“Which probably ensured that he’d always have a soft spot in his heart for her,” I said, remembering how he’d helped Savannah fill her baggies with fried chicken and cornbread on Thursday night.
It was almost dark when I left for the restaurant and the Ragsdales had not returned with Lynnette. The coq au vin had cooked and cooled and still they didn’t come. Dixie was striding back and forth in her living room and beginning to think such anxious thoughts that it was taking all of Pell’s gentle reasoning to keep her from calling the police.
“But what if they’ve decided to go ahead and just take her back to Maryland with them?” she said fearfully.
“Never,” Pell scoffed. “The girls are probably having so much fun that they’ve lost track of time.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but did Evelyn leave a will?”
Dixie nodded. “Soon as Lynnette was born, I nagged them both till they went to an attorney.”
“Who did she name as guardian in the event they both died at the same time?”
She didn’t want to say it.
“She named his sister, too, didn’t she?”
Dixie’s head came up defiantly. “And what if she did? I don’t care, Deborah! She never expected it to happen this young. She was thinking
“You’re going to be the same age when that time comes,” I said mildly.
“I’ll be here,” Pell said with his crooked smile. “I’m two years younger. I’ll help her cope.”
I could make the usual arguments, but how valid would they be?
Besides, from my time in domestic court, I know that families come in all flavors these days.
Truth to tell, they probably always did.
20
« ^ » “
J. Basul Noble’s is located across from the Radisson in what could have been a clothing store, judging from the full-length front windows. The interior walls were painted to suggest a stone farmhouse somewhere in Tuscany, the farmhouse perhaps of a prosperous peasant. Trompe l’oeil windows overlooked pleasant gardens and primitive “paintings” of naively drawn farm animals decorated the walls. The heavy walnut side chairs had rush seats and a rooster carved in the middle of each back. The dishes were colorful pottery pieces handpainted in rustic Italian patterns.
The snowy tablecloths, the soft lights, the flash of jewelry, the hum of conversation, the entrancing smell of herbs in unfamiliar combinations—it was a heady mix of money and power at play.
I later learned that there was a more casual jazz bar downstairs, but upstairs was clearly the place for fine dining during Market, the place to see and be seen.
By the time I’d driven downtown and found a place to park my car, it was a few minutes past eight when I approached the maitre d’.
“Judge Simmard’s table?” I asked.
“Oh, good,” said Elizabeth Patterson from behind me. “We aren’t the last after all.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Patterson, Mr. Patterson,” said the maitre d’, beaming at the three of us indiscriminately. “You aren’t late at all. Judge Simmard has only been here a few minutes himself. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Easier said than done in that crush. The tables and chairs were so closely placed that we almost had to turn sideways to pass between. Happily, Judge Simmard’s table for eight was near the front of the room—probably so that his wheelchair would disrupt the fewest possible diners as he came and went. We were tightly jammed against the wall, but surrounded by fewer tables.
The men were in dinner jackets and black tie. Elizabeth Patterson wore a beautiful champagne silk organza shirt-dress with long full sleeves and gold embroidery on the cuffs and collar. Her diamond earrings were even more stunning than her rings. The other woman—in the confusion of round-robin introductions, I wasn’t sure if she was Mrs. Simmard or Mrs. Craft or, indeed, neither—wore an understated rose brocade evening suit.
I was in my all-purpose black raw silk that could be dressed up or down. Local judges often invite me to dinner as a courtesy when I’m in their towns, and I never know if I’m going to find myself at a country club or sitting on a stool in a strip mall’s bar-and-grill, but this dress can handle either. The skirt is short and the front has a simple square neckline that looks great with my chunky silver necklace. With the jacket, the dress is proper enough for a church funeral; without the jacket, narrow straps crisscross a back cut so low that I have to wear a special bra. Silver earrings, black stockings and high heels complete the look—and the look I got from my dinner partner, Mr. Han (“Call me Albert”) Shu-Kai assured me that my dress could certainly hold its own with those of the other two women, with or without diamonds.
Superior Court Judge Cicero “Chick” Simmard frankly looked like Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, but he was an affable and considerate host. On my right, next to him, was Mr. Han, CEO of a Singapore company that exported huge amounts of rattan and wicker furniture to the U.S. On my left was Lester Craft, a thin, friendly-faced man with dark curly hair and glasses. Beyond him were Elizabeth Patterson; a robust Californian named Bob Something, who headed an international robotics company; Jay Patterson; and the soft-spoken woman they called Nancy, whose last name and connection I never did quite understand.
That’s the trouble with tables for eight (tables for ten are even worse). Eight for dinner may be fine in a quiet private home, but dropped down in a crowded restaurant? There’s no way, short of yelling, to be heard across the table, so you settle for conversation with the two on either side of you at best
