"Most people are."
Sutton clutched his camera tight against his chest; for a moment it almost seemed that he would kiss it. "Well, now we've caught 'im in the lie."
"Congratulations."
"Ben, you wait. There's gonna be a way to squeeze that guy. And there's gonna be a way to find out what's in that notebook."
———
"No more for me," said Debbi, as she placed her hand over her wineglass, her long red nails cantilevered out across the rim. "New leaf. Workout every morning. No liquor while the sun shines. A little wine at night, three, four glasses tops, and that is it."
Arty was holding the bottle of Dolcetto near her wrist, and now he didn't quite know what to do with it. He glanced around the table. No one's glass but his was empty, so he somewhat sheepishly refilled it. Talking about murder had rattled him; Vincente's smoldering bitterness, suddenly flaring, had left him parched. He knew he was drinking a lot, though the awareness was getting vaguer all the time. He ate sausage; it had fennel seeds that warmed his tongue. The peppers had a tiny bit of crunch left in them, the potatoes were dotted with thyme and were perfect for mopping up the cayenne-tinted oil from the meat. "Debbi, you're a terrific cook," he said.
"I'm not," she said, "but thanks." She raised her glass and clinked with Arty. In his elevated state he wanted to believe there was something intimate in the gesture, some private and therefore sexy contact. "It's more a survival of the bachelorette kinda thing," she said. "Ya get hungry enough waiting for Prince Charming to sweep y'off to veal marsala, ya learn to throw some things together."
'Too modest as usual," said Joey, trying to create an ease he did not feel. But it was his and Sandra's dining room; in his mind he was responsible for everyone's good time.
"Modesty is a lovely thing in a woman," said Vincente with a courtly nod toward Debbi. He too was engaged in the silent heroics of the dinner table, struggling not to show his troubles and sour the digestion of the others.
"And a very rare one in a man," said Sandra.
Joey gave her a sideways look but no one picked up on the repartee. Like other avenues of talk, this one seemed to dead-end at the most shadowy hint of anything that might perhaps have had to do with Gino. The man had a gift for squelching conversation even when he wasn't there.
Forks clicked on plates, sausages were pierced with juicy little popping sounds. Then Arty said, "So Debbi, how long are you staying?"
She shot a quick shy look at Sandra, then said, "Don't really know. Playing it day by day."
Arty dabbed his lips on his napkin. "Anything special ya wanna do, see, while you're here?"
Debbi shrugged. It was a wonderful shrug, all involving, a little goofy and full of curiosity. Her plucked brows lifted along with her shoulders, her blue-green eyes opened so wide that white showed all around, and the lashes spread so they were pointing almost up and down. "I dunno. The beach, the Sunset Celebration. . . . What else is there to do?"
Arty noticed that his glass had somehow gotten empty again. He filled it, then looked over at Joey and Sandra. "Ya tell her about the Key deer?" he asked.
The host and hostess shook their heads. Somehow they hadn't got around to talking flora and fauna.
"Ah, Debbi," he said. "You'll love this. The way you love animals. ..."
He paused to sip his wine, and in that moment each of them felt, hid, and tucked away a twinge of sweet surprise. Debbi was always surprised when any man bothered to remember anything she'd revealed about herself. As for Arty, it just that instant dawned on him that he was flirting. He hadn't flirted in a long time and he didn't realize he remembered how.
"This deer," he went on, "it's only in the Keys and nowhere else. Smallest deer in the world. 'Bout the size of an Irish setter."
Debbi pictured that and laughed. "You're making this up, right?"
He liked hearing her laugh; he wanted to make it happen more. "Antlers? Little toy antlers. Up north, y'ever see a baby azalea bush in winter, those little twigs? That's what the antlers are like. Fawns look like retriever puppies but with spots."
The redhead pulled her eyebrows in, scanned his face for signs of a hoax. Her skin was getting flushed with the pleasure of uncertainty. She turned to Sandra. "Is he making this up?"
Sandra raised her hands, the gesture said Leave me out of this.
"Nah," said Arty. "Thirty miles up is where they live. Place called No-Name Key."
"Now I know you're making it up," said Debbi.
They cocked their heads at birdlike angles and held each other's eyes. A long moment passed as they each tried not to be the first to giggle. Then the air moved, rumbled, got ready to carry sound. The Godfather said very softly, "Ahty, it's true?"