and girlish innocence, I paged down fast.
“Whoa.” I paged back up, even faster.
Dr. ap Gruffydd looked a lot better alive, though with the scraggly ponytail, he still wouldn’t do better than tenth runner-up in the Llangeggellyn beauty pageant. He was laughing, holding up a woman who was draped over him like a honeysuckle vine on a trellis. One of his hands cupped her butt—literally; she’d slid down him, and her short shiny red skirt had ridden up on one side, and damned if JRose hadn’t been right about the Underoos.
I called Paulie and asked her to clip the two photos and make me decent prints. They might come in handy.
I came back from lunch to find a message from Pamela East-wood Pratt. Would I meet her at 3 o’clock for a quick drink at Bloom? Mrs. Pratt had tracked me down and gotten my number pretty quick. Which also meant that she knew what I did for a living. Why would a socialite murder suspect want to talk to a journalist?
I turned the possibilities over in my mind as I drove—anything from a front-page confession to a clumsy attempt to redirect suspicion elsewhere by planting a story. Or given what I’d been finding out about Chloe, maybe an attempt to warn me away from her. I touched the pocket where I’d stashed the photos; whatever Mrs. Pratt had in mind to tell me, those might steer her closer to the truth.
Bloom is an upscale restaurant with floral stained-glass panels, circular blue-leather booths, and excellent food. It’s mobbed for lunch and dinner, but if you go between 2 and 5, you can hear yourself think. And the wine list is good.
“Mrs. Pratt,” I said, sliding into the booth opposite the lady in question.
“Call me Pamela,” she responded, making a face. “Pratt—what a godawful name.”
“Sure. Pam—”
“Pamela.” She smiled. “Pam is nice, and Pammy …” She waved a hand, dismissive. “Well, that says oatmeal cookies and and flannel jammies with dancing kittens. Pammy is … you know. Beige.”
“Whereas Pamela …” I said, obliging.
She leaned back in her chair a little, giving me the full benefit of her cleavage. She already had a glass of red wine, held carelessly by the stem.
“Oh, Pamela… now, Pamela says Tanqueray martini, hold the vermouth, red silk, hot jazz and hotter men, don’t bother to take your boots off at the door, and you can leave the lights on, mister, cuz I left shy behind in kindergarten.” She laughed, and I caught a glint of gold molar.
“Pamela.” I lifted my water to her, and we smiled at each other. Then she set her wine down; to business.
“I Googled you,” she said abruptly.
“That makes two of us,” I said, and she blinked, but then steadied. She’d already Googled herself; she thought there was nothing unfit for public consumption. DirtyScottsdale.com didn’t always have names attached to their photos; the shot of her as an anonymous cougar wouldn’t show up.
“If I say this is off the record …?” One plucked eyebrow rose.
“Then it is.”
Some people think speaking to a reporter “off the record” is like speaking to an attorney or a priest. I wouldn’t quote her. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t make use of whatever she told me.
“I want you to find my gardener.”
“What do you think I am, an employment agency?”
The cougar glinted briefly in her eyes, but she kept it on the leash.
“John Jaramillo. He’s been supplying my daughter with drugs from Mexico. Now he’s gone and I have a dead botanist in my swimming pool. Think there’s a connection there, Sherlock?”
“Yeah. Maybe not the same one you’re thinking of, though.” I took the photo out of my pocket and laid it on the table.
“Crap,” she said, sounding exactly like Tyrone. She frowned at the photo. “I really need to get to the gym.”
“Connection?” I prompted. “Like between you and the good doctor?”
She made a pfft! sound and flicked the photo back at me.
“He was better in bed than you’d think from his looks,” she said. “I hadn’t seen him since the night this was taken, though, until he turned up in my pool.”
“Right. And you don’t think the cops would like to know about this?” I tapped a finger on the photo, and the server, who was setting down my glass of Riesling, glanced at it.
“Wow,” he said. “Nice butt.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair and giving him a laser eyeball. He glanced from the picture to her, and did a double-take.
“Is that you? Er