Purchase
J. P. Beaumont Series, #15
Avon
July 2002
Featuring: Jonas Piedmont Beaumont
416 pages
ISBN: 0380716542
Paperback (reprint)
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Chapter One
The blonde fixed me with an appraising eye that left me
feeling as defenseless as a dead frog spread-eagled on
some high school biology student's dissection tray. "And
what do you do?" she asked.
When the headwaiter had led me through the cruise ship's
plush, chandelier-draped dining room to a round table set
for six, four of the chairs were already occupied by a
group of women who clearly knew one another well. They
were all "women of a certain age," but the blonde directly
across from me was the only one who had gone to
considerable effort to conceal the ravages of time. I had
taken one of the two remaining places, empty chairs that
sat side by side. When I ordered tonic with a twist, there
was a distinct pause in the conversation.
"Very good, sir," the waiter said with a nod before
disappearing in the direction of the bustling waiters'
station, which was directly to my back.For the better part
of the next five minutes the conversation continued as
before, with the four women talking at length about the
generous divorce settlement someone known to all of them
had managed to wring from the hide of her hapless and, as
it turned out, serially unfaithful ex-husband. The general
enthusiasm with which my tablemates greeted the news about
a jerk being forced to pay through the nose told me I had
fallen into an enemy camp made up of like-minded
divorcées. So I wasn't exactly feeling all warm and fuzzy
when the ringleader of the group asked her question. The
fact that I was on a heaving cruise ship named Starfire
Breeze pitching and bucking my way into Queen Charlotte
Sound toward the Gulf of Alaska did nothing to improve my
disposition.
With little to lose, I decided to drop my best
conversational bomb. "I'm a homicide detective," I told
the women mildly, taking a slow sip of my icy tonic which
had arrived by then. "Retired," I added after a pause.
I had put in my twenty years, so retired is technically
true, although "retired and between gigs" would have been
more accurate. However, it didn't seem likely that
accuracy would matter as far as present company was
concerned. So retired is what I said, and I let it go at
that.
Over the years I've found that announcing my profession to
a group of strangers usually cripples polite dinnertime
small talk. Most people look at me as though I were a
distasteful worm who has somehow managed to crawl out from
under a rock. They give the impression that they'd just as
soon I went right back where I came from. Then there are
the occasional people who set about telling me, in
complete gory detail, everything they know about some
obscure and previously unsolved crime with which they
happen to be personally acquainted. This tactic always
serves to turn dinner into an unpleasant parlor game in
which I'm set the lose/lose task of coming up with the
solution to an insoluble mystery. No winners there.
Surprisingly enough, the blonde took neither option A nor
option B. Instead, she gave me a white-toothed smile that
was no doubt as phony and chemically augmented as the rest
of her. "My name's Margaret Featherman," she announced
cordially, standing and reaching across the table with a
jewel-bedecked, impeccably manicured hand. She gave me a
firm handshake along with an unobstructed view of a
generous cleavage.
"These are all friends of mine," she chirped. "We went to
college together. This is Naomi Pepper, Sharon Carson, and
Virginia Metz." As she gestured around the table, each of
the women nodded in turn. "The four of us are having our
annual reunion. And you are?" Margaret prompted, resuming
her seat.
She had a gravelly voice that made me want to clear my
throat. I pegged her as a smoker or maybe an ex-smoker.
"Beaumont," I told her. "J. P. Beaumont."
I didn't voluntarily elaborate on the Jonas Piedmont bit
any more than I had on my employment situation. Nothing
was said, but she frowned slightly when I said my name, as
though it displeased her somehow. It occurred to me that
maybe she had been expecting to hear some particular name,
and Beaumont wasn't it.Although the other three women had
been chatting amiably enough when I first arrived, now
they shut up completely, deferring to Margaret Featherman
as though she were the only one of the group capable of
human speech. Whatever it was that had disturbed Margaret
about my introduction, she regained her equanimity quickly
enough.
"Now that we're out from behind Vancouver Island, the
water is a little choppy," she allowed a few seconds
later. "I suppose your wife is feeling a bit under the
weather." She gave a helpful hint by nodding pointedly in
the direction of the empty chair beside me.
"I'm a widower," I said.
Again, that wasn't quite the whole story. If a wife dies
in less than a day, is her husband still legitimately a
widower? And if a first wife dies years after a divorce
and it still hurts like hell to lose her to the big C, are
you not a widower then? After all, Karen and I may have
been divorced, but we had two children together and were
still connected in a way no legal document could ever
quite sever. Even now I'm surprised by how much her death
continues to grieve me. Maybe if I were still drinking,
I'd be in such an emotional fog that I wouldn't notice.
But I'm not, so I do, and that wasn't any of this nosy
broad's business, either.
"My wives are dead," I added brusquely. "Both of them." So
much for winning friends and influencing people.
I expected the comment to shut her...