“I have no idea what that is.”
“Figure it out fast and err on the high side if you need to. It’s easier to return an overpayment than try to collect.” He leaned over again to kiss me and said, “And, honey, you look really pretty.”
I felt warm inside. I hadn’t felt really pretty in months, probably nine to be exact.
I drove to the Olympic Club on Country Club Drive. Judging by all the Mercedeses, BMWs, and Bentleys, I was more than out of place in my six-year-old Chevrolet Cavalier.
Oh well, Kate, just try not to sideswipe any of them.
The grounds of the country club were beautiful. There was a view of the manicured golf course from the top of the driveway. As I pulled up to the valet, I could see a few morning golfers grabbing their clubs. I’d never gotten into golfing, although it certainly seemed like the thing to do nowadays.
Could I land any clients by networking at a golf course? How do you get into golfing anyway? Does someone need to show you how? Like a coach or something? Or do you just get up and swing? How do you even get a reservation on the course?
Mrs. Avery waved to me from the entrance of the club, which was landscaped with blooming chrysanthemums. How did they keep them fresh so late in the season? Mrs. Avery looked completely in her element, dressed in striped golf pants with a coordinating polo shirt.
“Kate! Thank you for coming,” she said, wrapping a protective arm through mine.
She steered me toward the restaurant. The ceiling in the room was so high I got dizzy looking up. The red velvet high-back chairs stood at attention, like British guards, over the sparkling silver at each table.
Mrs. Avery squeezed my elbow. “Let’s get seated, then you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”
We were escorted by the host, a serious gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit, to a table in the corner. Mrs. Avery whispered to me that not long ago women had not been allowed into the Club.
The Club. La di da.
The host pulled out our chairs and made sure we were seated comfortably before disappearing. Instantly, an unblemished seventeen-year-old boy appeared and handed us menus. His hair was slicked back in a pompadour style and he wore a white dress shirt and black slacks. He looked me up and down.
What was he thinking? Was he wondering what I was doing in a place like this?
His eyes lingered on me. He blushed.
Oh! He was checking me out!
It had been so long since someone, besides that creep Rich, had looked at me that way, I’d forgotten what it was like. He averted his eyes. I smiled, remembering that Jim had said I looked pretty.
I sucked in my postpartum belly and sat a little straighter. I’d have to do the makeup thing more often.
“The smoked salmon is divine here, Kate,” Mrs. Avery said. She turned to the boy. “Two freshly squeezed orange juices, dear.”
He nodded and hustled off without even a look back at me. I guess I wasn’t that impressive.
I studied the menu, deciding on the “French Country” breakfast, a traditional omelet filled with diced potatoes, served with a green seasonal salad and sherry wine vinaigrette. My mouth watered reading the description. Mrs. Avery settled on the smoked salmon, served with squash cake, dill sauce, and a green salad.
What is squash cake?
Judging by the platters wafting by me, no doubt it would look good.
While we waited for our food, I presented my report to Mrs. Avery. A color-printed PowerPoint presentation of all the suspects, wrapped in a bright blue folio.
Mrs. Avery pulled her reading glasses from her purse and reviewed my notes, the pie charts, and graphs. “Wow! This is a very pretty report!”
“Thank you.” I beamed.
“What does it mean?”
Indeed. What did it mean?
I squinted at her and tried not to lose my nerve. “Well . . . it means that each person has an equal chance of being the murderer.”
She studied me over her reading glasses, her brow wrinkling. “An equal chance?”
“Well, it also shows that everyone had equal opportunity, but not equal motive,” I floundered.
She pointed to a pie chart on the report. “So you think Jennifer has the strongest motive?”
“Well, she was the other woman. And apparently, Brad visited her on the night he was killed.”
Mrs. Avery’s eyes filled with tears. “Why kill him?”
I covered her hand with my own. “Mrs. Avery, I know this is difficult.”
“I need you to be straight with me, dear. Don’t worry about my feelings. I hire someone else for that.”
Ouch.
“I think Jennifer may have killed him because he was leaving Michelle.”
“Isn’t that what she would have wanted?”
“She was in love with someone else. She could have thought Brad’s leaving Michelle would interfere with her plans with her boyfriend.”