Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(34)

His hand wrapped around my biceps like a torque wrench. I tried to look suitably impressed, which wasn’t hard. He liked that. The smooth smile came back.

“No visitors unannounced," he said.

I stood still, offering no resistance. "Not a bad grip for a guy who must drive power steering."

“I bench three-fifty cold, six reps."

I whistled. “I drink twelve ounces cold, six reps."

"I mean it, man. You leave now."

I sighed, resigned. I seemed to think about it.

No matter how strong your grip is, it’s always unconnected where the thumb meets the fingertips, and the thumb is the weakest part of the lock. The trick is to twist against it fast enough to break out. It’s really pretty easy, but it looks impressive. I was halfway up the sidewalk before he realized he didn’t have me anymore. He came at me again, but he had a serious disadvantage. He was on the job and I wasn’t. In a bar fight I would’ve thought at least twice about taking this guy on, but even the toughest employees are usually hesitant about cold-cocking somebody in front of their rich boss’s house, at least not without permission. I had no such restrictions. He tried to grab me with both arms. I stepped underneath and flipped him into the gravel.

Then I stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell, or rather I pulled it—a huge brass chain that would’ve made Quasirnodo homesick, connected to some ridiculously tiny—sounding chimes. As if to compensate, a thunder-lightning combo exploded directly overhead. Raindrops as big and warm as poblano peppers started to fall.

Meanwhile the chauffeur was sitting up, brushing the white dust off his black suit. You’d’ve thought he got flipped every day by the calm look on his face. He just stood up and nodded.

"Aikido?" he asked.

“Tai chi."

“How about that." Then he cleared his throat and looked at the front door. "You mind if I make the introductions, man? I don’t feel like job-hunting today."

"You got it." I told him my name. For an instant his face changed expressions. Then it smoothed over again.

When Cookie Sheff answered the door, the chauffeur told her: “Tres Navarre to see Mr. Dan Jr."

It only took the society matron a few awkward seconds to warm up her best smile. Then she held out her hands in welcome, as if I were late for tea and had been presumed dead.

“Good gracious, yes," she said. "Please come in, Tres."

23

"You’ll have to excuse the house," Cookie Sheff said. “The maid doesn’t come until noon."

Maybe the flagstone floor needed to be scrubbed, or the walk-in fireplace vacuumed. I looked up at the ceiling fans, three stories above. Maybe they needed dusting. Other than that I couldn’t see much for the maid to do.

"Please . . ." Mrs. Sheff said, waving me toward the white leather couch. I opted for a pigskin chair

instead. Cookie perched across from me on the very edge of her seat.

“Well." She slid her withered hands around a half-finished Bloody Mary. “What can I get you?"

Mrs. Daniel Sheff, Sr., had unnaturally golden, unnaturally smooth hair that fit around her head like a Roman helmet. Her bright red lipstick went well over the real boundaries of her lips. Her eyebrows were similarly enhanced. The makeup looked like a waterline that had been drawn at the height of a flood. Since that time, however many decades ago, Cookie Sheff’s face had receded.

She was the picture of aging gracefully—graceful if you didn’t count the kicking and screaming and the surgery. She was also the woman who had been sitting in Dan’s car in front of Lillian’s house last Sunday.

“I came to ask about Lillian, ma’am," I said. "I assume the police have been by already?"

The Bloody Mary froze halfway to her lips.

"Lillian?" she said. “Police?"

“That’s right."

She shook her head, trying to smile. "I’m afraid I don’t . . ."

"That would surprise me, ma’am," I said, “unless you’ve sworn off phones since you were PTA president at Alamo Heights."

The smile turned to stone. "I beg your pardon."

"My mother used to tell me that you could boil every piece of gossip in town down to just seven numbers--Cookie Sheff’ s phone number."

When she spoke again, after apparently swallowing her tongue several times, her voice had all the charm and affection of a drugged bobcat.

“Oh, yes," she said, “your mother. How is the old dear?"

“She looks great."

Her drink was quickly reduced to red ice cubes.

“Tres," Cookie said, taking on a patient, mildly chastising tone, "perhaps it should occur to you that a certain . . . quality of people do not wish their family crises aired so openly."

“Meaning I should’ve called instead of dropping by?"

"Meaning," she said, "that the Cambridges are my very dear friends."

"Soon to be family?"

She looked satisfied. “So you see why perhaps your coming here was not in the best taste."

"I feel just awful, ma’am. Now where is your son, please?"

She sighed quietly, then stood up.

"Kellin?" she called.