J. Jance - Minor in possession

"I'd say you have an overly active imagination," Ralph Ames said, and started for the entrance.

"Ralph, wait. She told me so herself last night."

"She's arranging a funeral, Beau. Come on."

The small anteroom, furnished with a few chairs and a polished burled maple desk, was decked with bouquets of freshly cut flowers. We were met at the door by a lovely blonde hostess carrying a leather-bound reservation book. She cooed happily over Ralph the moment she saw him.

"Ah, Mr. Ames. So good to see you again. One of your guests has already arrived and been seated. If you will please follow me, I'll take you directly to your table. Vincent is busy with the grill right now, but he'll try to stop by your table in a few minutes, before we get too busy."

Ralph nodded. "Fine," he said.

She led us into the restaurant, which turned out to be an odd mixture of Southwestern-American and something else, Continental probably, although I wouldn't know Continental for sure if it got up and hit me smack in the face. The whole place was light and airy, with white walls and tall open-beamed ceilings. There appeared to be a series of several small, intimate dining rooms, each highlighting some piece of original artwork. A number of other tables were already occupied with parties of early diners, some of whom had drinks in hand although no sign of a bar was in evidence.

Rhonda Attwood was seated in the first room, talking animatedly to a tuxedo-clad man I assumed was our waiter. He shook hands with Ralph, introduced himself to me as Francis, and then turned back to Ames.

"The lady and I have been discussing wines. She says she's never tried Le Neilleur Du Chai."

Ralph beamed at Rhonda. "Good choice. That will be perfect, Francis. Is it '83?"

"Of course," Francis replied.

He started away from the table. Assuming he was our waiter, I wanted to catch him before he left. "I'll have coffee," I said.

Francis nodded. "I'll send your waiter with some right away."

"I thought he was the waiter," I said to Ralph.

"Oh, no. Francis is the sommelier and sometime maitre d'," Ralph answered with a smile. "He and Vincent have been together through several incarnations of local fine dining establishments. As chef, Vincent plays the starting role, but always with Francis backing him up."

Ralph focused on Rhonda. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she answered. Her sleek hair, brushed back from her face, glowed in the muted, indirect lighting. She was wearing a softly belted knit dress that showed off her figure. There was nothing about Rhonda Attwood that looked the part of a grieving mother. And nothing about the evening had the feel of planning a funeral.

A spiffy waiter in a crisply pleated white shirt and black bow tie appeared moments later. Without having to ask who was who, he set a full cup of coffee in front of me. Before the waiter walked away, Francis was there as well. With suitable pomp and circumstance, he administered the Cabernet Sauvignon, first ceremoniously sampling it with a spoon before offering a sip to Ames and finally pouring the two glasses, Maybe that's why I never cared much for wine-it always involved too much ritual and not enough drinking.

I sat there unnecessarily stirring my black coffee and waiting for them to get on with it. Despite the fact that this was supposedly a dinner in honor of my birthday, the conversation between Ralph and Rhonda made me feel very much like the proverbial fifth wheel.

Eventually, Francis withdrew only to be replaced by Vincent himself, a brawny Swiss ex-patriot who believed in the old-fashioned, hands-on, innkeeper's approach to running a restaurant. He arrived at the table wearing his chef's hat and an eye-watering perfume of mesquite smoke.

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation and fixing Rhonda Attwood with a blazing smile, he said to Ralph, "So this is the lady you were telling me about?"

Ames looked pleased. "She certainly is, Vincent. Allow me to introduce Rhonda Attwood."

What followed was a long discussion of art and artists, of shows and galleries and commissioned paintings-things about which the three of them seemed to know a great deal, while I knew less than nothing. Rhonda Attwood flushed with obvious pleasure that Ralph Ames had such an extensive working knowledge of her artistic progress. The enthusiastic sales pitch Ralph was giving Vincent made me wonder if his attorney relationship with Rhonda Attwood involved a commission.

Art and artists have never been my strong suit. My only artistic achievement, drawing stick figures, went out of vogue between second and third grades. From then or art classes left me cold. The ability to draw a lifelike landscape or seascape or face or even an orange strikes me as something akin to witchcraft.

Talking about all those things is even more remote. Instead of paying much attention, I concentrated on watching the people coming into the restaurant. Vincent's was obviously a place to see and be seen, where Phoenix fashion plates of both sexes sized one another up and kept score. This was almost, but not quite, as boring as the art talk. I was only too happy when some crisis in the kitchen summoned Vincent away from our table.

"So what's good here?" I asked, picking up my menu and trying to turn the conversation back to a subject I could handle.

"You didn't tell me today was your birthday," Rhonda remarked reprovingly.

"It slipped my mind," I replied.

My answer sounded unnecessarily curt, even to me. Ames' raised eyebrow sent me into retreat. "After forty there's not much reason to keep track," I added lightly. "So what's good here?"

"Everything's good," Ralph offered smoothly. "It all depends on what you like."

I looked at my menu, but looking didn't help. It was in French, most of it. The only word that looked vaguely familiar was "tamale," and that was only on the appetizer list.

"I didn't think tamales were French," I objected.

Ralph smiled. "They're not, but these are made from duck and they're wonderful."

With his selection already made, Ralph lowered his menu and caught Rhonda's eye. "So, did you reach her?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you so much," Rhonda murmured. She took a delicate sip of her wine.

I had the distinct feeling I was once more being left out of the conversation. "Reach who?" I questioned.

Ralph didn't answer but Rhonda did. "Michelle," she said, "Michelle Owens. When I called him this morning, Ralph here very kindly agreed to try to help me locate her. He's very efficient. By this afternoon it was a fait accompli."

In view of Rhonda's and my conversation from the night before, the idea of her having anything to do with either Michelle or Guy Owens made me very uncomfortable. "Ralph helped you do that?"

Rhonda nodded. "Owens is stationed at Fort Huachuca. He lives in a town called Sierra Vista just outside the military base. It's down in the southeastern part of the state."

I turned from Rhonda to Ralph. Dismay must have registered all over my face. Ralph shrugged as though my concern was totally uncalled for.

"When Rhonda told me that Michelle and Joey had been…well, involved, and that perhaps the girl would be interested in attending the funeral, it seemed only reasonable. Under the circumstances, I think Rhonda's being very civilized to take Michelle's feelings into consideration. The funeral's Monday afternoon, by the way," he added for my benefit. "At St. John's Episcopal, right here on Lincoln Drive."

I glanced at Rhonda Attwood. She was gazing back at me innocently, as if daring me to refute any of what Ames had said.

"Excuse me," I said, "but did Rhonda happen to mention to you that Michelle's father, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens, is quite possibly a suspect in the investigation into the death of her son?"