Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [88]
Was it too callous to be pleased that she wouldn’t be part of the gathering? Probably. He said nothing.
“Is Jill here yet?”
“No. She’s on her way.”
“I’m sorry Janet couldn’t make it.”
Marylee’s raised eyebrows said it all. “Come on in,” she said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
He followed her through a door to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. Black, no sugar.”
“You used to take sugar and milk.”
“I’ve changed,” he said through a smile. “You haven’t.”
Their conversation stopped when a man dressed in tennis whites and sporting an impossibly deep tan entered.
“Robert, this is Miles. Miles Lashka.”
The men shook hands. “Good meeting you, Robert,” Lashka said. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”
I bet.
“Miles and I play tennis a few times a week,” Marylee said. “I’m getting better, thanks to him.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Lashka said. “I hear that you’re a private eye. Must be an exciting life.”
“Anything but,” Brixton said as Marylee handed him his coffee. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m someone Shakespeare wanted to kill. I’m an attorney, estates.”
“Oh,” Brixton managed and refrained from saying that he agreed with the Bard.
Their inane back-and-forth was interrupted by Jill’s arrival. She gave her mother a hug and kiss and did the same with Lashka, which nettled Brixton. She then kissed her father on the cheek and said to all, “Well, this is the perfect occasion to make an announcement.”
Everyone’s eyes went to her.
She struck a pose, hand on hip, the other in the air. “Ta da! I—am—pregnant!”
There was silence until Marylee blurted, “That is wonderful news, Jill. When are you due?”
“Eight months.” She turned to Brixton. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”
“Yeah, looks like I am,” he said. He hugged her. “Congratulations.”
“Mother will be thrilled,” Marylee said. “A great-grandchild.”
“How is she?” Jill asked.
“All right. Tired. The treatments.”
Brixton took in Lashka, who leaned against the counter while the family reacted to the news, and wondered whether there would be a second announcement, that Lashka and Marylee were engaged or planning some other antiquated ritual. He didn’t have long to ponder it because his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said and went outside.
“It’s Mac Smith.”
“Hi. Any luck?”
“Afraid not. I spoke with her. She refuses to talk to you.”
The news deflated Brixton but he said, “No surprise, huh? I really appreciate what you tried to do.”
“Nothing ventured, as they say. I’m off to a meeting but I’ll be back at the apartment in a few hours if you want to stop by. I’d like to discuss this further with you.”
“Okay. I’ll do that. Thanks again.”
He clicked off the phone and took a moment to digest the news.
Mitzi Cardell’s reaction certainly wasn’t unexpected. Smith wanting to talk about it again later in the day was. Had Smith learned something from his conversation with her that might be of interest? Brixton couldn’t imagine what that might be and decided it was useless to speculate. He returned inside and joined the group, which now included his former mother-in-law, who wore a pale blue satin bathrobe and slippers. She looked like hell.
• • •
Smith ended his call to Brixton and prepared to leave the apartment. Annabel had left hours earlier to tend to business at the gallery. Smith glanced down at notes he’d taken during his call to Mitzi, which included one handwritten line in quotes and underlined.
• • •
“Mitzi, it’s Mac Smith.”
“Good morning, darling. How nice to hear your voice.”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“It’s always a bad time, Mackensie. I don’t know what’s happened to this city over the past two years. I simply cannot find trustworthy help these days. I’ve changed caterers twice and still haven’t found one who meets my standards.”
Smith laughed, not because he thought it was funny but because it was typical Mitzi Cardell, all aflutter about things that few others cared about. He said, “I’m calling for an unusual reason, Mitzi, and with