“I thought it was. Isn’t it?”
All of a sudden, everything I’d thought about feeling not-a-date natural went out the window. I ran my tongue over my teeth to make sure there was no lettuce caught between them and reached for my glass of water. I accidentally knocked it over. Water and ice spilled out on the table toward Tak, drenching the side of his shirt and the leg of his pants. Several patrons looked our way.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and handed him my napkin. He blotted the fabric and then motioned for the waiter.
“Can we get a second glass of water over here?” he asked.
“That’s not necessary,” I said.
“I’ll be right back,” said the waiter.
“Margo, it was a glass of water. I don’t think the conservationists would be all that upset over it, so you shouldn’t be either.”
I barely heard him. “That napkin isn’t going to do any good. I’ll be right back.” I slid out of our booth and headed toward the hostess station. As I reached the counter, I looked to my left and saw Amy Bradshaw sitting alone in a booth in the back corner.
That was either highly coincidental or she was there because of us. I grabbed a stack of napkins from the bar and took them back to Tak. “These should help.”
“That’s the beauty of living in the desert,” he said. “The air’s so dry out here the water already evaporated.”
“Great,” I said, barely paying attention. “Can you excuse me for a second? I saw someone I know and I want to say hello.”
He looked at me as if I were crazy.
I handed over the napkins and took a circuitous route to Amy’s table so she wouldn’t see me coming. She was drinking a glass of wine when I reached her, and as soon as she recognized me, she choked on it.
“Amy, isn’t it? Nice to see you again,” I said. I pointed to myself. “Margo Tamblyn, from the costume shop.”
“I know who you are.”
“Great. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. You were a little flustered the day you came into Disguise DeLimit.”
She set down her glass and looked from side to side. “What are you doing here?”
“Probably the same thing as you. Having dinner. If you haven’t already ordered, the Salvadorian shrimp salad is pretty good.”
“I’m having the scampi.”
“Okay, well, maybe next time.” As awkward as it felt, standing in the aisle next to Amy’s table, I couldn’t help thinking about how very possible it was that she was involved in the vandalism on Ebony’s car or, even worse, in Blitz’s murder. And if she was, then she wasn’t going to get away with it. She turned her head toward the window—dismissing me, I imagined—and folded her hands in front of her. There was no ring on her finger.
Bingo.
I slid into the booth opposite her. “I’m not going to join you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just curious. What happened to the engagement ring you were wearing when you came to Disguise DeLimit on Sunday morning?”
She curled her right hand around her left and dropped them both into her lap. “What ring?”
“The giant diamond ring. It was pear shaped, wasn’t it? You said it was from Blitz’s family.”
“That was all true. The ring belonged to Blitz’s mother. He used to say he was going to give it to me.”
“But he didn’t give it to you, did he?”
“Blitz was a selfish man-boy who thought he was the center of the universe. We were together for two years. And then one day he cheated on me. Just like that. I might not have ever known if I hadn’t found them together at his party.”
“You caught Blitz with another woman at his birthday party?” I asked, surprised.
“Close enough. I caught him making out with Gina Cassavogli in the back of the big, brown gas guzzler that was parked out front.”
Chapter 22
“THE CADILLAC?” I asked.
“I thought it was a prop for the party. There were so many detective shows in the ’70s that it made sense.”
“That’s Ebony’s car.”
Amy looked stunned for a second, and then she recovered with a look of disgust. “I don’t care how much Blitz paid her for the party, she should have shown a little more class about loaning out her keys.”
That was the thing. Ebony wouldn’t loan her keys to a couple of kids who wanted to make out at a birthday party. Especially not the owner of Candy Girls. Not even if the birthday boy was the one who wanted it. That Caddy was her pride and joy. She’d owned it since high school. In the past forty years she’s probably paid more to maintain it than Black Jack Cannon charged for a brand-new car off his lot.