The 8th Confession - James Patterson [31]
Chapter 39
AFTERNOON SUN FILTERED through the skylight and haloed Sara Needleman’s head as she gave Pet Girl holy hell.
“What were you thinking when you left the Baileys’ place cards on the table?”
“I wasn’t in charge of the place cards, Sara.”
“You were. I specifically asked you to check the place cards against the guest list. Are Isa and Ethan on the guest list?”
“No, of course not.”
“I could kill you, I really could. Those two empty seats at table four. Everyone is thinking about the Baileys as it is.”
“I’m sorry, Sara,” Pet Girl said, but she was decidedly not sorry. In fact, elation was rising in her like champagne bubbles. She had to stifle a laugh.
Place cards! Like place cards were important!
Pet Girl and two other gal Fridays sat behind the reception table in the magnificent Loggia of the Asian Art Museum, welcoming the guests to an engagement dinner for Sara Needleman’s niece, Frieda.
The guests were the cream of San Francisco society: senators and doctors of medicine and science, publishers and movie stars. They came up the grand staircase in their tuxedos and custom-made gowns, found their seat assignments at the reception table, and were directed to Samsung Hall.
From there, they could enter the galleries to view the priceless works of art from Japan and China and Korea before sitting down to a table dressed with raw silk and calla lilies. Then they’d be served a seven-course dinner prepared by the eminent chef Yoji Futomato.
But that would be later. Right now Sara Needleman wound up her tirade with a final flourish. “You can leave now,” she snapped. “Only a few people have yet to arrive.”
“Thanks, Sara.” Pet Girl smiled. “Still want me to walk the dogs in the morning?”
“Yes, yes, please do. I’ll be sleeping in.”
“Don’t worry,” Pet Girl said. “I won’t wake you.”
Pet Girl said good-bye to the other gals. She took her annotated copy of the guest list and stashed it in her handbag, already mulling over the two hundred people she’d greeted this evening — who had acknowledged her, who had not, how many points each had scored.
And she thought ahead to her evening alone.
She’d make a little pasta. Drink a little wine. Spend a couple of pleasant hours going over the guest list.
Sort out her notes.
Make some plans.
Chapter 40
CLAIRE HAD PLANTED her hands on her hips and said, “We need police work” — and we’d done it. Conklin and I had strip-searched the Baileys’ house for the fourth time that week, looking for God only knew what.
We’d been through all thirty thousand square feet: the ballroom; the two poolrooms, one with a pool table and one with a pool; the bedroom suites; the kitchens; the pantries; the sitting rooms; the playrooms; the dining rooms and living rooms. We’d opened closets, boxes, and safes; dumped drawers; and flipped through every book in the whole flippin’ library.
“I forgot what we’re looking for,” I groused to Conklin.
“That’s because whatever killed them isn’t here,” said Rich. “Not only am I out of good ideas but I don’t have any bad ones either.”
“Yes, and haven’t we done a fine job of trashing the place?” I said, staring around the main salon.
Every doorknob and flat surface and objet d’art was smudged with black powder. Every mirror, every painting, had been taken down from the walls.
Even the benign and wise Charlie Clapper was disgusted: “The Baileys had a lot of friends and a lot of parties. We’ve got enough prints and trace to short out the crime lab. For a year.”
Conklin said, “How about it, Sarge?”
“Okay. We’re done.”
We turned out the lights as we worked our way to the front hall, bumped into each other in the dark as Conklin locked the front door behind us. Then he walked me to my car.
He held the door open, and as I stepped up to my Explorer’s running board, my foot slipped, throwing me off balance. Rich caught me, his hands gripping my shoulders, and there was a fraction of a moment when I could see the danger.
I closed my eyes.
And as if we’d planned it, his mouth was on mine and my