A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess Page B

mall.”
    â€œAnything else going on?”
    All systems went on red alert, but I managed a careless chuckle and said, “This and that. Any developments with your mother and the diabolic suitor?”
    â€œNo, she keeps babbling about his virtues and he keeps taking her to expensive restaurants. He’s been dropping hints about giving her an engagement ring for Christmas, but I made her swear not to do anything rash until…”
    â€œHell freezes over?” I suggested.
    There was a profound pause during which I could hear only the rush of his breath on the mouthpiece. Finally he said, “Until Leslie gets here tomorrow and she and my mother can have a long talk about Myron.”
    â€œLeslie? Is she an old friend of your mother’s? A college roommate or sorority sister?”
    â€œLeslie’s my ex-wife.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou heard me. Leslie and my mother became close friends, and since the divorce they’ve continued to call and visit each other several times a year. When I told Leslie about Myron, she offered to come as soon as she could. I’m picking her up at the airport at noon.”
    My hand was trembling as I grabbed the glass and took an unladylike swallow of scotch. “Did your mother call her or did you?”
    Peter took his time responding to my extraordinarily reasonable question. “Yes, Claire, I called her. To answer your next question, I didn’t know her telephone number off the top of my head. I found it in my mother’s address book.”
    â€œDid you?” I managed to say with only the slightest trace of frost. “How convenient that she could drop everything and come dashing to your aid. She must be very fond of your mother.”
    He either missed the edge in my voice—or opted to ignore it. “It wasn’t convenient. She had to make all kinds of arrangements and wheedle her boss into letting her take some days off. She called a few minutes ago to say her travel agent had scrambled around and found a seat on a flight tomorrow. I offered to pay for it, but she wouldn’t hear of it. A ticket at the last moment costs a bundle.”
    I decided not to point out that Leslie may have believed that martyrdom was the first step to canonization. My knowledge of saints was limited to Saint John of God (booksellers) and Saint Patrick (green beer), but I figured no one had laid claim to the title of patron saint of ex-daughters-in-law. “It must have been difficult for her to find a baby-sitter on such short notice, too,” I said, feigning sympathy for the woman who’d been married to Peter for twelve years and had remained intimate with his mother. I’d never even met his mother.
    â€œBaby-sitter? Who said anything about a baby-sitter? The biggest problem was trying to find a kennel for Boris Godunov and Prince Igor, her Russian wolfhounds. Leslie’s crazy about Russian opera and goes to St. Petersburg for the season every year.”
    â€œIsn’t that fascinating?” I said. “I hope this impromptu visit doesn’t interfere with her consumption of vodka and caviar.”
    â€œI’m sure it won’t,” he said blandly. “What else have you been up to besides the mall?”
    Standing around a gloomy forest while water dripped down my neck lacked the glamour of the St. Petersburg opera season. “Selling books, that sort of thing,” I said with matching blandness. “Do you have any idea how much longer you’ll be in Newport?”
    â€œIt depends on Leslie’s plans. Since she’s making the effort to come and be supportive, I can’t just toss her the car keys at the airport and take the next flight home. I’ll be here for at least a few more days.”
    â€œNo, I don’t see how you can leave while Leslie’s there,” I said, hoping he hadn’t caught the slight hiss in my voice when I said her name. Someone with Russian