W Is for Wasted

square neckline. I’d seen her come in, arriving with a guy who looked like a biker: overweight, balding, with a thick handlebar mustache and a tiny gold ring in one ear. The judgment was unfounded and probably inaccurate. I’m sure there are countless slim, handsome bikers rumbling down our highways. For all I knew, this man was a renowned neurosurgeon for whom buxom redheads were a means of relaxation after countless hours in an operating theater. She played with a single-mindedness I admired and eventually Anna went down in defeat. By then, she’d switched from martinis to Champagne, which probably affected her coordination, as she drained each flute like it was apple juice. The beefy guy took her place and she and I ended up on the sidelines, idly looking on while play continued.
    “You know that woman?” I asked.
    “That’s Markie. She’s in here all the time.”
    “What’s she do for a living?”
    “Not what you think. She’s an aesthetician.”
    “Ah,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely certain what that meant. Hooker seemed like a better fit, but what did I know?
    I’m not sure why I stayed. I was tired and the bad wine was making my head ache. The bar had filled to capacity and the noise level was almost unbearable. Cigarette smoke had tinted the air with a milky pallor. Hank and Ellen joined us just long enough to say their good-byes, not wanting to impose on his mother’s generosity. Ellen leaned into Hank like the floor was aslant, and the last I saw of her, one leg gave way as though she’d stepped into a hole. Hank had to steady her while she righted herself. Chances were, I wouldn’t see either one of them again.
    It occurred to me that since I’d be hitting the road first thing the next morning, this might be my last chance to pump Anna for information. Mercifully, she’d dropped the subject of her hitching a ride with me. I had no reason to believe she was reconciled to her father’s fiduciary rebuke, but that was another subject she hadn’t mentioned in the last hour.
    I watched her empty her Champagne flute. A waitress passed and she held up the glass and waggled it to signal the woman that she needed a refill. If her Champagne was on a par with the low-grade Chardonnay I’d been served, she’d be nursing a world-class hangover come morning—not that it was any business of mine. Of the three Dace kids, Ellen was the only one who seemed to care about her dad. The other two I’d written off as stonyhearted.
    At least Anna was speaking to me. I had no chance of getting through to Ethan. He was implacable, unwilling to concede even the smallest point in his father’s favor. I wondered if my cousins saw me as just as stubborn and unreasonable with regard to family matters. Being righteous and opinionated reduces everything to black and white; much easier to deal with than all the shades in between.
    With Ethan, only one small issue remained and I figured I might as well tackle it. I turned to Anna. “Can I ask a question?”
    “In exchange for what?”
    “Knock it off and be nice.”
    “Make it quick,” she said.
    “Ethan made a remark that puzzled me. I don’t remember now how he phrased it, but I got the impression he wasn’t convinced his father was innocent. Does he think Dace was somehow involved in that young girl’s death?”
    “How should I know what he thinks? Why don’t you ask him?”
    “Oh, come on. As pissed off as he is, I can hardly go back and quiz him about an offhand comment.”
    “I don’t want to talk about this stuff.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s boring.”
    “Do
you
believe your dad had something to do with that girl’s death?”
    “What difference does it make?”
    “The difference between believing he did or didn’t commit a cold-blooded murder. Seems like that would count for something, but apparently it doesn’t.”
    The waitress reappeared with a fresh glass of Champagne on a tray. Anna took it and made an imaginary toast. “Cheers.”
    I touched the edge of her glass with mine.
    Then she said, “You know what your problem is? You think it’s all cut and dried. Just because he got out doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”
    “That’s what Ethan said! Exactly.”
    “A consensus of opinion at long last,” she said.
    “Weren’t you relieved when he was exonerated? Didn’t that mean anything to you? He came here thinking you’d be happy. Ellen says your brother spit in his face and you treated him like shit.”
    “You