Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

“I did. Very much so. Sissy and Jess were there, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to either one of them. What about you? How was your evening?”

“I changed my mind about going. When it came right down to it, I wasn’t in the mood.”

“Really? You seemed so set on being there.”

“I had a hard day at work and I couldn’t bear the idea of getting into a tux. On the way home, I stopped at Tony’s and picked up an order of ribs.”

“Bad boy. If I’d known you were going to play hooky, I’d have made a point of joining you. What happened to your table for ten?”

“I guess there were two empty seats instead of one.”

She smiled. “Oh, well. The money went for a good cause so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“We have something on for tonight?”

“Dinner with the Hellers at Nine Palms.”

“What time?”

“Six thirty for drinks. Dinner reservation’s at seven, but Mitchell said he’d seat us whenever we were ready.”

“Good. Sounds like fun.”

Nora took the teakettle from the stove and carried it to the sink, filling it from the filtered-water tap. “Did you notice all my formal wear was gone?”

She could see the caution rise in him. “I just got here.”

“Not here. Malibu.”

He opened a piece of mail and glanced at the contents. “Went right by me,” he said. “What’s the story?”

“I had Mrs. Stumbo drive down Wednesday and bring everything back. I would have called to tell you, but I’d talked to you once and I didn’t want to bother you again.”

“You’re not a bother when you call.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet, but I don’t like being a pest when it’s not important. At any rate, when I realized I wouldn’t be coming down last week, I asked her to take care of it. She dropped the whole carload at the cleaners so at least that’s out of the way.”

“I don’t understand. Did I miss something here?”

“Spring cleaning. A closet purge. I’ve had some of those gowns for years, and half of them don’t fit. I’ll keep the best ones, and any I don’t want I’ll donate to the Fashion Institute.”

She put the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’m fine. What if an occasion comes up?”

“I guess I’ll just have to go shopping. You know what a chore that is,” she said, smiling.

“Might require a trip to New York,” he said, matching her tone.

“Exactly.”

Dinner at the club was pleasant. The place had an old-fashioned fusty air about it, like the home of a rich maiden aunt. The once grand furniture was upholstered in a peach brocade that had seen better days. The couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings. Some of the cushions were lumpy and the arms were frayed in places, but an upgrade would require a membership assessment, which would set off endless disagreements and endless complaints. The club was largely given over to couples in their seventies and eighties, whose homes had appreciated in value while their retirement income had dwindled, subject to the whims of the economy. The so-called younger members were in their fifties and sixties, better off financially perhaps but destined for the same fate. Old friends would start dropping off one by one and in the end, they’d be grateful to spend an evening with the few tottering acquaintances who were left.

Robert and Gretchen were their usual ten minutes late. The delay was so consistent, she wondered why they couldn’t manage to be on time. The four of them hadn’t seen one another since the Christmas holidays, so they caught up over drinks. Their relationship was amicable but superficial. All four were ardent Republicans, which meant any talk of politics was quickly addressed as they were all in agreement. Nora had met the Hellers in Los Angeles shortly before she and Channing were married. Robert was a plastic surgeon who’d been felled by a heart attack ten years earlier. He was fifty-two at the time, and from that point on had cut his practice back to two days a week. Gretchen was his first and only wife, also in her early sixties, but with the years artfully erased. She had big green eyes, white-blond hair, and flawless skin. Her boobs were fake, but not conspicuously so.

The Hellers were the first to buy in Montebello-a six-thousand-square-foot French Normandy house at Nine Palms, which in addition to the golf course offered one-acre parcels in a gated community with like-minded souls. Robert was a dumpling of a man, half a head shorter than Gretchen, bald, and apple-shaped. The two so plainly adored each other that Nora was often envious. Tonight she was especially grateful for their company because it kept the flow of conversation light and inconsequential. Nora managed to remain gracious while keeping her distance from her husband. At moments, she saw his gaze settle on her quizzically, as though he sensed the difference in her without being able to put his finger on it. She knew he wouldn’t ask for fear she’d tell him something he didn’t want to know.

They moved from drinks in the parlor to the dining room where they ordered their second round of drinks, menus open in front of them. There was a set selection of entrées at surprisingly reasonable prices. Where else could you order Salisbury steak or beef Stroganoff for $7.95, with a salad and two sides? These were foods from the 1950s, nothing trendy, spicy, or ethnic. Nora was debating between the pan-seared petrale sole and the roast chicken and mashed potatoes when Gretchen leaned toward Robert and placed a hand on his sleeve. “Oh my god. You won’t believe who just walked in.”

Nora was sitting with her back to the entrance so she had no idea who Gretchen was referring to. Robert glanced discreetly to the side and said, “Shit.”

Two men passed the table in the wake of the maître d’ who was leading the way. The first Nora knew by sight though she didn’t remember his name. The second was Lorenzo Dante. She dropped her gaze, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks. Despite his claim he might be there, he was the last person in the world she had actually expected to see at Nine Palms. She’d put the meeting with him out of her mind, refusing to think about the awkward transaction with the ring. She’d returned the ring to her jewelry box, wishing she hadn’t been so adamant in her refusal of the seventy-five thousand dollars. She should have taken it.

Nora leaned forward. “Who is he?”

Under her breath, Gretchen said, “Lorenzo Dante’s son. They call him Dante.” Then she mouthed, “He’s Mafia.”

Robert picked up on the comment and responded with impatience. “Good god, Gretchen. He’s not Mafia. Where did you get that idea?”

“The equivalent,” she said. “You told me so yourself.”

“I did no such thing. I said I did business with him once upon a time. I said he was a tough customer.”

“You said worse than that and you know it,” she replied.

The maître d’ seated the two men at a corner table, and Nora found Dante facing her, visible just over Channing’s shoulder. The juxtaposition was an odd one, Channing’s slim elegance in contrast to Dante’s more substantial build. Channing’s hair was white, clipped close on the sides with a short rough on top. His brows were almost invisible and his face was narrow. Dante was silver-haired and his complexion was a warmer tone. Dark brows, gray mustache, deeply dimpled cheeks. With his features lined up against Channing’s, she could see how pinched her husband looked. Maybe the strain of his secret life was taking its toll. Nora had always thought Channing was good-looking, but she wondered about that now. His face was drained of color and he looked like he’d lost weight. The waiter appeared at the table and they ordered their meal and a bottle of Kistler Chardonnay.