Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (Kitty Norville 5)

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

I offered my hand, and he shook it. I wasn’t sure he would.

“And one more thing, Ms. Norville. The next time you think sneaking around backstage is a good idea—you might reconsider.” He turned back to his props without a second glance in my direction.

My smile froze, and once again I reflected on the nature of paranoia. I slipped out of the theater as quickly as I could.

My parents were flying in this afternoon. Ben and I were supposed to meet them for dinner at the Olympus. I rushed, worried that I was keeping them waiting. And I still hadn’t had a minute to sit by the pool with my froufrou drink. Tomorrow, before the wedding.

God, the wedding was tomorrow? I suddenly felt like I had compressed about three weeks’ worth of activities into the last two days. But if I could make it to tomorrow, I’d finally be able to relax. Ben and me both.

I shouldn’t have worried about keeping my parents waiting. When I arrived at the restaurant—after once again glancing around for glimpses of Sylvia and Boris—they were already seated, munching on appetizers. Ben was nowhere in sight. I took a moment to call him, but his phone rolled over to voice mail. I tried not to be annoyed.

I was kind of weird in that I liked my parents. Of course, the fact that I wasn’t living with them anymore might have made getting along with them a lot easier. I couldn’t help but admire them, at least a little. They’d been married thirty-five years and still held hands in public. I could only hope to be so lucky.

I slipped into one of the empty seats in the booth across from them. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Gail Norville, my mother, beamed. “That’s all ri

ght, we went ahead and ordered something and were having a very nice chat. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to this trip. I’m so glad Dr. Patel said I could come.”

Mom wore a wig. If you didn’t know you couldn’t tell, because it was the same ash-colored graying blond as her own hair, and well done. Mom was like that—tasteful and very put together, and she wasn’t going to let a little thing like cancer disturb the order of her universe. She wore a soft blue blouse and skirt and comfortable-looking sandals. Trading her usual pumps and heels for the walking sandals was the only other concession to her illness.

Right at the moment, though, she didn’t look sick. Her cheeks had color, and she was smiling at my father, Jim Norville, a tall, athletic man in late middle age. He wore a polo shirt and slacks and was beaming just as hard back at my mother.

“We came here for a weekend right after we were married. It was kind of a joke—we didn’t want to wait twenty years for a second honeymoon. We were just remembering.”

After all this time I was still learning things about my parents. Mostly things I didn’t want to know. “I feel like I’m interrupting,” I said. “You want me to go?”

She gave me her “don’t be silly” look. “The town has changed so much since then,” Mom continued. “This was before all the big theme hotels went up. It’s like a big amusement park now.”

“Where’s Ben?” my father said, glancing around like my fiancé was hiding and not like it wasn’t perfectly obvious that I’d arrived alone.

Off gambling like a two-bit hustler. “He should be here any minute,” I said instead.

“Oh, when your father and I came here we were attached at the hip. You couldn’t pry us apart for a second.” There they went, making puppy eyes at each other again.

“Well, you weren’t trying to put on a TV show at the same time,” I muttered.

“That’s true, and I’m sure the show is going to be just great. I can’t wait to see it. And how are the plans for the wedding coming together?”

The weekend’s real priority. Of course, if Ben did better at that tournament than he thought he was going to, we might end up watching the finals ringside instead. But wasn’t that the beautiful thing about Vegas? We could have the wedding any time we wanted—we just had to find a drive-through chapel. My mother would freak. “Everything’s on track, except it’s at six now instead of two.” Please don’t ask why. . .

“Oh? Was there a problem with the earlier time?” Mom said.

“No,” I said, shrugging and trying to play it cool. “It just worked out better that way.”

“And you have a dress?”

“It’s hanging in the closet in my room.”

“And a photographer? What about a photographer—”

“Mom, this is why we picked Vegas. We don’t have to worry about anything but showing up. The chapel takes care of everything. They’ll even have a cake.”

She sighed and looked unconvinced. I suddenly felt like I had robbed her by not letting her help plan a big wedding.

I held my temples. “I’m not going to apologize for getting married in Las Vegas, okay?”