He added, "So, do you know anyone who might be able to wrangle some tickets? Otherwise, I'll have to resort to trying to interview him outside the venue, and given that I normally report on paranormal oddities rather than galas, that might raise suspicions in the wrong quarters."
I opened my mouth to say he was out of luck, that I didn't know anyone, but then I paused. Mike—the accountant who looked after the financial side of the café as well as having been my mom's financial adviser and now mine—had said a few days ago that if I ever needed help with anything outside of financial matters to give him a call. And while I'm sure he wasn't actually referring to tickets to a gala fund-raiser, it was worth a shot.
"I might." I slipped off the barstool. "Wait here while I go call him."
I made my way to the front of Chrome and stood to one side of the entrance, where it was less noisy, to make the call.
"Risa," a plummy, feminine voice said, "What can I do you for?"
"Hi, Beatrice," I said. "I'd like to speak to Mike if he's available."
"Just a moment, and I'll check."
Music came on the line as she switched over, but a second later Mike's low and pleasant voice replaced the music. "Risa, is there a problem? I wasn't expecting to hear from you until the next business activity statement was due."
"There's no problem. I just wondered if you could do me a small favor."
"You already know I will if I can. It's the least I can do in honor of your mother."
He and Mom had been lovers for more years than I could remember, although they were never seen together and seemed content to keep the relationship totally secret. So secret, in fact, that until Mike had all but confirmed it last week by his unusual offer to help me any way he could, I wasn't entirely sure their relationship wasn't a figment of my imagination.
"It's nothing major, as I said. I'm just looking for tickets to the FMFFC ball tomorrow night."
"The gala?" he said, surprise evident in his voice. "I wouldn't have thought that sort of thing was your style. Your mother's, certainly, but not yours."
"It's not," I admitted. "But I have a friend who is doing a story on several people who'll be there, and he can't get tickets."
I felt bad about lying—or half lying—but giving him the truth might be dangerous, and I'd endangered enough people as it was.