thought, it’s a warning. Maybe she was warning me not to make a pass at her. What a shame. The prospect of completing a successful pass with this off-duty detective was striking me as a fantastic idea. Of course, I didn’t even know if she was married, or maybe had a squeeze of her own already. No rings—I had checked earlier—but these days that doesn’t always tell the whole story. Anyway, I passed on the pass.
“So, you’re telling me that Hutch the family man is a farce.”
“Ninety percent of family men are farces,” Kate said flatly. “Men are genetically programmed to stray. And to cheat. And to lie. And to—”
“Whoa, whoa, this is my fellow ape you’re smearing here. I’m bound by tribal law to defend my own.”
“I wouldn’t waste your breath.”
“Damn it, Detective, you’re not going to turn out to be one of those beautiful man-hating types, are you? It’s gals like you who really ruin the party.”
“No. It’s men like Joel Hutchinson who ruin the party. I think the first deadly sin ought to be arrogance. You can trace all the others back to that.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Are you a beautiful man-hater?”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. But at the same time, crimson rose to her cheeks.
“Are you making a pass at me?”
“I’m just a horny arrogant ape. Programmed to lie, cheat, etc., etc.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t answer mine.”
“It’s a draw.”
We clinked glasses. God, this was all getting too cute.
Two surprises awaited me at the party. Surprise number one appeared some half hour or so after this little buzza-buzza about the transgressions and transparencies of all men. I was three bourbons in and only a few frilly snacks down, so the evening had begun to take on a warm fuzzy glow. The women were all growing prettier and the men were all becoming much less handsome and charming than myself.
In walked a fellow about as handsome and charming as myself. I vaguely recognized him, the way you recognize a celebrity on the street simply as someone familiar, before actually making the ID. This guy was roughly my contemporary, maybe a few years younger. And about fifteen million dollars richer. He was a good-looking Joe with an easy smile. Of course, giveme fifteen million dollars and I’ll bet my smile will be easy too. He was as dashing in his tux as James Bond himself. I muttered to Kate, “Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera.” She gave me a sideways look like I was crazy.
“Who is that?” I asked.
She answered, “Peter Morgan.”
Of course. Peter Morgan. Of the Baltimore County Morgans. The racehorse Morgans. The new opera house Morgans. The railroad money Morgans. This town has Morgans coming out of its ears. Granddaddy Morgan had been the last of the family to have had to actually roll up his sleeves and squeeze money out of sweat. He had made his bundle in the early part of the century working on the railroads all the livelong day, and his success had left most of the subsequent Morgans happily strumming on the old million-dollar banjo ever since. However, I did recall hearing or reading somewhere that this particular Morgan, this dapper devil who had just come into the room, was one of the ones who still kept a hands-on involvement with the family business. While most of us run our little train sets around the Christmas tree, Peter Morgan ran his around the whole country. At least a goodly portion of it. Interstate transport of goods. It can bring in a few extra bucks. All this and good looks too. Gee whiz. Peter Morgan was a pretty high-profile man-about-town. Known to be something of a lady-killer, his privileged arm was custom-built for wrapping around beautiful women.
And a particularly beautiful woman was wrapped around it this evening. Her dress was a form-fitting off-the-shoulder number that hugged her hourglassfigure from her ample breasts to just below the knees, with a side
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