Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) by Julie Smith Page B

see what he thought. My mom answered: “Rebecca, thank God! Your father wants to talk to you. Are you all right, darling?”
    I said I was, and Daddy came on the phone. “My daughter, the celebrity,” he said. “Your name’s all over the radio.”
    “Not as much as it’s going to be. Daddy, did Mom tell you they’ve arrested a suspect? And that I’m his lawyer?”
    “Yes.” His voice was serious. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
    “I think so. Listen, here’s what I did. When I got home, every reporter in town was here. So I denounced the police department and made emotional protestations of my client’s innocence. Do you think I went too far?”
    He laughed—deep, rumbling, appreciative guffaws. “What’s the harm? The worst that could happen is the D.A. could claim prejudice and ask for a change of venue if the case gets to trial. But what’s the big deal? You’re doing fine,
bubee
. You’re your father’s daughter.”
    “You’ll watch, won’t you?”
    “Sure. Six o’clock?”
    “I don’t think so. More likely eleven.”
    There were no more ways to put it off, so I called Parker’s folks. The cops had told them about Carol; this was for Parker. His mother answered.
    She didn’t interrupt me as I identified myself as Parker’s lawyer, explaining the position, and assured her there was nothing to worry about, the police didn’t have a decent case, and I was sure he’d be released. “I see,” she said. Her voice trickled from the receiver like ice water. “Are you sure he has competent legal counsel?”
    Did I need that?
    I counted to ten, quick, and didn’t decide till I got to seven whether or not to let her get away with it. “Mrs. Phillips,” I said finally, trying not to sound as icy as she had, “I know you’ve had several bad shocks today, so perhaps you aren’t aware that you’re being insulting.”
    “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I didn’t realize what I was saying. I suppose I had a snobbish urge for a—for someone well known. There is a criminal lawyer named Isaac Schwartz, I believe, who…”
    “He’s my father,” I said.
    “Oh. Well then. You must be with the same firm.”
    “No, but I’ll see that Parker has the best advice I can give him. If he isn’t satisfied, he can fire me. Fair enough?”
    “Very well. Thank you for calling.”
    My hand shook as I put down the phone. Why had I admitted Isaac Schwartz was my father? Hoping a little of the glory would rub off on me? Bad form, Rebecca. And a thoroughly unpleasant encounter. I didn’t know what ailed Mrs. Phillips, but I supposed she was either rich or well-born. One or both of these things sometimes makes for haughtiness.
    I turned on the TV and didn’t see myself. Then I went into the bathroom to start getting ready for dinner with Jeannette, pausing to squeeze the rug at the bottom and pluck a few more feathers off.
    Jeannette always wanted to dine at the Washington Square Bar and Grill. This is a North Beach hangout that has not won coast-to-coast acclaim for its fine food, but its clientele is supposed to be very “in.” And since Jeannette was very “in,” she liked to be seen there. The place is a plum-colored womb with white tablecloths, dark wood, and plenty of light, so everyone can see who’s there.
    I walked the five or six blocks from my house, preceding Jeannette by about five minutes. She bustled in, arms flying, making her purple cape a perpetual motion machine that slapped at passing waiters. “I simply cannot believe it about Kandi! We were all together not two hours before it must have happened, and then you…” She stopped, apparently to spare my feelings.
    “You heard it on the radio?” I asked.
    “Yes. Tell me everything.”
    “Let’s sit down first. Did you make a reservation?”
    She had. In moments, we were seated at a good table with a liter of white wine on the way. For the umpteenth time, I told my story. The wine came, and we both ordered petrale, and it