Dance of the Bones

“Hey, there,” someone said from the far side of one of the movable book shelves behind which Brandon had taken shelter. “How’s Mr. Diana Ladd this fine evening?”


Looking around, Brandon was dismayed to see Oliver Glassman making a beeline in his direction. Ollie Glassman was exactly the kind of person Brandon had hoped to avoid. He was a smarmy jerk who had started out as a lowly public defender before becoming the heir apparent in his father’s legal defense firm. Managing to manipulate a somewhat thin résumé as a springboard into politics, Glassman had served several terms on the Pima County Board of Supervisors, was currently a member of the state senate, and was rumored to be thinking about running for Congress.

“Matty told me you and Diana would be here tonight. I believe you two are seated at our table. Matty’s part of the committee that organizes the dinner, you know,” Ollie added.

That last bit of info was entirely unnecessary. Brandon Walker was well aware that Ollie’s wife, Matilda Glassman, was one of the movers and shakers behind Tucson’s burgeoning book festival. Diana had told him as much, and although Diana tolerated Matilda, she liked the woman almost as much as Brandon liked Ollie. If Diana had known the seating arrangements in advance, she hadn’t mentioned them to Brandon. Perhaps she had neglected to do so out of concern that he’d be a no--show. On the other hand, it was possible that she would be as surprised and dismayed as he was.

Ollie took a long pull on his wine, draining half the glass in a single gulp. “What are you doing hanging around in the kiddy--lit section?” he asked. “Thinking about doing some writing yourself?”

In the years Diana Ladd and Brandon Walker had been married, Brandon had done plenty of duty as Diana’s escort at book festivals and writers’ conferences all over the country. He knew the drill. He also understood some of the pitfalls of being “Mr. Diana Ladd.” He had long ago lost count of the -people who would look at him agog and ask, “What’s it like being married to a famous person?” Another of his least favorite inquiries was a clueless “Oh, are you a writer, too?”

Ollie’s inept question was a variation on the latter. Brandon’s standard reply was usually: “Diana writes the books; I write the checks.” This time, however, an imp took control of his response mechanism.

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “I’ve even got a working title: So You Want to Be a Sheriff When You Grow Up? It’s a how--to book for kids who are seven or eight, and it’s due to be published by a company that specializes in career guidance for grade schoolers.”

Ollie frowned and examined the small amount of wine remaining in his glass. “Sounds like a great idea. Do you think they’d want me to do one, too—-about wanting to be a defense attorney?”

It took some effort for Brandon to keep from cracking a smile. “I’m having an editorial meeting with my publisher next week,” he replied. “I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

The lights blinked overhead, signaling that it was time to head for the ballroom. Catching Matty’s eye, Ollie raised his empty glass. With a reproving look, his wife turned her back and returned to the bar.

“I don’t know why they have to be so stingy with the wine at these affairs,” Ollie muttered. “You pay a fortune to attend, and all they give you is a single drink ticket. What’s up with that? But I did want to have a word in private,” he continued. “I guess you heard about Big Bad John.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” Brandon asked. “I haven’t heard a word from or about him since the last judge locked him up and threw away the key. That’s a long time ago now. What’s going on?”