J. Jance - Name Witheld

Fortunately for everyone in the restaurant that day-yours truly included-it is also considered to be a very safe weapon in that it's unlikely to discharge when dropped accidentally. Or even deliberately. It is designed to use only Winchester Western 60-grain Silvertip hollowpoint rounds. Which means that it's not worth a damn for target practice, but it can be deadly at close range.

The surprisingly loud thunk the gun made when it landed on the white linen tablecloth made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wasn't the only person in the dining room who noticed. At a table just across from us, a tall, fiftyish blond woman had been seated along with a gray-haired, bearded man. When the gun landed, the man rose to his feet. "A gun!" he blurted. "She's got a gun!"

The blonde had just raised her newly filled water glass to her lips. Choking, she dropped the glass, which bounced off the edge of the table and then plunged to the floor, where it splintered into pieces and sent a spray of icy water and glass fragments scattering three feet in all directions.

A concerned service staff converged on the mess from every direction. The unexpected appearance of the weapon had caused a sudden burst of adrenaline to shoot through my system. The gun lay on the cloth and Grace left it there, making no effort to grab it. Realizing from the fact that she wasn't reaching for the weapon that there was no immediate danger, I covered the offending gun with my napkin. Once it was out of sight, I pulled it over to my side of the table.

"This thing isn't loaded, is it?" I demanded.

Grace Highsmith shrugged. "Probably," she said. "It usually is. That's how we keep it."

"It's yours then?"

She nodded.

"Do you have a license to carry?"

"Not exactly."

"As far as I'm concerned, not exactly means no license," I told her. "No doubt you realize that's a violation." I lifted the napkin and looked down at the little. 32 automatic. "Loaded or not, what are you doing with a gun in your purse?"

"I assumed you'd want to have it," she said. "According to the shows I see on television, that's one of the first things the detectives go looking for-the murder weapon."

"You're saying this is a murder weapon? As in Don Wolf's murder?"

"Of course," Grace Highsmith replied. "What other murder would I possibly be talking about?"

That's when I signaled for Shelley. She came to the table looking slightly pale. "Is everything all right?" she asked. I noticed then that the blonde and her companion had been discreetly moved to another table-one nearer the door.

"You wouldn't happen to have a doggy bag, would you?"

"Certainly." Shelley disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with two pieces of foil. I scooted the. 32 onto one piece and covered it with the other. After twisting the ends together, I slipped the foil-wrapped package into my pocket.

Clearly happy to have the gun out of sight, Shelley nodded approvingly. "Could I interest either one of you in a complimentary glass of champagne?" she asked.

The appearance of the gun and the shattered water glass had caused enough of a stir among her lunchtime diners. People were no longer openly staring, but Shelley seemed determined to regain the lost atmosphere and settle ruffled feathers. To that end, a waiter was passing through the room pouring out free glasses of champagne.

"None for me," I said.

"I'll have some," Grace Highsmith said brightly. "Champagne sounds delightful."

Shelley left our table while Grace smiled at me beatifically. "Well then, Detective Beaumont," she said, "this is really quite civilized, isn't it. I can sip a glass of champagne while you read me my rights. Then we can get on with it."

"Get on with what?"

"My confession, of course, although I do wish Suzanne would hurry up and get here. I know she'll have a fit if I tell you all this while she's not here."

"Your confession to what?"

"To Don Wolf's murder, of course."

I took a moment to assimilate that bit of information. "Who's Suzanne?"

There was a momentary pause while Shelley herself stopped by our table and poured Grace Highsmith a flute of champagne. Grace took her time tasting it before answering my question.

"Suzanne Crenshaw," she said finally. "She's my attorney."

Just then, as if on cue, the front door blew open and a woman rushed inside. Heavyset and flushed, possibly from a combination of both cold and overexertion, she was a thirty-something, dark-haired woman dressed in a navy-blue business suit. She paused in the doorway of the dining room, searching through the diners until she caught sight of Grace at the end banquette.

As soon as their eyes met, a look of intense relief washed over the younger woman's face. She made a beeline for our table. "There you are," she said, leaning down long enough to brush a glancing kiss across Grace's parchment-skinned cheek. "I was afraid I'd be too late."

"Oh, no," Grace reassured her, "you're right on time."

"Is there some kind of problem?" Suzanne asked, eyeing me warily.

"No problem," Grace said. "Detective Beaumont is being the complete gentleman. Speaking of which, here I am, forgetting my manners. Suzanne Crenshaw, this is Detective Beaumont. Detective Beaumont, Suzanne."

Suzanne Crenshaw held out her hand to shake mine, but the look she turned on me was anything but friendly. "What's this all about, Grace?" Suzanne asked. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing much so far," Grace replied. "We've only just ordered lunch, although I did give him my gun. I didn't like carrying it around in my purse. It could have gone off. Sit down now, Suzanne. As soon as you order your lunch, we'll try to bring you up to speed."

With a single warning glare in my direction, Suzanne Crenshaw sat. "Grace, what gun?" she demanded.

"Don't worry, Suzanne. Everything will be fine. I believe Detective Beaumont was about to read me my rights."

"Read you your rights!" Suzanne Crenshaw exclaimed. Around the restaurant heads once again swiveled in our direction.

"Hush, Suzanne," Grace ordered. "Don't make such a fuss. Before we go into all that, why don't you order lunch. And for goodness sake, have a glass of champagne. They're giving away free samples today. It'll settle your nerves."

While Suzanne Crenshaw stared at her client in what looked to me like thunderstruck amazement, an unruffled Grace motioned at the waiter, who came to our table at once. "My guest here will need to place her order," Grace said. "And could we have another glass of champagne, please?"

She said all this without the slightest hint of awareness that the sensation created by her dumping a gun on the table in the middle of a crowded restaurant was responsible for the presence of "sample" champagne. To his credit, the waiter didn't bat an eyelash, either.

"Of course," he said. "Right away."

I don't believe I've ever met anyone quite like Grace Highsmith. She was a living, breathing personification of the term noblesse oblige. In other people, it would have been regarded as bullying or high-handedness, but there was such an air of graciousness about her that people tended to do what she wanted regardless of their own intentions in the matter. That went for me every bit as much as it did for Suzanne Crenshaw.

An uneasy silence existed around the table while the waiter returned with the champagne and took Suzanne's order. As soon as he was gone, the lawyer turned her attention on me. "I suppose coming here was your idea?" she demanded, glaring at me.

"As far as I knew, all we were doing was coming here for lunch."

Suzanne Crenshaw wasn't convinced. "What's all this about ‘reading rights' then?" she asked.

"The Fountain Court was my idea, not his," Grace interjected. "I wanted to go somewhere nice so I could feel relaxed while I gave him my confession."