Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [10]
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Depends on your intentions.” Tinkie was so much better at banter than I was. While I might be a better horsewoman, she had mastered the opposite-gender verbal-parry.
“I have no intentions.” Don Cipriano signaled the waitress for another drink. There was something decidedly Old World in his manners. Old world and old money. I’d had my brush with both in the body of Hamilton Garrett V, a man I’d ultimately done wrong. Maybe it was a guilty conscience that made me try harder with Cipriano.
“So you’re vacationing in Natchez?” I asked.
“A smart man combines business and pleasure whenever possible.” His dark gaze drilled into me.
“I grasp the pleasures of a visit to Natchez. I’m just curious about your business.” My deflector shields were taking a beating, but I could still fire back.
“I’m a collector.”
“Don’t tell me. Rare books?”
His laughter was rich, espresso-strength. “Hardly. So you’re a reader?”
His amusement didn’t totally mask the darkness that flitted in the depths of his eyes. “When I have time,” I said. “So what do you collect? Butterflies? Art?”
“Nothing so exotic. Antiques. I have a store in New Orleans.” He patted his chest. “I normally carry a card, but the tuxedo…”
“We love New Orleans.” Tinkie interjected a lighter tone into the conversation. “Sarah Booth and I had a case—”
“A case?” He took the drink from the waitress’s tray before she could put it down. “Are you doctors?”
“Private investigators,” Tinkie said.
“Is that why you’re in Natchez?” If his interest was feigned, he was a good actor.
“Yes.”
“Cheating husband? Missing wife? Murder?” he asked, and I thought I heard excitement in his tone.
“Nothing so deadly.” Tinkie ate the last olive in her martini. “Just an insurance case. And we have much to do tomorrow, Sarah Booth. We should get some rest.”
She was right. Tomorrow would be busy. We stood together. “Have a nice evening,” I said.
“Ladies.” He executed a courtly little bow. “I hope our paths cross again.”
3
Tinkie retired to her room—and a long phone chat with Oscar. She was good at smoothing things over with her husband. I didn’t have that particular talent, so I decided against calling Graf. In all likelihood, he was still jammed in traffic on the road to the apartment he’d rented in Los Angeles. By a stroke of good fortune, he’d found a chic place within a reasonable drive from the studio. Due on the set early in the morning, he’d probably hit the hay as soon as he arrived home.
Behind me, the soft rustle of fabric was followed by a distinctive British accent. “M’ lady, perhaps if you birthed a male heir, you could rest easy as Queen. As Loulane would say, ‘The proof is in the pudding.’ And no ruler can resist Delaney pudding.”
“Jitty!” I whirled to find her bedecked, begowned, and bejeweled. She was stunning, even if the cut of the dress imprisoned her usually bodacious breasts. A scarf wound cunningly around her neck was anachronistic. “First the Wicked Witch of the West with a message from Disraeli. Now—”
“My king threw me over because I didn’t conceive a son. Don’t let that be your fate.” Her elegant hands chopped the air and she made a gruesome noise.
I wasn’t in the mood to banter historical trivia with Jitty, but it was pointless to argue. “So now you’re Anne of the Thousand Days. One of two Boleyn sisters given to King Henry in an effort to woo control of his power through sex.”
“Anne lost her head.” Jitty touched the scarf at her throat.
“And Mary lost her chance at true love.” Both sisters were tragic, in my book. Bred and bartered for the purpose of gaining money and power.
“And all because they failed to do the bed boogie and get themselves with a male heir to the throne.” Jitty’s pretentious British accent was fading.
“Doesn’t the male sperm determine the child’s gender?” I should have paid more attention in family planning class. “At any rate, I don’t have to worry about being the king’s consort.” I couldn’t imagine a parent