“So, Clara. What have you been up to for the past fifteen years?”
The bartender flipped down cocktail napkins. Neutral and cool, Bailey adjusted hers a millimeter to the right.
I aimed for a light tone. “Mmm. A husband, six jobs, huge stretches of boredom. You?”
She laughed. “No husbands, lots of school and two jobs. Huge stretches of boredom. Not so dissimilar.”
“Two?”
“I did a stint with the DA, then switched sides to criminal law. How’d we lose touch, anyway?”
“This morning you claimed Ethan Olsen broke us up.”
“Oh, poor Ethan.”
I shook my head, not sure why I disagreed with her assessment. “I can’t remember why we both wanted him. Was he smart? Good-looking? Or did I just want him because you wanted him, and you wanted him because I did?”
“I really did want him. He had that scruffy musician charm, you know? Didn’t his band play at one of the school dances?”
The bartender placed two chilled glasses with olives on the bar, and, with a great flourish, opened the martini shaker and poured. Bailey thanked him gravely, then lifted her glass in a toast: “To old friendships. May they live long and prosper.”
Then she frowned, shook her head, and clinked glasses with me. The bartender set out a tripartite bowl of snacks: olives, nuts, pretzels.
I said, “Ethan designed tee shirts, too, didn’t he? I seem to remember buying one and being so proud that I’d gotten it before you.”
“That black thing with the band’s name in silver script and a skull, right? I might have one of those in my bottom drawer.”
“You dirty sneak.” I took a sip of my drink and let the gin linger on my tongue, while I figured out if she was friend or foe by seeing if she would dish on someone else. “Bailey, I had a strange run-in with Hetty the other day.”
“You and the rest of town.”
“She intimated we were nasty to her in school. Do you have any memory of that? She still seemed pissed about it.”
“That’s not hard to believe.” The statement had multiple sharp edges. “It was Ethan Olsen.”
“You’re making that up.”
“No, I’m not.” She leaned forward, eager. “Remember that dance his band played? Hetty came in that awful red dress with the flower on the shoulder.” A picture formed of the dress, the evening. “She was sweet on Ethan. You and I showed up in designer jeans and spiky boots.”
“Right,” I said. “Every time the band took a break, we swooped in on Ethan. Hetty tried to be part of it—stayed close to the stage, danced near him, and she came with us once on a smoke break. She even volunteered to buy us cigarettes, didn’t she? Sort of pathetic.”
“We were dumb and self-absorbed.”
“Cruel, too,” I said. “I remember making fun of that shoulder flower.”
“You said it looked like Sears put chiffon through a blender.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Your shame blocked it out.” She reached for her drink, then hesitated. “I do remember thinking, though, that it was you she wanted, not Ethan.” She sipped and tipped her head back in pleasure. “If I had an addictive personality, I would surely be a martini alcoholic.”
“Hetty had a crush on me?”
“That never occurred to you? It would explain why she still hates your guts.”
“No, it never occurred to me. Why did it occur to you?”
“Something about the way she looked at you. I don’t know. Why does anyone ever intuit this kind of stuff? That’s your arena—intuiting things. I just remember thinking it.”
“If it’s true, it makes me feel even worse for her.”
“Gives a whole new spin to a ‘woman scorned,’ doesn’t it?”
I snorted. “You are so full of yourself!”
“Good thing you’ve returned to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
Friend or foe? Now was the moment. “Bailey, someone broke into the house last night, left a couple of voodoo dolls.”
Her shock seemed genuine. “You’re okay? The house?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m just creeped out.”
“Is that why you’re asking about Hetty? She’s nuts, but…how would she have gotten in?” She paused for another sip of her drink. “People say she’s into witchcraft or maybe black magic, but I don’t think she picks locks.”
“I’m not sure I locked the house. I thought I did, and that’s what I told Chief DuPont, but…”
Something started clicking away behind her eyes. “Any other suspects? Like me, for example?”
I fished an olive from its gin bath. “While it’s the kind of prank you loved to pull off as a kid, we’re not kids anymore. Besides, the other doll had Hugh’s picture on it. That’s cruel, and I’ve never known you to be cruel.” I paused, gave her room to respond. She adjusted the cocktail napkin another millimeter.
“So who then?” she asked.
“It has to be related to Mother’s arrest—someone warning me off?”
“Your mother has made a fair number of enemies over the years.”
That was news. “Like who?”
“You want me to email you a list?”
“Would you?” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“Ouch,” she said.
I couldn’t get a read on her. Was she serious? Or were we just old friends trading bitchy comments?
I changed the subject. “Speaking of my mother, I found an address in one of her books.” I recited it.
The red nail started picking at the napkin. Little bits littered the bar top. “It’s a stable. You should know that place. Hetty’s mom owns it. Loretta, remember her? She’s married to your Dad’s partner Ernie.”
“Mrs. Gardner married Ernie Brown?” No wonder the name and address seemed familiar. “Why don’t I know this?”
She sipped her drink.
“Don’t answer that.”
She watched me carefully, as if the answer to her next question would determine something for her. “You going to check it out?”
“It was penciled into a book on psychological trauma. I thought it might be important. Want to come?”
She nodded once, seemed satisfied, drained her glass. “Your mom’s trial, you know there’s no guarantee she’ll get a not guilty verdict.”
“She’s not a murderer, Bailey.”
“Everyone is capable, even us.” The red nail drew a line in the air connecting
