Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [55]
“People talk about it at the bar?”
“Sure. We get a lot of single women during happy hour and they’re uptight.” He laughed. “Later? Just tight.”
“Tension affect tips?” Wilcox asked.
“I’ll have to do an analysis.”
Their conversation had just turned to the baseball season when Roberta bounded onto the patio.
“I am so sorry I’m late,” she said, kissing her father, then Curtis, on their cheeks.
Wilcox couldn’t suppress a wide smile. His daughter, that impish toddler who’d blessed their lives, had grown into a stunning, effervescent woman. He silently reminded himself to not be too judgmental about Tom Curtis. No man would be good enough for Roberta, an attitude, which if played out, would doom her to a lifetime of spinsterhood.
“How’s things in the glamorous TV biz?” Wilcox asked.
“Daddy, nobody says glamorous anymore. Crazy, crazy,” she said. “Insane! They keep wanting more but insist on cutting our news budget.”
“The competition must be intense,” Curtis offered, “with all the cable news channels.”
“Exactly,” Roberta said.
“I don’t have to worry about competition,” Curtis said with a boyish grin. “As long as I make the martinis dry and the Cosmopolitans sweet, I’m golden.”
Wilcox smiled and realized Georgia had emerged from the kitchen and stood at his side. “How’s the chicken coming, Chicken?” he asked.
“Just fine.”
“Mom makes the best fried chicken in North America.”
“Oh, stop it,” Georgia said. “Maybe in Rockville.”
Wilcox realized Roberta hadn’t been served a drink, and asked what she wanted.
“I’ll make it for her,” Curtis offered.
“He’s a pro,” Roberta said, slipping her arm in his and heading for the house.
“How’d it go today?” Georgia asked her husband.
“Okay. I finished the piece for tomorrow’s edition.”
“I saw the police press conference this afternoon,” she said. “They say there is no serial killer.”
“The official line, that’s all. To be expected.”
“I saw Robbie’s coverage of it, too,” said Georgia. “It sounds as though you two think alike about it.”
“I saw her,” Joe said. “The problem with the police approach is that it lulls everybody into complacency. Until it’s proved to me that there’s no serial killer out there, I’m all for prudence and commonsense security. Nice fellow, Mr. Curtis.”
“Yes, he is.”
He finished his drink and chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“This thing has even got me a little uptight. You read my interview with the shrink. Serial killers are usually good-looking, intelligent, good talkers—” He leaned close to her. “Hell, maybe Curtis is one.”
“That’s not funny, Joe,” she said, meaning it.
“I know, I know. Sorry. I need a refill.”
Curtis’s frequent verbal reviews of Georgia’s fried chicken and the gusto with which he ate affirmed her reputation. Conversation at the table was spirited, with a lot of kidding between Roberta and Tom. Joe contributed to the banter, but his mind eventually was elsewhere. The phone rang in the middle of dinner. Joe started to get up, but Georgia was quicker.
“Wrong number?” Joe asked when she returned in seconds.
“A hang up.”
“Inconsiderate,” Joe said.
Had it been Michael who’d called? Joe felt like a cheating husband, flinching whenever the phone rang at home. There were many reasons he’d been faithful to Georgia all these years—with one notable exception—among them not wanting to live with such fears. Fatal Attraction. Spare me that sort of tension.
But here he was, suffering the very fear he’d determined to not experience. Had Tom Curtis not been there, he might have told Georgia and Roberta about Michael’s sudden and unwelcome intrusion into his life. No, that would take some thinking on his part. As upset as Georgia might be at the news, she’d handle it. But Roberta was a different story. She’d been deprived of the knowledge that she had an uncle all these years because her father had insisted she not be told. Georgia had fought him on that decision when Roberta was a small girl but eventually acquiesced, realizing how strongly he felt about it. The subject had seldom come up again during the ensuing years. Occasionally,