Herbert Solomon forced the groom to sign a prenup that would leave him high and dry after the ceremony. Might he be talking big for Beatriceâs benefit?
âIt doesnât matter what I believe,â Beatrice said. âGo home and let me figure out what to do. Donât make a move until I call you. Got that?â
Her voice was like broken glass; so different from the chipper greeting Iâd heard before.
âIf you say so, but Iâd rather stay here with you.â
âI told you . . . go home. Stay there until I call. Donât even think about coming back or trying to contact me.â
âBut I canât go back there.â His voice softened to a whimper; like a puppy dog begging for a treat. âThe rentâs due and I havenât got it.â
âNot again.â Although I couldnât see a thing from my hiding spot, I imagined Beatrice shaking her head. âWhat happened to the money I gave you last month? Donât tell me you blew it already.â
âItâs those acting lessons, Bea. They charge so damn much. How can they expect us to pay for it? They know weâre starving artists, but they donât care.â
âWhy do you always come to me for it? I donât have any more money than you. Guess you should have asked your fiancée.â
âYou know how her father was, tightfisted bastard. Iâm only two weeks behind. Thatâs all I need. I promise Iâll pay you back. Every dime of it.â
More rustling, and then a hand slapped something on a bar stool not too far away. Hallelujah I was up to date on my prayers, or else Iâd want to confess something right then and there and beg God to hide me. As it was, I simply held my breath and hoped for the best.
âThere. Thatâs all I have,â Beatrice said. âTake it. But donât ask me for anything more until the end of the month.â Her voice quieted. She must have stepped away from the bar. âAnd be careful. The police are probably checking out your apartment now.â
âI will. And Iâll pay you back. Promise.â
âYeah, right. Any day now.â
Finally, the bar fell silent. I snatched up the Tampax, along with some Altoids and my cell phone, and tucked them all in my purse. Not that I wanted to overhear a private conversation, mind you, but I couldnât very well have stood and excused myself to go use the ladiesâ room. No, proper etiquette dictated I let them finish their little chat, even with me listening from not more than four feet away.
Surprising how different Beatrice sounded. She couldnât have been nicer to Ambrose and me, while she sounded ready to bite that guyâs head off and spit it out the nearest window. More like a parent giving a scolding.
Not that either of them sounded a bit sorry Trinity was dead. They seemed put out, inconvenienced. Like they wanted to save their hides instead of find out who murdered the young bride.
Which meant Iâd have to chew on their words, along with some biscuits and gravy, at breakfast. As if on cue, my stomach growled, so I smoothed down the cloche before straightening and moseyed over to the maître dâ stand.
Sure enough, Charles stood sentinel behind the wooden podium as fresh-looking as one of the linen tablecloths draped over the tables.
âMorning, Melissa. Is your friend still upstairs?â
I focused on closing my purse so the tension had time to dribble from my face. No need to let Charles think something was wrong. âNo. Heâs not coming this morning. He had to put out some fires at his shop yesterday, and he never made it back. And please call me Missy.â
âWill do. And thatâs too bad about your friend.â Charles led me through the restaurant to a table near the window, where he expertly scooped up the unneeded place setting.
âHis assistant canât seem to get along without him,â I said. âSomeday