CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) by Lawrence de Maria

journalist and we’ve always hit it off. Fran nudged him and he galloped to my rescue.
    “It’s all right, Eloise,” he said. “Mr. Rhode is with us.”
    Eloise looked dubious. Nobody had ever given her a freebie in her life. But she wasn’t done with me. She’d caught sight of the cash in my hand and whipped out a raffle book faster than Wyatt Earp on a good day.
    “Well, then, the least you can do is buy a raffle ticket for a chance to win a cruise to the Bahamas?” I’m pretty sure people in Bayonne heard her. “It’s $5 for one, $25 for a whole book.”
    I gave her $25.
    “Darling,” I said. “Fill in your own name on the stubs.”
    She looked startled. But now she had a freebie.
    “Sorry about that,” Bob said, as we headed toward one of the four bars set up in the cavernous hall. “Nancy told me you were coming. Hell hath no fury like a volunteer who thinks someone is trying to cheat their not-for-profit. Eloise can be a pain, but her heart is in the right place.”
    “As is her wallet, I presume.”
    We had reached the bar.
    “You’re a cynical bastard, Alton.” He looked at the bartender. “Two Beefeater martinis, straight up. The way I like them.”
    That meant that the vermouth was only barely allowed in the same room.
    “And, as usual, you are right,” he continued. “She is one of our biggest contributors and the Harbor is in her will.” He handed me my drink and raised his glass. “To Eloise.”
    “She should be working security at JFK.”
    “It’s the only job we can give her. We tried her as a docent, but her tours were a disaster. She knows her stuff, but people were suffering hearing damage during her spiels. Look, Fran is giving me the high sign. I’ll catch you later.”
    I was content to hover near the bar and exterminate any hors d’oeuvres that entered my killing zone. Unlike some executive directors, Nancy fed her guests well at her events. Martha Stewart would have approved her selection of canapés. I was often tempted to replace a tray of Beef Wellington with a smuggled-in platter of pigs in a blanket just to see her reaction.
    I looked around the room, which was filling up. I spotted a tall good-looking black man in a tuxedo who I recognized from news photos as Spencer Bradley, president of Wagner College. His selection the previous year to run the school, which had never had a black administrator and even today had few black professors, had been a surprise. He was quickly putting his own stamp on the college, even to the point of hiring non-educators to manage the educators. I’d been told that spurred considerable grumbling from entrenched professors. Which I thought placed Bradley firmly on the side of the angels.  

CHAPTER 8 – HORS AND PEDERASTS
     
    I was on my second martini when I spotted Nancy across the floor, near one of the other bars. She noticed me at the same time and waved. One bar is as good as another, I figured. When I got nearer I saw she was talking with Clive and Lucille Pendergast. Lucille was a nice lady, but lost her battle with Krispy Kremes a long time ago and nobody would have blamed Clive, a financial advisor, for stepping out on her or spending so much time on Botanical Garden business. But Clive, who was on the Executive Committee, liked to step out with underage boys. That was his secret, and ours. He’d never been convicted, or even charged, in New York, but I’d found a few nolo contendere deals he cut in Illinois, Ohio and Pennsylvania as he and the long-suffering Lucille made their way east.
    “Well, if it isn’t Clive Pederast and the lovely Lucille,” I said.
    Clive blanched and Nancy looked daggers at me at first, then suppressed a smile.
    “It’s Pendergast,” Lucille said brightly.
    She was blotto, as I knew she would be.
    “That’s what I said.”
    Clive’s color had returned but he was looking at me with suspicion. I tried to liven the conversation by asking him if had seen the latest Harry Potter movie and