The Alibi

Chapter 24

“You know, Davee, that this is in very poor taste.”

“Very.” Davee Pettijohn was practically purring with self-satisfaction as she traded her empty highball glass for the full one the roving waiter brought her. “As I told you before, Hammond, I refuse to be a hypocrite.”

“Your late husband’s funeral was only yesterday.”

“God, don’t remind me. What a freaking dismal event that was. Weren’t you just bored out of your gourd?”

In spite of himself Hammond smiled and thanked the waiter for his own made-to-order drink. “They’ll be talking about this for years.”

“That’s the general idea, sweetheart,” Davee said. “This little soiree was meant to offend all the bitches who’ll be gossiping about me no matter what I do. Why not go all out?”

The gathering could hardly be called a little soiree. The lower level rooms of the Pettijohn mansion were teeming with friends, acquaintances, and hangers-on who were too flamboyantly rebellious in their own right to give a fig if the widow threw a party the day following her husband’s funeral or not. There was no way it could be misconstrued as a wake. It was a highly improper, ill-timed bacchanal, which, of course, was the general idea.

“Wouldn’t this make Lute furious? He’d have a stroke.”

“He did,” Hammond remarked.

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot that.”

“Did he have warning of a pending stroke?”

“Blood pressure readings off the charts.”

“Didn’t he take medication for it?”

“He was supposed to. But it made his dick limp, so he stopped taking it.”

“And you knew that?”

She laughed “What do you think, Hammond? That I caused him to have a stroke? Look, it was his own damn, stubborn fault. He said if it came to a choice between screwing or blowing a gasket, he’d choose blowing a gasket.”

“The stroke didn’t kill him, Davee.”

“No. The bastard was shot. In the back. Here’s to the one who did it.” She raised her glass.

Hammond couldn’t drink to that, and it made him uneasy that she could. He turned his attention back to the party. They were standing on the second-floor gallery, an excellent vantage point from which to watch the merrymaking. “I don’t see any

of the Old Guard here.”

“They weren’t invited.” She sipped from her drink, smiling wickedly. “Why spoil their pleasure of speculating on all the sin and iniquity taking place?”

The party would supply the gossips with plenty of material. The rock band’s amps were maxed out. The catered food was ample. Liquor was in even more abundant supply. Drugs were available, too. Earlier Hammond had recognized a well-known dealer who had eluded conviction numerous times.

He spotted a bestselling novelist who’d recently come out of the closet. In celebration of this liberating decision, he was overtly making out with his date for the evening. Their unabashed public display might have drawn attention, except for a stunning young woman nearby who was showing off her newly augmented breasts to a group of avid admirers who were invited to touch and test.

“She paid too much for those,” Davee remarked cattily.

“Do you know a discount boob doctor?”

“No, but I know one who would have done a better job.” Hammond looked at her askance, and she laughed in her throaty, sexy way. “No, darling. Mine are all me. But I’ve slept with him. He’s a lousy lover, but when it comes to his work he’s an absolute perfectionist.”

Hammond gave her a once-over. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“What?”

“Have you taken up belly dancing?”