Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

Three

Of course Melanie Joan had arranged for us to be seated at a table that seemed to be the exact geographic center of the front room, in the most visible and best-lit part of Davio’s. Of course she showed up a half-hour late.

While I waited alone at the table, I pondered the fact that this was what passed for a big night out for me these days, first with my father and now with the author of her current best seller, Burning Excess.

When Melanie Joan did finally show up, I saw that she had on a bright red dress and a hat I could have sworn had been worn by the woman whose horse had recently won the Kentucky Derby, and won Spike a whole pile of money in the process.

It was like every entrance I’d ever seen her make, into any room, including the ladies’ room. I wasn’t sure how many people in the room knew exactly who she was. Just that she was Somebody. At least some of the women turning their heads to follow her slow progress toward our table on the arm of the manager, Armando, surely had to recognize their favorite author, whether they admitted that or not. It was unlikely that any of the men did. Martha Stewart probably had more male readers than Melanie Joan Hall did.

“Please sit down!” Melanie Joan commanded when I stood to greet her, rising up out of what must have looked to the room like a supplicant’s chair. “I don’t want everybody to think I’m having dinner with my daughter.”

She quickly air-kissed me in the general vicinity of both cheeks. I couldn’t identify her scent as easily as I had my father’s, just knew instantly that it was pretty damned wonderful.

We had been given a table for four. Melanie Joan took off her hat and placed it on the chair next to her. Somehow not a single hair was out of place after she did.

“You look beautiful, Melanie Joan,” I said to her.

She smiled, almost sadly, I thought.

“What was it that Scott Fitzgerald said at the end of Gatsby?” she said. “We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly to our plastic surgeon.”

“Pretty sure it’s borne back into the past,” I said.

“Oh, don’t I wish, darling.”

It had been more than two years since I’d last seen her, when she’d stopped in Boston on her last book tour. I assumed she’d had more work done since then, but, as always, it had been artfully done. Being a trained detective, I knew how old she was, and at the same time knew how difficult she’d made it to find out her actual age online.

But to be in the age range she very much wanted people to think she was, only sneaking up on AARP, her first novel would have to have been published when she was in the third grade.

It was clear, once the small talk began, that she would be taking her time telling me why we were here, despite having made it sound like a matter of life and death.

“How’s your cute better half?” she said.

I grinned. “Rosie?”

“You know who I mean.”

Apparently everybody except our waiter wanted to talk about Richie Burke tonight. Somehow he was with me even when he wasn’t, as if we were together even when we were not.

“Richie’s fine. And no, we’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not doing what you were about to ask if we’re doing.”

“And what about your other other?”

“If you are referring to Chief Stone,” I said, “he is currently doing what I’m not doing with Richie with a red-haired vixen named Rita Fiore.”

“The lawyer?” Melanie Joan said. “I believe I used her one time.”

“Well, now Jesse is.”

“Now, now,” she said. “All’s fair in sex and war.”

She ordered a cosmopolitan and insisted that I join her. From past experience, I knew it was best to acquiesce. And I’d always thought cosmos were yummy. I knew she would get to what she needed to get to at her own pace. Hey, I thought. She’s the writer.

Melanie Joan raised her glass when the drinks arrived and proposed a toast to strong, single women.

“Yes, to us,” I said, feeling as if I ought to chime in.

“I was only talking about you,” she said.

She put down her long-stemmed glass then. And in that moment, she was no longer the glam queen of Fem Lit and burning loins, as the sculpted and perfectly made-up face turned almost solemn.

“So,” she said.

She was staring past me, as if something completely fascinating were happening at the raw bar.

I waited.

“I really am afraid I’m in trouble again, Sunny,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“I’d rather not,” she said.

“Force yourself,” I said.

“We can talk about it after dinner.”

“I can manage both,” I said. “I’m the kind of multitasker that makes young multitaskers aspirational.”

“It’s not funny!” she said in a voice loud enough that I saw people at the nearest tables do some head-swiveling.

“I’ll be better able to judge that when I know what ‘it’ is,” I said.

She lowered her voice now, leaned forward. Fewer lines in her forehead than when I’d last saw her. I hadn’t given in to Botox. Yet.

“Someone has accused me of literary theft,” she said.

I let that settle for just a moment before I said, “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

Piece of cake, I thought.