Page 8 of The Children of Eve

“Just a hunch.”

He drawled the answer, all “aw, shucks” modesty.

“I moved around, but I was just a Remington raider. I liked my desk, where the biggest risk of injury was picking up a paper cut.”

“Your desk must have been by a window. You got some sun.”

“It was hard to avoid.”

“Out there in Around.”

“Yeah. It’s big, like the South. And what do you do, Mr. Parker?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“That explains the questions.” He turned to Macy. “And you, ma’am, I didn’t catch your occupation.”

“Police.”

Riggins’s expression didn’t falter, but that gel dimmed another tone.

“Sounds like you two were meant to be together,” he said. “It’s nice when things work out that way.”

He placed a hand on Zetta’s arm—“You need anything, just let me know. I’ll keep an eye on you”—before wishing Macy and me a pleasant evening and fading into the crowd.

The moneymen, if that’s what they were, had moved on, Grace Holmes with them. Macy discreetly disengaged herself from me so I could speak with Zetta alone. More guests were closing in on her, one or two watching Riggins, wanting to be sure he was gone. They might not have known any more about him than I did, but they sensed he didn’t belong, and his presence made them uneasy. Over to my right, Holmes put a red sticker on one of the smaller pieces. Someone applauded. Zetta acknowledged them by raising her glass before looking away.

“This is more than first-night nerves, Zetta,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can rewind time,” she replied. “I don’t have to read the reviews to know I’m dead in the water. I’ve been found wanting again, but I figured as much as soon as we began assembling the show. It doesn’t work.”

“Is it the venue?”

“It’s the artist. It’s me. Something’s gone wrong, and I can’t figure out what it is. See that red sticker? It’s a pity sale. I’ll bet you a bright new nickel that Mark Triton left instructions for Holmes to buy a minor piece or two if the mood warranted. If it doesn’t start a rush, it’ll save some of my blushes.”

She was only moments away from throwing her glass at the floor andvanishing into the night. Hers was a very particular and public humiliation, all the more intense for being so subtle.

“Any other kind of trouble?” I asked.

“Just with my career. Wait, was that what Wyatt’s grilling was about? I overheard you interrogating him.”

“He strikes me as being a little on the tense side. I wondered if it was solely on your behalf. How long have you two been a couple?”

“Just a few months, but I like him. As for tension, this is unfamiliar territory for him. He’s not comfortable in the art world, or what’s passing for it tonight. Also, I think he had a harder time in the service than he admits.” She paused. “He cries out in the night.”

I let it go. Riggins was solicitous of Zetta, and she was a grown woman. If she was making a mistake with him, she’d earned that privilege. I kissed her cheek.

“Good luck with the show,” I said. “I hope you’re wrong about it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She prepared to accept the embrace of a man wearing overlarge red spectacles and the kind of check suit last favored by vaudeville comics.

“Hey?” she added.

I looked back at her.

“Thanks for caring enough to ask. About Wyatt, I mean. But you don’t have to worry. He’s okay.”

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