Hounded to Death by Laurien Berenson Page A

placed our order. Our food had yet to arrive.
    â€œThat won’t suit,” said Florence. “Since you’re the one I want to talk to. Richard?”
    â€œYes, Mother.” He withdrew his hand from Peg’s and rose. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
    Florence slipped into the chair he’d vacated and Bertie and I shared a look.
    This was a fine mess. Somehow we’d lost Richard—whom Aunt Peg presumably wanted to spend time with—and ended up instead with his mother. Whom none of us were anxious to get to know better.
    A waiter delivered our three glasses of orange juice.
    Florence immediately absconded with Bertie’s. She took a sip, leaned across the table, and said to Peg, “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
    While Bertie ordered more juice, Aunt Peg gave Florence a highly edited version of the previous evening’s events. The retelling was over in less than a minute.
    â€œPoor man,” Florence said at the end.
    She made a stab at looking mournful, but I wasn’t fooled for a moment. If that woman was overcome by grief, I was Deputy Dawg.
    â€œCharles deserved to come to a better end than that,” she said. “What on earth do you suppose he was doing out there?”
    â€œI’m sure I haven’t a clue,” answered Peg.
    â€œHe didn’t say…anything?”
    â€œHe was already unconscious,” I said, “when we arrived on the scene.”
    â€œNo dying words?”
    â€œNo words at all,” I said firmly. That was the second time I’d answered that question. “Were you a close friend of his?”
    â€œI’d known Charles for years,” said Florence. “Even before Caroline. Since he was a youngster almost. I watched him make his own opportunities and build himself an enviable career. Our sport will be a poorer place without him.”
    It sounded as though she’d been practicing his eulogy, I thought. And yet, she hadn’t actually answered my question.
    â€œMother?” Richard reappeared. “The dining room is unusually busy this morning. There are no extra chairs, but I’ve managed to secure a table for two over by the window.”
    â€œAs you wish,” said Florence, rising. She looked at Peg. “We’ll have to finish our discussion another time.”
    Richard hesitated beside Aunt Peg’s chair as his mother walked away. “I’m sorry—”
    â€œGo.” She flapped a hand, shooing him away.
    â€œI will see you later, won’t I?”
    â€œThat’s up to you.”
    â€œGood,” he said with a smile. “Then it’s a plan.”
    I waited until Richard was out of earshot and then said, “ Go ?”
    â€œWhat would you have had me say? Stay here with us and let your mother go sit by herself? That wouldn’t have been very nice.”
    â€œNo,” said Bertie. “But it would have been expedient.”
    â€œNever come between a man and his mother,” said Aunt Peg.
    â€œToo bad,” I said, “that his mother doesn’t feel as kindly about you.”
    Margo appeared next.
    Our food had just arrived. I’d been feeling well enough, and hungry enough, to order a bowl of oatmeal. There wasn’t even time to sample it before Margo was sliding into the seat Florence had recently vacated. She looked frazzled and cranky and there were dark circles under her eyes that even her artfully applied makeup couldn’t quite conceal.
    â€œWhat does a woman have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” she demanded.
    Aunt Peg lifted a hand and summoned a waiter. If he was surprised to find yet another newcomer at our table, he didn’t let on.
    In mere seconds he was back with a coffee pot. Maybe the look on Margo’s face scared him. I know it worried me.
    She left her coffee black and drank most of the first cup in a single gulp. It was a wonder she didn’t burn