Fatal Reservations by Lucy Burdette Page B

this be enough to get him killed? Clearly, as I had learned from the conflict I witnessed in the city commission meeting, performance at Sunset was a serious business.
    I got out my computer, fired it up, and noticed I’d missed a Skype call from my mother. I dialed her number.
    Her face appeared on my screen, looking haggard and tired. “Oh good, it’s you,” she said. “We are so sick of staring at each other—we were hoping you would call.” She adjusted the position of her iPad so that Sam came into view. He, too, looked pale, his face drawn as though he’d suffered, which he probably had—in more ways than one.
    “Tell us what you’ve been up to—we’re sure it’s more interesting than what we have to tell you,” Mom said.
    “Miss Gloria and I took a spin around Mallory Square right before Sunset, remember?” We’d talked about this only a couple of hours earlier—could be the strain of caregiving was turning her brains to mush.
    “Oh, I love Sunset,” Mom broke in with a mournful wail.
    Sam patted her knee and forced a smile. “You’ll be back soon, I promise. I could always hire a visiting nurse.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother snapped. “All they’d do is take your vital signs. They won’t actually take care of you. Besides, I want to be here, with you, until you’re all squared away. Or at least until there’s only one of us left standing.” She kissed him on the ear.
    “Back to Sunset,” I said, gritting my teeth. It was still a little challenging to watch my mother’s newish relationship unfold on the screen in front of me. “Of course, Lorenzo wasn’t there. We chatted with Tony, who was giving advice to some new performers who didn’t seem so thrilled to receive it.” I shrugged and described the conversation, hoping to divert them from their problems. “Maybe you two can help me. I’ve been thinking a lot about competition among the players at Sunset. I mean, how do you even make a living?”
    “They’re not paid to perform there, right?” Sam asked. “It’s all based on tips?”
    “I think that’s right,” I said. “So position is everything. And the quality of your act, too. I wonder if there’s ever been a case of copyright infringement between jugglers?” I laughed. “Sam, I’m certain this is not exactly your area of the law, but maybe—”
    “He’d love to delve into something like that,” Mom said. “What can I do?”
    “How about some research on Bart Frontgate?” I suggested. “Who was he before he became a juggler and where did he come from?”
    “Done!” said my mother, looking more cheerful already. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”
    I stiffened. “Nothing. When is it?”
    “This weekend,” Mom said. “Tomorrow. If you don’t have a reservation by now, you probably won’t get one. But wait, aren’t you going to that new place?”
    I groaned. “I don’t have a date.”
    The words “I’ll loan you mine” slipped out of Sam’s mouth so quickly it stunned us all. Then we started to laugh.
    Lorenzo’s little white cat crept out from the shadows and I patted my lap, inviting her up. After several reassuring clucks, she made the leap. And launched her rough little kitten purr almost as soon as she’d landed.
    “This is Lola,” I told Mom and Sam, holding my computer so the cat appeared on the screen. “Lorenzo’s new kitten. I’m worried sick about him. Lorenzo, not the cat. He doesn’t have a murderous bone in his body, so why would he run?”
    “He’s panicked about something,” Mom said. “We’ll figure it out.”
    Once we’d hung up, I e-mailed Wally. Texting was too blunt of an instrument to do this delicate job.
    How’s it looking for the weekend? Could you possibly get here tomorrow for floating restaurant? Palamina made a reservation for four. I was thinking of asking Connie and Ray. Then back here for dessert?
    I pressed send and then began to surf the Internet, looking for information