LITMIR.BIZ

      10

      A gracious lady, Davida accepted her chauffeur’s proffered hand, resting her fingers lightly upon his wrist as if ready to dance the minuet. Carefully she stepped up from the curb, waiting until she had one foot in the limousine. Then she turned to her young driver, eyes gliding down his well-built body, and handed him twenty dollars.

      “There will be a slight delay, Albert. Why don’t you get yourself something to eat.”

      The chauffeur, whose name was Russ Donnally, thanked her and pocketed the bill in his uniform pants. After scrounging to earn a buck for years, Donnally had landed a pretty good gig. A friend of a friend had told him about the position. The old lady not only paid decently, but she had tucked away a fleet of bitchin’ cars—a drop-dead Rolls Silver Cloud III, a Bentley Flying Spur, a new Bentley Turbo, and two old Packard touring sedans. And of course the limos. Cars he was allowed to start up and take out. He just loved to cruise the streets, girls giving him the eye. Big beauties like these machines had definite advantages. He’d fucked more than a few babes in backseats as large as a double bed.

      As far as Davida went, the old broad was okay. She never asked personal questions—too busy talking about herself or checking out his crotch. Just as long as he did the old lady’s bidding and tossed her compliments, she was happy as a hype in a pharmacy. Donnally didn’t like being called Albert—Alberts were skinny old bald dudes with English accents—but hey, no job was perfect.

      “Thank you, Miss Eversong.” Donnally eased his mistress into the car and glided a palm over a crown of slicked-back black hair. “Can I get you something to eat?”

      “No, Albert, I’m not due to eat again until noon. Mustn’t let my girlish figure go to seed.”

      “That would be criminal, madam.”

      “Albert, you’re a shameless flatterer. Keep it up.”

      Donnally smiled. “When should I be back?”

      “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”

      “You got it, Miss Eversong.” He waved good-bye and shut the door.

      Davida sighed and studied her nails.

      “That boy is a repulsive worm, Mother. Why do you keep him?”

      “Because I’m whimsical.” She turned to her son. “And he performs my assignments well. Which is more than I can say for you. Frederick, she was beaten up, the poor child! What happened?”

      “I don’t know!”

      “You should know!” Davida opened the compartment door to a built-in nail set and pulled out an emery board. “You were the last one to see her.”

      “She was absolutely fine when I dropped her off. You make horrid insinuations, Mother! I would never hurt her—”

      “Just shut up, Freddy, and turn on the overhead light. The interior’s dark and I can’t see a thing.”

      Brecht ran his handkerchief over his face and flipped the switch. “Something must have gone wrong—”

      “Damn right something went wrong. On top of this shit with Lilah, my jewels are gone.” She filed an index finger furiously. “God, that pisses me off!”

      “Whoever took your jewels must have hurt Lilah.”

      “Whole thing makes me sick!”

      “Why are we waiting around, Mother?”

      “A detective wants to talk to me about the jewels.”

      “The tall redheaded man?”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t like him.”

      “Of course you don’t. He’s competent.”

      “Go ahead and insult me, Mother. And the next time you need an errand boy, call Kingston. See if he drives up to Malibu.”

      Davida laughed loudly and patted his knee. “Do I detect a note of fraternal competition in your voice? Now just because you’re adopted doesn’t mean I don’t love—”

      “Mother, if I hear that speech one more time, I’ll throw up!”

      She patted his knee again. “Poor Freddy. I do grate on your nerves. The detective should be down soon. I’ve made it quite clear I value my time. I’ll describe my jewels to him; then we can all go home and forget about this mess.”

      “I’m not very comfortable about the police nosing in our affairs,” Brecht said. “I’m surprised you are.”

      “Frederick darling, be logical. He’s not nosing in our family affairs, he’s trying to solve a crime. He’s interested in Lilah … and maybe he’s interested in my jewels, too. If he happens to become sidetracked, I’ll sic some reporters on him. Last thing the police need—especially in this area—is press. In the meantime, let him look for Lilah’s attacker. I’m not hiding anything.”

      “I’m not either, Mother.”

      Davida blew air on her nails. “Then we’ve both got nothing to worry about. Stop fretting, Freddy. If things get complicated, I’ll take care of it—and you. That’s what mothers are for.”

      “Forgive me if I don’t nominate you for the Mother of the Year award.”

      “Freddy, don’t be so mean. You don’t have the knack for it.” She kissed his cheek. “You know my sharp tongue. It’s just an unrestrained ego talking.”

      Brecht flicked his wrist and checked his Rolex.

      Davida said, “Pressed for time?”

      “A bit.”

      “You mean you actually have patients?”

      Brecht turned red. “Lilah asked me to stop by the spa and make sure things were running smoothly. And then, yes, Mother, I do have patients. As a matter of fact, I have an untold amount of patience for you.”

      Davida regarded him. “A pun, Frederick! How very Noel Coward of you!”

      Brecht glared at her. “Mother, I think I’ll take a cab back to the spa. If you’ll excuse me …”

      “Frederick, before you go, could you press back my cuticles for me. I want my nails to look nice when I shake the red-haired detective’s hand.”

      Marge thought: Ten-thirty and the women had already been exercising for three and a half hours. Sweat streaming down their skin as they marched and kicked and squatted and made hundreds of arm circles to head-banging metal music. Enough physical activity to send a heart into overdrive. Yet, for the spa, the day

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