fight!”
    “No, it’s not that. He just wanted—I mean, he had to do something else.”
    “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
    “Everything’s fine. Really.”
    Bob cleared his throat: “Chris. Give her a break, okay?”
    Bob’s outspoken style had turned Chris off at first, but she’d learned to respect it—especially after he’d joined a men’s consciousness group and done some serious work on his innate male chauvinism. He was now a budding feminist, but with a commanding way about him; Chris liked that a lot.
    At the moment, I was grateful for it. I was still wearing the black velvet trench coat my mother had given me, and was beginning to perspire in it. I was aware, too, that my cheeks were flushed with the extreme discomfiture of having had to reveal a very shaky love life in front of a most attractive young man—Bob’s friend from Los Angeles, who was tall, well dressed, and single, judging from his naked ring finger.
    “Jeff Simon,” said Bob.
    Jewish. (If you cared about such things.)
    “He’s with Backus and Weir.”
    Another lawyer.
    Cute—very cute. Both the situation and Jeff. He had brown crinkly hair, light