returned to the Village Blend to visit with some of the baristas she hadn’t seen since leaving for Paris. Frankly, I was glad to get Joy clear of this mess. A dozen or so guests remained. They were speaking in hushed whispers by the bar. Two uniformed officers were taking final statements. Seated at a corner table, I saw Madame nursing a glass of sangria blanco. I sat down beside her.
She glanced at me and sullenly shook her silver white head. “The groom stormed off, and the bride-to-be was strangled within an inch of her life. I’d say the luncheon was a stunning success, wouldn’t you?” She drained her wineglass and asked her boyfriend, Otto, to fetch another: tout de suite.
“There’s a silver lining, though,” she added. “This ill-advised marriage will very likely be canceled.”
“Not so loud.”
Madame waved me off. Otto came back with her fresh glass of sangria, and she downed it nearly as fast as her son had chugged beers at the White Horse.
“Are you grieving or celebrating?” I asked.
“Both.” She shook her head again. “Neither. Oh, Clare . . . I just want my son to be happy. Matteo won’t be. Not with that woman.”
“Well, don’t be so sure the marriage is off. Breanne Summour generally gets what she wants.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Suddenly, a bright flash of light shot through the room. Everyone froze. Then I heard Rocky Friar’s voice boom, “Grab that guy, now!”
Near the entrance to the restaurant’s front bar, a uniformed officer caught the arm of a middle-aged, balding man. I saw an expensive-looking camera in the man’s hand, a khaki photographer’s vest around his paunchy torso, and shook my head.
“The paparazzi are here—or at least one paparazzo.”
“I said no reporters,” Friar barked. “Who let this vulture in?”
The uniform shrugged. “He was in, Detective. Liquid lunch up front.”
“I’m only alone because my date was delayed,” the photographer said.
“I’ll do the talking,” Friar shot back. “What’s your name, and who do you work for? And for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re a tourist.”
“I’m not a tourist, Detective. I’m a freelance photographer. So I don’t work for anyone, specifically—”
“That’s a load of bull!” shouted a familiar female voice.
Sue Ellen Bass’s never-ending legs strode boldly into the restaurant and right up to Friar. Hustling up behind her were the blond cherub curls of Lori Soles. I was relieved to see both women.
“That mook’s name is Ben Tower,” Sue Ellen said, “and he works for that sleazebag Randall Knox at the Journal.”
Ben Tower?
I blinked, suddenly seeing the black courier type on the white card that I’d found hidden away in Monica Purcell’s secret drug box. So this was the freelance photographer who’d given Monica his card.
When I first read the man’s handwritten note, I thought Tower was a fashion photographer seeking work from Trend, somebody who was young and hot that Monica might have been interested in personally. But the bald man in the rumpled plaid pants and bulky vest was not young, and he was obviously a newshound, not a fashion photographer.
Meanwhile, Rocky Friar was already starting in on his old girlfriend. “Oh, man . . .” He grabbed his head. “My freakin’ migraine headache just got a whole lot worse.”
Sue Ellen flipped her sleek black ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m not the cause of your headache, barrel neck. It’s those muscles of yours. They constrict and squeeze the blood outta your pea-size brain.”
I realized there was something different about Sue Ellen today: makeup and earrings, delicate pearl studs. She’d applied fresh lipstick and gloss, too.
Friar glared at the smoldering Amazon. “What do you know about biceps and triceps? From your reputation, your interest lies in another muscle on the male anatomy.”
“What? Yours?” Sue Ellen rolled her eyes. “Speaking of pea-size.”
“Listen up, Bass. You’re not only banned from my apartment building, you’re banned from my crime scene.” Rocky jerked his thumb in the direction of the exit. “Hit the road.”
“Banning me from the building is a load of crap, and you know it.”
“Listen, honey, it’s for your own good,” Friar said, his voice theatrically softening. “The building’s full of guys on the job. All single. All virile. All teeming with testosterone. I wouldn’t take an alkie out drinking, or a junkie to a crack house—”
“You son of a—” Sue Ellen lunged forward.
Lori snared her waist. “Whoa, partner! Hold up, there!”
Friar laughed. “That’s right, Annie Oakley. Simmer that filly down!”
“You’re not helping, Rocky,” Lori shot back. “And you can’t ban us from this crime