Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (top books of all time txt) 📗

away. Funny thing though, the ones on the service stairs, underground parking, and all the auxiliary sectors worked just fine. However, while the main building cameras were working—including elevators, corridors, and lobby—for about an hour they failed to record.”

“Let me guess, and that was between seven and eight? Who is in charge of security? Oh my god... I bet it’s that awful doorman, the gold buttons creep. Am I right?”

“No clue. Why are you calling him a creep? What did he do to you?” She searched her bag with one hand while I searched my bruised ego to figure out why I so despised the doorman. Brenda found her e-cigarette thingy before I found my answer. Maybe I wasn’t being fair to Gold Buttons after all. Maybe he was just exceptionally dedicated to his job.

“Well? Found your answer yet? Maybe he didn’t do a thing to you, but you resent him because you couldn’t do the open house or anything else as you had planned. In other words, you’re blaming the doorman for your problems, while the only event to derail your open house was the unfortunate drowning of that young woman.”

Wow, deep down I knew Brenda had touched a nerve, mine. In retrospect Gold Buttons did nothing to attack me He was executing his duty at maximum performance. God, I sounded like a pompous, annoying ad from the Wall Street Journal. Actually, pompous and annoying described the doorman’s behavior to perfection.

“She didn’t drown. She choked on her vomit,” I said it loud and fast, as if diminishing the impact it was bound to have on Brenda by my not lingering on the manner of death.

She dropped her e-cigarette and slammed on the brakes. So much for diminishing the impact.

“If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s not appreciated.”

“How can you not know? Bob didn’t tell you? It must have made the news, otherwise where would Kassandra get it from?”

Brenda had managed to retrieve the e-cigarette from the floor of the car and apparently had lost her craving for it. Both hands clutched the steering wheel, while she tried to keep a normal speed. It was ten in the morning, and the traffic was light. A white Volkswagen with huge plastic antlers attached to the side mirrors passed us, “Jingle Bells” blasting from the open windows. I found myself smiling imagining what my mother would say at such a sight. That was another thing that endeared me to this great country. Freedom of expression.

None of that improved Brenda’s mood, though. Her lips were still pursed, her knuckles still white. “You should have told me,” she hissed.

“How? I was already in bed when Kassandra called. What’s the big deal? You act like you were the one who spoon fed the poor girl whatever she threw up.”

“Exactly.”

Exactly? “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Look at me,” she said. “Just look at me. For the first time since I started my catering business I dare to wear the appropriate apparel. I’m finally free to tell the world about my talent, free of pursuing reporters looking to quote me while I proudly expose my logo. Do you know what’s going to happen if indeed there is someone from the media snooping around The Nest? I can see the headlines now, victim chokes on her own vomit. Did she consume her last meal at the party catered by B&B Catering? After all, the event was at Kay Lewis’s residence, Ana Martin’s known benefactor.”

I couldn’t close my mouth. I couldn’t breathe normally, the irony of the situation too obvious. I looked at my clothes, I had on a black-zippered imitation suede jacket over my favorite red sweater, sort of my holiday staple.

“I could lend you my jacket.” My attempt at appeasing her.

She side-glanced at it or at me—I didn’t know which and didn’t care. How could I have possibly imagined any of this? Brenda kept her eyes on the road. We were now but minutes from The Nest, and Camelback road looked more like a parking lot than a main road. Blame it on the season and the proximity to The Biltmore Fashion Park.

And then I watched a transformation. Her fingers relaxed, her breathing returned to natural rhythm, and she said, “Screw it, so be it. Let’s hope they have Robin from Good Morning, America there so I can share some of the recipes I prepared for Kay’s dinner that Thursday night. I can use all the free publicity I can get.” She rolled her eyes, looked at the ceiling of her Honda. “You hear that, You upstairs? Bring it on. I’m sooo ready.” She turned into the official main entrance of The Nest where it appeared unmarked police cars had taken over.

EIGHTEEN

“WHERE AM I supposed to park?” The subdued tone of voice spoke volumes about Brenda’s state of mind. As for myself...maybe I should have gone to the office.

The Honda sat smack in front of the fancy lobby, more or less in the same spot where Double Wide had surrendered the keys of his Maserati to the doorman’s zealous hands the evening of the party. And suddenly I asked myself where he had gone after leaving his car. Bob said that Miss Martin died between seven and eight o’clock.

“Can you park in the garage like you did before?” I asked.

“I guess. Pain in the behind,” she grumbled. Just then one of the sedans I assumed to be unmarked cop cars backed up and moved toward the exit. Without hesitation, Brenda changed gear and rushed to squeeze her SUV into the vacant tight spot. “Maybe our luck just changed, for the better.” She sighed.

Since I was just along for the ride, I didn’t pay too much attention to her predictions. Instead I asked myself if I could catch a ride to Desert Homes. Maybe with Kay? In spite of all those cars, I couldn’t see a soul around—until we crossed through the beveled glass doors.

“It sure looks different by day,” Brenda said.

An older man wearing a