Wendy Hornsby - The Hanging

I nudged his shoulder. “Knock it off, smart-aleck. And eat your pizza, for goodness sake. Did you get a broccoli one? I ordered them special for you.”

“Mmmm.” He folded one of the little pizzas in half-it looked like sausage and peppers-and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “My favorite; anything that’s not broccoli.”

“Go. Your admirers await,” I said, pointing my chin toward a group of women students, all of them dressed as brightly and prettily as pansies, who waited to speak with him. “I’ll catch you later.”

He planted a greasy kiss on my cheek, turned and was swallowed up by the crowd.

I was working my way toward Detectives Thornbury and Weber, each with an attractive date for the occasion, when Uncle Max caught my arm.

“What a kid, huh?” he said, wrapping his arm around me as he gazed up at the sculpture. “It looked good when I saw it being assembled in the gallery, but hanging in its place, Maggot, I have to say it is beautiful beyond anything I imagined. Who knew when we hauled that kid’s scrawny butt in off the street that he had something this grand in him.”

“ We hauled?” I said, kissing him on the chin. “I remember a certain uncle warning me we were only begging for trouble when we took him on.”

He laughed. “You have to admit, he was a real pain there for a while.”

I had to take a deep breath before I could say, “Mike and Michael got him past the rough parts.”

He patted my back.

I asked him, “How is Frankie?”

“He’s all right. He asked me to tell you he’s sorry, but of course I won’t deliver his message because who knows what you might be asked in court? Wouldn’t want some eager D.A. to tell a jury that Frankie saying he was sorry was tantamount to a confession.”

“Then you’d be right not to tell me.”

Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to find Michael, Mike’s son, wearing his dress army uniform, grinning at me. Michael was stationed in Hawaii and had told me he couldn’t get leave, so this was a huge and wonderful surprise.

“You made it after all, Captain Flint,” I said, patting the fruit salad of medals on his chest, trying not to give in to tears.

“Sorry I’m late.” He kissed my cheek. “Had to fly stand-by. Took some fast talking, but here I am.” He was looking over the mass of heads. “Where is the squirt?”

I pointed him in the direction I had last seen Sly and he headed into the fray in search. Not a minute later I heard Sly yell, “Michael!”

Even Max had misty eyes when we saw the two embrace. It was Michael’s tutoring that got Sly through school academically, and his friendship that buoyed him through life.

Lana, waving an arm, caught my attention as she wedged her way through the press of people. Max melted away into the crowd when he saw her; Lana was not one of his favorites.

“Fabulous, Maggie,” she said, snagging two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. She handed one to me. Tipping her glass against mine, she said, “L’chaim.”

“To life.”

She leaned in close. “The French boyfriend is gorgeous-good for you.”

“How do you know which one is Jean-Paul?”

“Guido pointed him out.”

She was searching the crowd. “I saw you talking to that handsome uncle of yours. Where’d he go? We have some business to discuss.”

“Do we?” I asked.

“You’re hot now, honey,” she said. “The network wants to talk about a new series. Where’s Max?”

I pointed. “He went that way.”

Jean-Paul slipped into the space she vacated and slipped his hand under my elbow. He canted his head toward the jazz combo.

“Do you hear what they’re playing?”

It was the old Dooley Wilson standard, “As Time Goes By.”

“What would Bogart do now?” I asked.

He put his lips against my ear. “He would put his arm around the girl and dance her out of the room.”

Edgar Award-winner Wendy Hornsby is the author of nine previous mysteries, seven of them featuring Maggie MacGowen. She lives in Long Beach, California, where she is a professor of history at a local college.

She welcomes visitors and email at www.wendyhornsby.com.