Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel by Herta Feely Page A

woman added, “And Bill’s wife, among other things.” Then she actually winked at him like some 1950s starlet.
    Now he recalled who she was, though he knew her mostly from snippets of conversation with Isabel. Her shameless flirtation fit Isabel’s description. He smiled back at her. “Sure, sure. No problem.” With the Phoebe mess foremost in his mind, her upbeat attitude felt like a temporary reprieve. He couldn’t help welcoming her attention either. At the bar he ordered another Dewar’s on the rocks for himself and a glass of champagne for Sandy.
    When he handed her the fluted glass, she said, “Come on, let’s get out of here,” and gave his hand a tug as if she planned to flee the party. He half-wished he could go with her. Reluctantly, he said, “’Fraid I have to stay. Isabel’s one of the room parents.”
    Her brows knitted together in a little frown, then another smile bloomed onto her plush red lips. “Silly, I just meant let’s find a quiet place to drink.”
    â€œOh, of course,” he said, the heat of embarrassment pinking his cheeks. As he trailed behind her, his mind flipped into gear, convinced that he was entitled to enjoy her company – they were here to meet other parents, after all – but also that he might be able to glean some valuable information about Adams Morgan. Perhaps she knew something from Jessie. He hoped, though, that they wouldn’t run into Isabel before he could do a little digging. Surely she’d disapprove.
    Several rooms later, they entered a parlor devoid of people but filled with an astonishing array of original artwork, including a John Singer Sargent and an Andrew Wyeth. Ron ogled them. A baby grand piano stood at one end before an ornately curtained window.
    â€œHow about this?” she said, and drew him to a moss green velvet sofa. As they sat down, she purred, “I’ve been trying to get a word with you all night, Ron Murphy,” and laughed lightly.
    â€œFirst of all, I don’t believe you, and second, it’s Murrow, not Murphy,” he corrected her with an indulgent smile.
    â€œOh dear, I’m sorry.” She turned to face him, her knee touching his thigh as her mouth drew into another dimpled smile. “Really, Ron…Murphy, Murrow, does it matter?”
    He smiled. “I wouldn’t say that to everyone here. You know how people are in Washington. Names are important.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to embarrass her.
    â€œOh, brother, don’t remind me,” she said. “What a bunch of stuffed shirts, if you ask me. Now you’re not like that, are ya, Ron?”
    â€œMaybe just a little.” He smiled at her again and she giggled.
    â€œSo, how about Isabel? Are names important to her?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.”
    â€œNo,” Ron said quickly. “I mean…yes. What I mean is, of course she likes you.”
    â€œNow, Ron, I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said with a laugh, and gave his bicep a good squeeze. “Ooh, feel that,” she said.
    Watching her eyes dance, Ron knew what she knew: on occasion men loved to be teased and complimented. Though grinning stupidly as if to tell her he wasn’t immune, he also agreed with Isabel and felt a tad sorry for her husband.
    When a few people wandered in, Ron slid several inches away from her.

    It was understandable that people weren’t saying much about the afternoon’s event to her, so Isabel decided to find out what they were saying to each other. She drew Jane, one of her dearest friends since high school, to an out of the way spot to talk. Jane was also a Georgetown alum and the mother of a boy Phoebe had played with as a toddler. Isabel trusted her. “What have you heard?” she asked.
    Jane gazed at her. “Honestly, not much, but then people know