A close examination of the truck (as close as we could make in the dark during a violent rainstorm) revealed nothing to show that it might have been involved in a vehicular manslaughter near Big Sur last month . . . unless the kid was friends with an extremely talented (and quick) auto repair person.
True, he could have called a friend to come pick him up for the night. It was possible he and his “friend group”—-that’s what they called them now, instead of cliques—-had gone to the movies or something.
But would his parents really have let him go out in weather like this?
“It was touch and go there for a while,” I rattled on with the hostess, scanning the high--ceilinged room for any sign of someone who might be Zack’s age. But all I could see were more heart--shaped, helium--filled balloons, along with a banner that said THANK YOU DONORS! with red hearts all over it. I had no idea what that was about, and didn’t care. “Especially on Scenic Road—-you would not believe the waves—-I don’t blame those -people for sandbagging their driveways. But we’re here!”
The lady—-she was older, with such gorgeous highlights that I envied her—-had to be Mrs. Farhat. She radiated prideful home ownership.
“Wonderful!” she said. “The more the merrier. You know, we give this party every year, and every year, we never fail to be pleased with the turnout, despite it being Valentine’s Day. Some -people think it’s a bit morbid, but heart disease, is, after all—-”
“—-the number one cause of death in the world,” Jesse finished for her, handing his own coat and our dripping umbrella to the waitperson. “Actually, I think it’s very clever of you to hold a fund--raiser for coronary disease on Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Farhat. More women die annually of cardiovascular diseases than from all forms of cancer combined. But heart disease is so easily preventable with proper diet and exercise.”
“Why, yes,” Mrs. Farhat said, instantly charmed as Jesse took the hand she’d extended and shook it. “Yes, I know. My mother died of heart disease. By the time we found out how sick she was, it was too late for even my husband to help her. I’ve been trying to raise awareness ever since. Thank you. And who might you be?”
“Hector de Silva,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Dr. Hector de Silva.”
Her expression couldn’t have lit up more if he’d said his name was Bond. James Bond.
“A doctor?” she said, taking his arm. “Why haven’t we met before? Surely you’re not with the hospital here, or I’d know you—-”
“No, not here,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. But I hope to be, someday.”
“Someday!” Mrs. Farhat was already steering him away from me, into the sunken living room. “With hands like yours, young man, you could work anywhere, trust me. I can tell, I know doctors. My husband is a cardiac surgeon. Let me introduce you to him. Rashid. Rashid!”
Jesse was soon sucked up into a crowd of admirers, just as I’d hoped he would be. He was a big boy, and would be able to handle himself. In the meantime, I had some snooping to do.
“Crudité?” a waitperson asked as she passed me while holding a tray of decoratively carved raw vegetables. “They’re heart healthy.”
“Uh,” I said. “Sure.” I lifted a heart--shaped radish and shoved it into my mouth. I’m not the biggest fan of raw vegetables—-except when shredded onto a taco—-but this one was surprisingly good. “Thanks. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“Of course.” The girl pointed down the hall. “To the left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. Oh, hey, do you know if the Farhats’ son, Zack, is here tonight? A friend of his asked me to say hello.”
The girl smiled in a friendly way, anxious to be helpful. “Yes, he’s here. He was hanging out in the kitchen a while ago. I think he took some food up to his room.” Her gaze went toward the showy curved staircase across the foyer from the front door, signaling to me where I could find Zack’s room, though I doubt she’d done it on purpose. “Well, not this food. He microwaved a pizza.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, and took another radish. “Yum. These are just so delicious.”
“Consuming fruits and vegetables, combined with regular physical activity, and avoiding harmful use of alcohol and tobacco products, has been shown to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease,” she said, clearly because she’d been asked to by the hostess.
“Wow,” I said. “Great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” She moved on to her next victim, I mean guest, and I moved toward the staircase, acting like I had every right to be heading to the second floor. The only way you’re going to get caught snooping is if your performance while doing it lacks confidence. If anyone walks in on you while you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, just act angry. It’s their fault you’re in the wrong place, because you were told (by someone else) that that’s where you were supposed to be. How were you supposed to know that person was wrong?
Seriously. It works (almost) every time.