Abe sighed. “Water under the bridge, huh? So if it was aimed at Davina and Uda through the person of the baby, no one is ever going to enlighten us.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, Bera managed to make the situation between the sisters look as logical as necessary, which shot a part of Horrie’s case down in flames. Poor old Horrie! He’s not used to a Bera.”
“He’d better get used to a Bera,” Carmine said grimly.
Delia came in, shaking snow off her monkey-fur coat and setting the gold threads aglitter. Underneath, her tubby body was sheathed in scarlet wool appliquéd with weirdly shaped patches of shiny plastic in black-and-white checks. Even Abe blinked; it was definitely one of Delia’s loonier days. Thank God she had not been called during Uda’s trial! It had brought out the most manic side of her dress sense ever.
“So Sirhan Sirhan admitted he shot Robert Kennedy,” she said, sitting down with numerous squeaks from the plastic patches.
“That was last Monday, Deels,” Abe said.
“I know, but I haven’t exchanged more than a hello with you since Uda’s trial started.”
“Sirhan couldn’t very well claim he was innocent. He stood right next to Kennedy and shot him in the head.”
“That doesn’t stop them pleading not guilty.”
Carmine flung his hands in the air and went home.
Desdemona’s mood was improving; winter was almost over, the crocuses had come and gone, the forsythia was a mass of yellow, and Master Alexander James Delmonico was walking and talking. Desdemona had had an inspiration stemming out of her own childhood and the inevitable fate of the eldest child: she was going to get rid of her Julian blues by making him mind Alex.
“And I don’t care how much he grizzles,” she said to her husband triumphantly. “He can grizzle up hill and down dale, but he is still going to get rid of his excessive energies by minding his baby brother. I am in the process of brainwashing him.”
“You awful woman,” Carmine said, staring.
“Yes, I am, aren’t I? Nessie O’Donnell rang me to say that the trial of Uda was a complete fizzle.”
“Grizzle, fizzle — where do you get these words?”
“Ask Delia. Her potty papa was a don in English etymology or some such thing. A fizzle, yes?”
“Yes, but justice of a kind was done. She’s innocent.”
“Good. Nessie also told me that the reviews of Jim’s book are appearing. Publisher’s Weekly and — um — the Kirkus Review, I think she called it.”
“And?” Carmine asked eagerly.
“Raves. The twenty-thousand copies have all gone already, Max is printing twenty-four hours a day,” Desdemona said, sitting to enjoy her one drink. “Oh, Carmine!” she burst out, “in three months we’ll be sitting on the deck to have our drinks, sniff the air and watch the ships in the Harbor!”
“Yeah, winter is a bummer, but it does get itself over. What else were you going to say about Max and Davina?”
“Dreadful man, dragging me back to the straight and narrow. Max and Davina have it sewn up, I’d say. Netty Marciano told me that Max has a network of smaller book printing firms lined up to help produce Jim’s book if Tunbull Printing can’t keep up with the orders.”
“Millie looks blooming,” Carmine said, deflecting her from grasshopper mode. “She was a great witness — cool, logical, right down on the jury’s level — they liked her. She’s put on enough weight to be curvy, and she wore a different dress every day. Things that suited her. Nice shoes, nice bags.”
“Was Jim there too?”
“Of course, though he wasn’t called.”
“Millie’s coming to have coffee with me next Wednesday.”
Carmine’s head lifted. “Why?”
“Cooking tips.” Desdemona’s lovely smile transformed her plain face. “When it comes to cooking, I am the East Holloman sybil. Millie will turn up with a fat notebook and several pens, and take notes on everything I say. Scientists make excellent cooks, at least the female ones.”
“Where are our kids?”
“Outside in the snow. Cat and dog on guard duty.”
“I did an imprudent thing back in January,” Carmine said.
“Who and how many are coming to dinner when?”
“You are a sybil! Date not set, nor urgent. M.M. and Angela, Doug and Dotty Thwaites, John and Gloria Silvestri. Eight, including us. I know you like that number.”
“Why not the Hunters?” she asked. “I don’t mind ten.”
“Best not,” he said easily.