The Unkindest Cut - By Honor Hartman Page 0,16

I can get my walk in that way, at least,’’ Sophie said. ‘‘You two relax, and I’ll find out where everything is.’’

Marylou yawned again and waved at us as she ambled off to her bedroom. She shut the door softly behind her.

‘‘Sure you don’t want to come with me, Emma?’’ Sophie asked as she headed for the door.

I was sorely tempted to stay in our suite and read, but curiosity got the better of me. It often did, I had to admit. ‘‘Sure, why not?’’ I got up and followed her out the door.

We both shot curious glances at Avery Trowbridge’s door as we passed it, but everything was quiet at the moment. We proceeded down the hall to the elevator, and Sophie punched the down button.

‘‘Where to first?’’ I asked. ‘‘You’re the cruise director. ’’

When the doors opened, I followed Sophie inside.

‘‘I thought we might check out the ballroom first,’’ Sophie said. ‘‘That’s where the reception will be, and I believe that’s where we’ll be playing bridge most of the time.’’

On the ground floor we followed the signs for the ballroom, and the closer we came to it, the more noise we could hear.

The doors were open, and Sophie and I paused on the threshold. Before us we could see the proverbial beehive of activity in a space large enough to hold a couple of hundred people very easily. Several men were setting up tables and chairs, while other men covered the tables with tablecloths. Two women followed behind them, setting out attractive flower arrangements, along with some sort of party favors. Against the wall at the center of the long room, three people were preparing the dais for the reception. We wandered into the room, out of the way of the workers. They paid us no attention.

Lightning flashed, drawing our attention to the French doors along the outside wall. Placed every six feet or so, they were separated by large windows that extended from about my knee level up to within five feet of the high ceiling. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining this space in the spring, on a lovely late afternoon. A tea perhaps, or a wedding reception. Maybe a fiftieth wedding anniversary.

I grimaced. Thinking of wedding anniversaries was like worrying a sore tooth—painful and unproductive.

Sophie prodded me in the side, then indicated with a sideways bob of her head that I should look back at the doorway to the ballroom about six feet away.

Veronica Hinkelmeier had just walked in, accompanied by a tall, rail-thin man clutching a clipboard to his chest. He was sixtyish, with sparse gray hair and oversized glasses that gave him the look of a confused owl. He blinked at us, while Veronica simply scowled.

‘‘As you can see, Mr. Dumont,’’ Veronica said, ‘‘preparations are well in hand. Everything will be ready in plenty of time.’’

So this was Basil Dumont. I eyed him with more curiosity. His clothes were well made but beginning to show their age. The seat of his pants was shiny, and the elbows of his shirt appeared to be fraying a bit.

Avery Trowbridge, jerk though he seemed to be, definitely had the edge when it came to looks and grooming, but perhaps Basil Dumont compensated by having a far more likable personality. At the moment, though, I was hard-pressed to figure out what Paula saw in either of them.

When he spoke, Dumont’s voice was a surprise. Instead of the reedy tenor I expected, he possessed the rich baritone of an opera singer. Sophie twitched beside me as we both responded to the sound.

‘‘I’m sure you’re right, Veronica,’’ he said, ‘‘but you know I like to check on these things myself.’’ He flourished his clipboard. ‘‘Don’t let me detain you. I know you have many things to attend to.’’

Veronica’s eyebrows arched in annoyance, but she didn’t argue. Turning on her heel, she stalked off.

Basil Dumont uttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like ‘‘harpy.’’ Sophie and I exchanged glances, smiling. Then Dumont caught sight of us, and his expression became guarded.

‘‘Good afternoon, Mr. Dumont,’’ Sophie said, stepping forward and extending a hand. ‘‘I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. I’ve read several of your books, and I recommend them to anyone who wants to learn more about bridge.’’

Like any straight male not on his deathbed, Dumont responded quickly to Sophie. His eyes lingered for a moment over her exquisite figure before he accepted her hand. He sketched a very