Instead, I just keep driving, and before long, I realize I’m headed in the direction of the Saratoga Race Course. Part of the plan this summer was for Guy and me to spend time at the track during thoroughbred season in August, but that’s not going to be. I pull over by a weathered green-and-white building that must have once been a horse stable and park beneath an oak tree at the side of the road. As I turn off the engine, I realize that my hands are wet with perspiration.
You can’t let it get to you, I tell myself. The cops are clearly flailing around in their investigation and are targeting me for lack of anything better. The worst thing I could do is to allow my nervousness to make me look guilty. I have to stay calm, keep a cool head, and get the best legal advice possible. At some point, too, I’m going to have to loop Casey in on this development. If Maycock can’t make this go away immediately, it could have ramifications for my reputation as an author.
At eleven thirty, I tap in the address for Dock Brown’s and drive out there, first along Route 9 and then on a rural road that rings Saratoga Lake. The landscape is flat except for low, muted blue mountains in the distance.
The restaurant emerges at the far side of a village. It’s in a gray clapboard building in front of a small tan blanket of beach, dotted today with sunbathers. I notice for the first time how sunny and warm the day is, and I ask for a seat on the deck, figuring Sandra would like to sit outside as well.
I’ve got the deck mostly to myself, except for two diners at the other end and a seagull that has perched on the railing and is eyeing what remains in a breadbasket on a table yet to be cleared. It looks insolent, hostile even, and when it catches my eye, it lifts its wings in what seems like an aggressive gesture.
My wait turns out to be a mercifully short one since Sandra arrives early herself. She’s dressed down today, but still impeccably—skintight designer jeans and a teal, light cashmere tee that looks great with her shiny dark hair. She makes a striking figure as she crosses the deck.
“I’m so glad you picked a spot outdoors,” she exclaims as she reaches the table. She brushes my cheek with her lips. “It’s so nice to see you again, Bryn.”
“Same here.”
“I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place. It’s a bit removed, but I thought it would be a perfect spot for a Saturday lunch.”
“It is perfect, yes.”
“Please thank your husband for me, will you?”
“My husband?” I say, startled by her remark.
“For letting me spend Saturday afternoon with you. I’m sure he’d love to have you to himself.”
“Oh, he’s got a ton of work to do, so it’s not a problem.” I force a smile, trying to look upbeat, sensing I’m failing miserably. Sandra’s deep brown eyes study me quizzically.
“Is everything okay? You’re not still feeling badly, are you?
“No, no, I’m fine now. Tell me about your event. How’s it shaping up?”
“If it was in two weeks, I’d say we were in fabulous shape. Unfortunately, it’s this coming Friday.”
“I’m sure you’ll pull it off beautifully. Who’s it for, anyway?” I’ve never bothered to ask.
“It’s a fund-raiser for an area women’s organization. The money goes to a good cause—plus, it’s a chance for local businesswomen to network their butts off.”
“And you’re doing the PR?”
“Yes, and much to my chagrin I offered to help put the whole thing on. By the way, I’ve been scouring around trying to find a seat for you, but the damn thing’s sold out and nobody wants to cough up a ticket.”
Oh, wouldn’t that be fun, I think, me networking this week with local women. If someone asked what I was up to these days, I could smile and say I was a suspect in the Eve Blazer homicide.
“That’s so nice of you, Sandra, but don’t worry about it. I’ve got a crazy week ahead.”
“Well, I hope you’ll at least let me show you the venue. It’s worth taking a look at.”
“Let me see how the week goes, okay?”
The waitress interrupts and we order. Sandra asks about the kind of PR that’s considered most effective for authors these days, and I throw out a few scattered comments about Twitter, Instagram, and newsletters. Thankfully the food comes quickly. With the drone of motorboats behind me, I do my best to keep up my end of the conversation. We segue into small talk about the arts scene in Saratoga. At moments I feel ready to jump out of my skin and want nothing more than to bolt from the table and race home. But I remind myself that stewing alone in the house would be far worse than sitting here with Sandra.
As the waitress arrives to remove our plates, I sense Sandra poised to say something, but she waits until the table’s cleared before speaking.
“Bryn, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”
She leans closer, clearly so her voice won’t carry. “It’s not the police, is it? I hope they’ve stopped hounding you and your husband about your dinner party.”