Blackfoot Affair Part 8

"Charlie telephoned this morning and asked if I wanted to be recalled. He was worried about the shooting, and I could have taken the opportunity to extricate myself from this mess."

"What did you say?"

"No."

"Then you must want to stay."

"I can't bear the thought of not seeing Jack again," Marisa whispered. "But I'm so scared."

"You know," Tracy said thoughtfully, "Bluewolf is not opposing counsel and he's not the nominal plaintiff either. He's just an adviser. Technically there's no reason you can't see him socially."

"I'm not sure Charlie would view it that way," Marisa commented dryly.

"You're as familiar with the ethical rules as I am. You know I'm right. You're using all of that bar a.s.sociation mumbo jumbo as an excuse because you're afraid to deal with your feelings for this guy."

"That's what Jack said. More or less."

"He's right. You should call him."

"Perish the thought."

"What are you going to do, march back into court in ten days and act like none of this ever happened?"

"I have no choice."

"Boy. I'm going to have a ringside seat for this one."

"You, my dear, are going to be up to your ears in Florida reporters at the library."

"Oh, come on, you have to let me audit in court sometime."

"We'll see. And in the meantime, we're driving over to Crystal River today to depose the ex-custodian of the Seminole cemetery. He lives in a mobile home park there with his granddaughter."

"Busy, busy," Tracy said, picking up the menu again.

Marisa did not have to wait for the resumption of court proceedings to see Jack again. She and Tracy were having dinner in the hotel restaurant on Sunday night when he walked in with a statuesque redhead on his arm.

"Don't look now," Tracy confided over her chicken cordon bleu to Marisa, "but himself just arrived with Brenda Starr."

"What?" Marisa asked, taking a sip of water.

"I said, Don't turn around but Jack is here."

Marisa stiffened but kept staring straight ahead. "Where?"

"Over your let shoulder, heading for a table in the corner. And he has a six-foot, auburn haired Amazon with him."

"Tracy," Marisa said in exasperation.

"It's true. Well, five ten anyway, and she's wearing flats. Who the h.e.l.l is that?"

"How should I know?" Marisa said testily.

"What a coincidence that he brought her here for dinner," Tracy said cynically.

"This hotel has one of the few decent restaurants in town," Marisa pointed out evenly.

"Oh, and I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that you're staying here. Seems like he decided to let you know you had some compet.i.tion."

"How does he look?" Marisa asked.

"Has he ever looked bad?" Tracy countered. She speared a slice of ham and then dropped her fork on her plate. "I'm going to find out who this new arrival is," she said decisively, rising.

"Tracy!" Marisa hissed, but it was already too late. Tracy was halfway across the room. Marisa briefly debated the merits of a flying tackle and then subsided, contemplating murder instead. She pushed pieces of lemon sole around on her plate for an eternity until Tracy returned.

"I am going to flay you alive," she said flatly, as Tracy resumed her seat.

"Tut tut. Don't you want to know what I found out?" Tracy replied smugly, picking up her napkin.

"What did you do, get her to fill out a questionnaire?"

"Certainly not. I went over there and presented myself, expressing my regret about the Jeff Rivertree situation. Mr. Bluewolf, gentleman that he is, of course then had to introduce his companion."

"Well, who is she?"

"Aha. So you are curious."

"Tracy, you are close to getting my knife in your nose," Marisa said in a dangerously calm voice.

"All right, all right. She's a reporter from the Miami Herald. He's doubtless giving her a biased earful on the situation here."

"Doubtless."

"Anyway, they seemed real chummy. I think he knew her before this, maybe from some of his previous work or something. I wouldn't worry too much about her. I think she's had a nose job."

Marisa had to laugh. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"A nose that perfect never existed in nature."

"What about Catherine Deneuve?"

"Well, there couldn't be two. And I'm sure she dyes her hair. Lovely Lady #32, Gentle Auburn. I detected roots."

"Did you take her blood pressure while you were at it?"

"And that dress is a knockoff, you can always tell."

Marisa stared at her balefully.

"What's this?" Tracy said brightly. They looked up to see the maitre d' bearing down on them with a wine bottle deep in a bucket of ice and a towel draped over his arm.

"Compliments of the gentleman over there," he said courteously, gesturing, and then displayed the bottle.

Marisa couldn't look, but Tracy waved enthusiastically in the direction of Jack's table.

"Stop that," Marisa said to her in a low tone.

"Good stuff," Tracy observed, examining the label.

"Please tell the gentleman, no, thank you. We don't drink," Marisa said primly.

"I drink," Tracy said.

Marisa kicked her under the table.

"But madame..." the maitre d' protested.

"Take it away," Marisa said firmly.

The man departed.

"You're no fun," Tracy said.

"I am not swilling down that man's liquor after he..." she trailed off into silence.

"You're just in a jealous snit because he showed up here with Miss Tallaha.s.see," Tracy said. "Or Miami."

"I am not jealous."

"Uh-oh," Tracy hissed.

"What now?" Marisa said despairingly.

"He's coming over here."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

Before Marisa could gather her wits Jack was at her elbow.

"Don't you like Chardonnay?" he inquired mildly. He was wearing a beige raw silk jacket with tailored slacks and an open s.h.i.+rt.

"I have no intention of drinking your wine," Marisa said flatly.

"Why not? It was just a friendly gesture."

"We're not friends."

"Some people might say that sending it back was the graceless impulse of a spoiled brat," Jack said flatly.

"Some people might say that sending it over here in the first place was the flamboyant gesture of a self satisfied prig," Marisa replied.

Tracy was transfixed, her head moving back and forth between Jack and Marisa as if she were observing a tennis match.

"Your a.s.sistant here could teach you some manners," Jack said.

Tracy sank a little lower in her chair.

"An ape could teach you some manners," Marisa observed crisply, shoving her chair back from the table.

"Where are you going?" Jack inquired.

"You' re the mystery writer, you figure it out!" Marisa stalked past him and he followed her out into the lobby. From their respective tables, Tracy and Jack's erstwhile companion stared after the two of them in amazement.

Marisa charged into the ladies' room and Jack was right on her heels. A blue haired matron gasped as Jack appeared in the mirror behind her. She dropped her lipstick into the sink.

"Relax, madam. I'm harmless," he said to the woman, holding up his hand.

"Don't you believe him!" Marisa snapped.

The old lady retrieved her lipstick and hurried to the door. "I'm calling security," she said huffily.

"You, madam, are perfectly secure," Jack said dryly.

The woman departed hastily after favoring Jack with a withering look.

"You're making a fool of yourself," Marisa said to him.

"Like you did yesterday morning?"

"I see that you recovered from that episode pretty fast," Marisa countered.

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"Why did you choose to dine here this evening?"

"I suppose you think my coming here had something to do with you," he said.

"A suspicious woman might come to that conclusion."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Drop dead." Marisa swept around him and through the door into the lobby once more. He shot out onto the tiled floor right behind her. Tracy was leaning against the wall outside the rest room and observed their pa.s.sage with interest.

"Stop following me," Marisa said, rounding on Jack furiously. She caught sight of Tracy and added, "I'm going up to my room. Would you take care of the check?"