Pushing Up Daisies

'What's happened?You mean Chiaramonte?' Richard seemed genuinely surprised, but it had occurred to me, too. 'I'm sorry, of course, but he has nothing to do with the Historical Society. He's not even a member. And we have our own responsibilities—don't we, Paula?' Richard finally released his hold on Jon's shoulder and left us, to welcome Congressman Win Fifield and his entourage.

'No thanks necessary, sir,' Jon called after him loudly, for others to hear. He rotated his shoulder. 'Quite a grip.

'You clean up nice,' he said to me.

I'd taken an old Nicole Miller out of mothballs, one of those little black numbers that'll look good forever; and since no amount of sunscreen keeps all the sun off a gardener, I had a little color.

'Thanks. Please tell me I haven't created a monster.'

He pretended not to understand.

' 'A mother's anguish'?'

'Give me a break. A month ago, the biggest news around here was the invasive hogweed story. I've earned this. We've earned this. I've got my editor eating out of the palm of my hand thanks to you.' He gave me a little toast and downed his drink.

'We're sniffing someone out, I can feel it,' he said, reminding me I was his coconspirator. 'Don't play innocent—you called me, remember? Besides, a little press—it's got to be good for your business.'

'Right—landscaping, water gardens, exhumations. I can hear the phone ringing now.'

'I'm getting another.' He snorted. 'Want one?'

'Sure. Red wine.'

Jon walked to the bar, and I was briefly alone. I looked around for Babe or Lucy, who'd dropped me off, then gone to park the car. As I scanned the gallery I couldn't help but feel that if we interviewed everyone in the room, we'd have all the answers to the baby mystery, Yoly Rivera's disappearance, and the stabbing of Guido Chiaramonte. I felt someone behind me. I turned, expecting to see Jon or Lucy. Instead it was Mike O'Malley.

'I was thinking the same thing myself,' he said.

'What?'

'We should just question all of them. Right here.'

'How on earth did you know what I was thinking?'

'I'm the detective, remember? Actually, you said it ever so softly. You do know that you talk to yourself?'

'Damn. Another secret out in the open. You won't tell?'

'I'm very discreet. Ask anyone. You look good to -night. Different.' He squinted, as if trying to figure out what it was.

It wasn't the dress or the flame job on my toes. It was the blow dryer. At Lucy's insistence, I'd resurrected the dusty Conair from underneath the bathroom sink. Unused for almost a year, it started up like a new car.

It was scary how quickly one could slip back into the tyranny of blow-dried hair. Instead of pulled into a ponytail, plastered against my skull, and stuffed under a hat, my long auburn hair was sleek and shiny and tucked behind one ear.

'No baseball hat, that's it. I don't think I've ever seen you without one,' he said.

'It took me an hour to rub the Knicks logo from my forehead,' I said, not comfortable discussing my appearance with the cop. What was next? My skin? My boobs? 'I don't suppose you've had any success finding a witness to confirm Hugo and Anna's story?'

'I'm afraid not.'

Just then, Jon returned with our drinks. 'Hello, Michael.'

'Jonathan.' To me, Mike said, 'I'm not much for parties. I just made an appearance to show my community spirit. I'll see you tomorrow around eight, then?'

I had no idea what he was talking about but found myself saying, 'All right' as he left to mingle with a knot of people just to our right. Out of the corner of my eye, I found Lucy and signaled for her to join us. She and Jon exchanged CVs and theories; Jon was instantly smitten. As if her looks weren't enough, Lucy's experience in reality-based programming had him lapping at her feet and inundating her with questions.

'Hey, Jimmy Olsen, come up for air,' she said. 'This is a party, isn't it? Or have I once again been brought here under false pretenses? Make yourself useful and get me a glass of something, okay?'

Jon left to do her bidding before she finished speaking.

'Nice kid,' she said, used to having acolytes.

'Maybe.'

'Not my type, of course, too young. And there's something peculiar about that beard.'

I cut her off because her new servant was back in a flash with her drink.

'I thought the Jeep was big,' she said smoothly, as if we'd been talking about cars in Jon's absence. 'There are SUVs outside bigger than my apartment.'

'Like they all need them,' Jon added. 'Most of these folks don't do anything more adventurous than going to dinner without a reservation. I've got a Sunbeam Alpine,' he said, trying to impress her.

'A Sunbeam? Is that so?' she said, not really caring since she didn't know a Sunbeam from a Sunfish. 'I had to park near a bunch of cardboard crosses, too. What gives?'

'That's Arlington Cemetery. Memorial Day is coming.' I was about to explain the suburban phenomenon of Holiday Harry when Springfield's illustrious congressman came into view.

Lucy recognized him right away.

'He's even sweatier in person,' Lucy said, rolling her eyes in Win Fifield's direction.

Jon chugged some more wine. 'And the blonde next to him? That's his mother.'

'Wow. What's her doctor's name?' Lucy said.

As we made juvenile, mean-girl remarks, a young woman purposefully walked toward us. She had chin- length, blunt-cut hair, apparently requiring her to keep her head at a 45-degree angle at all times. She wore a dark, conservative suit and sensible shoes. The only hint of a personality came from her flaming red lipstick.

'That's Jess Colford,' Jon whispered. 'Loser's top aide. He'd be operating a car dealership if it weren't for her. Be careful: those ruby lips hide fangs.' He dragged Lucy away, ostensibly to introduce her to someone, but I sensed it was to avoid a face-to-face with Colford.

Her eyes followed Jon and Lucy, but she quickly returned her gaze to me. 'My name's Jess Colford. I'm an assistant to Win Fifield.' Colford had a textbook handshake—not too long, not too short, not too personal. I could imagine her practicing it on herself. 'The congressman would very much like to meet you.'

The fangs were well hidden, so I thought why not (as long as Fifield didn't think I was going to hop into the backseat of his convertible). The small cluster of hangers-on parted as Colford and I penetrated the congressman's inner circle.

'Ms. Holliday, so pleased to meet you.' Win Fifield extended a moist, hammy hand; I fought the urge to wipe mine after we shook. 'Richard has spoken very highly of you. Very highly. And I understand from my mother that you've already increased the property values in her neighborhood with the job you've done.' What a joker.

So far, he wasn't too horrible, just predictable. Then I noticed Jess Colford watching him like a hawk, as if they had rehearsed even this innocuous little greeting.

Three people from Nutmeg magazine converged on us and asked permission to take our picture. I only hoped it was a full-length shot so my freshly lacquered toes would be immortalized; Lucy would be so pleased. Jess Colford deftly plucked the wineglass from the congressman's hand and glided out of the frame.

'Unfortunate business, early on. Tragic, really,' he continued, when the photographer left. 'And now, of course, this other matter . . . very troubling. An honest, hardworking businessman . . . cut down in his prime, our —my thoughts and prayers go out to his family. . . .'

He was winging it now and babbling idiotic, soundbite cliches. Chiaramonte was a lot of things, but honest and hardworking were not among them. And he had no family. Not as far as anyone knew. With impeccable timing Colford stepped in to the rescue. 'Congressman, you'll want to say hello to Mayor and Mrs. Pilkington. You will excuse him.' She pushed him off toward the Pilkingtons, with a few words in his ear, probably reminding him what