Chasing Venus by Diana Dempsey Page B

On all four sides were well-groomed lawns and the usual Corona del Mar
profusion of flowers.   A stone path
curved between the patio and the guesthouse.
    The phone on Annie’s
bedside table rang.   It was Michael,
calling from up front.   “The
charcoal is getting hot, the potatoes are mashed, and the salad is tossed.   Are you ready for some bubbly?”
    “Michael, you are
spoiling me rotten.”
    “You deserve far more
than this for hitting the list, my dear.   Come up when you’re ready.”
    She straightened the
bed, then made her way to the kitchen, where Michael had set a bottle in a
silver ice bucket.   Annie twisted it
to read the label.   Krug Grande Cuvee .   She didn’t know much about champagne but
she knew this was the good stuff.   “Wow.”
    He smiled as he ground
black pepper over two New York steaks.   “I’ve had it for a few years.   Tonight’s the night to crack it open.”
    “You’re sure you don’t
want to save it for a more special occasion?”
    He set down the
grinder.   He, too, wore the same
clothes as before, except that an apron had replaced the sport jacket.   “Annie, this is a special occasion.   You are very much to be congratulated
for a rare achievement.   And I’m
only too happy to be able to share it with you.”
    There would be no
dissuading him, she knew.   Nor was
she sure she wanted to.   “Thank
you,” she said, and he smiled as if satisfied.   She leaned against the granite
countertop.   “This morning Frankie
sent me roses.   I’m so freaked these
days that it took me a while to figure out why.   Then I remembered, oh, that’s
right!”   She slapped her
forehead.   “I hit the New York Times bestsellers list for the
first time.   No wonder my agent’s
sending me flowers.”
    Michael laughed.   He uncorked and poured the champagne,
then handed her a glass and raised his own in toast.   “To my dear friend and all the joy and
success I know awaits her in life.”
    They touched their
flutes together.   The champagne
sparkled deliciously on Annie’s tongue; it truly was exquisite.   Michael winked.   His cheeks were pink from the exertion
of preparing the meal; she knew that before the bottle was drained, they would
be even rosier.   He set down his
flute and picked up the plate of steaks, rolling his chair toward the patio
barbecue.   “Will you set the table
in here?” he called over his shoulder.   “It’s too chilly to eat outside.”
    The sun had set, and
with it the breeze off the Pacific had freshened.   Annie made for the front of the
house.   “I’ll close some of the
windows,” she offered.

 
    *

 
    Perhaps because the champagne
had loosened her tongue, Annie found herself telling Michael about Reid
Gardner.   While they sliced into
their steaks, she relayed the story: how he had appeared at her house Saturday.   How he had said he wanted to make sure
she understood her constitutional rights.   How he had told her that, despite what the FBI seemed to think, he
didn’t believe she was guilty of murder.
    Part of her wanted to
believe that Reid Gardner was the paragon that he appeared to be.   But even before her divorce, she had stopped
believing in fairy tales.   And so
was trying on a more cynical theory for size.
    “The more I think about
it,” she told Michael, “the more I wonder if he’s in cahoots with Simpson.”
    “Why would you say
that?”
    “Well, the writer
murders are an extremely high-profile story.   It would be a huge get for Reid Gardner
if he could help nab the killer.   We
know Crimewatch works hand in glove
with the FBI.   Maybe he and Simpson
have a plan where Gardner tries to seduce me in the hope that I confess.   I saw them having a tete -a- tete in the backyard after the frogs
were found.   They looked thick as
thieves.”
    “But didn’t you tell me
there was a lot of tension between them when Reid Gardner first showed up?”
    “There appeared to be
but it could have