Lana turned and studied the patio.
"I have number twelve open," she declared as if it were an amazing accomplishment.
Why was it so important where we sat? I wondered. All of the chairs looked the same and the patio with its fountain and bright flowers looked beautiful no matter where you were sitting.
"Bellissimo," Dorothy approved. Lana started down the cobblestone patio and we followed until she stopped at a table nearly perfectly centered. Dorothy beamed with satisfaction and after we sat Lana handed us the menus encased in leather folders the same hunter green shade as the railings.
"We have an angel hair pasta special with red peppers and portobello mushrooms today, Mrs. Livingston."
"Oh, that's good. Merci."
As soon as Lana left us, Dorothy leaned toward me.
"This is usually a table reserved for movie stars," she said. "It's where everyone can see you."
"Oh." Why did she want everyone to see us? I wondered. It made me feel more self-conscious about my hair, my clothes, everything I did.
I looked at the menu. The prices were shocking. Everything was a la carte and the salads were almost as expensive as the entrees. Simple things were described so elaborately, I wasn't sure I recognized them. What was a heart of celery?
"Don't you think a second about the prices," Dorothy said, anticipating my reaction. "My husband Philip writes off everything I spend one way or another." She laughed. "He says since I do so much to help the American economy, the least the government can do is subsidize me."
"What does your husband do?" I asked. "I don't remember Holly telling me."
"He's an accountant and a financial manager with some very impressive clients," she replied, lifting her eyebrows. Then her face filled with the excitement of a starstruck little girl. "Oh, I think that's somebody sitting in the corner over there," she said, nodding right. I turned.
"Somebody?"
"A television star, right?"
"I don't know," I said.
"I'm sure it is. Well, let's see," she said, turning back to the menu. "Why don't we have the angel hair special after the goat cheese salad, okay? Do you like iced tea? They make it with a touch of mint."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please don't call me ma'am, Melody." She gazed around nervously to see if anyone nearby had heard. "That makes me sound so old. Call me Dorothy."
"Yes, ma' . . . Dorothy," I said and she smiled and nodded with approval, holding the brim of her hat as she did so. The waiter came. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent. I had trouble understanding what he said, but Dorothy had no problem. She gave him our order and added, "For favor," the Spanish for "please." I already had noticed how she liked to throw French, Italian and Spanish expressions into her conversation, flicking her wrist as she did so.
"I don't imagine you ate very well on the plane, did you, you poor thing?"
"I was too nervous," I admitted.
"That's okay. I'm always too nervous to eat when I travel. Philip's never too nervous to lose his appetite over anything. Now, let's get right down to your problem," she said, pausing only when the busb
oy brought us our iced tea. "As I understand it, you want to find out if this woman is your mother, a woman who came out here to be a movie star. You were told she was killed in a car fire and they even shipped her body back to Provincetown?"
"Yes."
"It sounds very, very complicated. I discussed it with Philip and he agrees we should simply hire a private detective. After all, why should a young girl go investigating such a thing?"
"Oh no," I moaned. "This is something I have to do myself. Thank you, but I do," I insisted.
"Really?" She stared at me a moment and then rolled her eyes. "Well, I suppose you can start yourself. I'll have Spike take you around. He's very good when it comes to weird things, as you saw, but you must listen to him," she admonished. "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you while you're my guest," she said. Then she thought about what she had said and added, "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you under any circumstances."
"Thank you, Dorothy. I do appreciate your concern for me and what you're doing," I said.
"Now, now, let's not think about it. I'll become deaf," she threatened again. I started to laugh. "So," she continued without catching her breath, "tell me more about my dear little sister. Does that crippled man still live with her in the rear of that hole-in-thewall shop?"