The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura Disilverio

with Ivy and then getting it on with his wife after dinner. I’d cut off Joe’s private parts with a hacksaw if he did that. Not that he would.” Joe was her partner, a nationally known wildlife photographer who spent months at a time on shoots in places like the Galapágos and Papua New Guinea. I thought he was in Uruguay or Uganda right now—one of those “U” countries. Their long separations seemed to work for them.
    Kerry snorted a laugh, and then we fell silent, watching Brigid O’Shaughnessy plead silently with Sam Spade on the screen. She clutched at him and he detached her. It made me wonder how Ivy had taken the breakup with Clay, if there’d been a breakup. Knowing Ivy, she wouldn’t have made it easy on him.
    “You know,” I said, “all the backstabbing and double-crossing in this movie is about money, or what they all think is money—that silly falcon statue. What if Ivy’s . . . murder”—it was hard to say the word in connection with someone I knew—“is about money? Her brother inherits her house and all her stuff, I think. At least, that’s what hesays. He’s practically panting to sell the house. And a woman at her office gets her job.”
    “Aren’t most people killed for love or money?” Kerry asked.
    “Or revenge.” Maud ticked motives off on her fingers. “Money. Love-slash-lust. Revenge. Power.” She waggled four fingers.
    I shifted on my pillow, trying to keep my butt from falling asleep. Realizing I still held the popcorn, I passed it up to Brooke.
    “And don’t forget wanting to keep something secret or avoid humiliation,” Lola put in softly. “Maybe Ivy knew something that her murderer didn’t want to get out.”
    We pondered that for a moment, and then Maud put the volume up again, maybe to distract us. It was unsettling to speculate on what Ivy might have known that could get her killed. Did I know anything that could get me murdered if I revealed it? I didn’t think so. Although . . . I’d overheard one of the Ford brothers accuse the other of insider trading when I was setting up for their party two weeks ago, and I’d surprised Victor Ingersoll coming out of the Zooks’ house, shoes in hand and shirttail untucked, when I arrived early in the morning to clean up after the Zooks’ annual backyard tax-day bash. I knew Peter Zook had left for the airport before the party ended, needing to make an early meeting at his CPA firm’s headquarters in Chicago. Victor and I had mumbled embarrassed “good mornings” and never mentioned it again. My job gave me access to people’s intimatemoments, sometimes, because I was in and out of their houses and interacted with them during times when emotions tended to run high, like weddings, significant birthdays, funerals, and big dos that were important to them. Still, I didn’t think my life was in danger.
    Bogart’s gravelly voice grated from the screen: “I’ll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” The credits rolled and Maud clicked on the lights with a remote. I blinked in the sudden brightness.
    “We should search Ivy’s house,” Maud announced, rising with audible creaks and pops from her knees.
    “Whatever for?” Brooke asked.
    “The Maltese Falcon,” I quipped.
    “Clues. A diary. Her computer. A calendar to tell us if she was supposed to meet anyone the morning she died.” Maud waved an all-encompassing hand, tanned, callused, and obviously used to hard work.
    “She was,” I said.
    They all looked at me.
    “Me.”
    Maud made an impatient gesture. “
Besides
you.”
    “We shouldn’t invade her privacy like that,” Lola said. Her narrow shoulders hunched in as she leaned forward to make her point.
    I put an arm around her. “Ivy’s beyond caring about that, Lo,” I said.
    “I guess.” She still didn’t look happy.
    “I’m sure the police have already searched herhouse,” Brooke said. She twisted a lock of dark brown hair around one finger, a nervous