Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

I knew the voice. I turned to my left to see Jinx wedged between myself and the man sitting next to me.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I think you know darn well what’s up. There’s going to be a show after dinner. A slide show with photos you won’t want to miss.”

“Okay, Jinx. Are you sure you want to do this, though?”

“Positive.”

“Well, I can’t stop you.”

“Nope.”

“Have fun.”

Jinx flounced off. Kait had left to join the other state’s attorneys. White-coated waiters swarmed the tables, depositing plates of chicken, veggies, and rice before everyone. One glance at the chicken and I thought I’d get sick to my stomach. I ordered a second glass of wine.

“Why do they always have to serve chicken at these things?” I said.

“We’re on the Eastern Shore, Sam,” Jamila said. “And crab cakes were probably too expensive.”

I tried—really tried—to saw the chicken breast and eat little pieces. But there’s a reason they call these events “rubber chicken dinners.” Knowing what I did about the slaughter of chickens and migrant workers didn’t make things any easier.

I polished off my salad, rice, and vegetables, poked the chicken, and gulped my wine. I raised the nearly empty glass to flag a waiter down for another. He brought it, and I swallowed what was left before handing him the empty.

The room seemed stuffy and loud, but I felt good. Really good. Relaxed. I had another swallow of wine. I felt it go down and warm my belly. My face went hot. I picked up a program and fanned myself.

“Is it me or is this place hot as hell?” I asked Jamila, poking her arm and raising my voice above the din.

Jamila, who I’d interrupted mid conversation with someone, turned and looked at me. “Well, it’s a bit … You look … um, you look kind of …”

I laughed. “What? I look kind of … what?”

Her gaze drifted toward the wine glass in my hand. “How many of those have you had?”

I shrugged. “Who’s counting?” I laughed some more. Everything was funny.

“Maybe you’ve had enough wine.”

“Yeah,” I said. I looked around at all the lawyers. So many white faces. Then I looked at the waiters. So many black faces. “Maybe I couldn’t possibly drink enough.”

Jamila placed a hand on my arm. “Is something wrong?”

My head was buzzing. I thought about telling her. Confession was good for the soul, wasn’t it? But once the toothpaste was out of the tube …

I started to speak, when a speaker crackled to life on the podium.

“Okay, everyone. While they’re serving coffee and dessert, let’s bring this meeting to order. Now, before we get underway—”

“Hold it!”

The voice that rang out from the back of the room was Jinx’s. She rushed up to the dais, clutching a laptop with a small projector, and whispered something into the emcee’s ear. She placed the equipment on the table near the podium and fired it up. The emcee frowned and hovered near, but she elbowed him aside and stepped up to the mic. A hush fell over the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jinx said into the mic. “It is my sad duty to inform you that the president-elect of this organization has engaged in acts of moral turpitude.”

“Hmmph,” Jamila said. “Who knew she could even use that word in a sentence?”

I smiled and said nothing.