“You and Greer are family,” I said. “Uncle Clive might even turn out to be family. But Barbara Larimer—well—let’s just say she and I won’t be posing for shots for anybody’s scrapbook.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I didn’t say that.” I read the article again, slowly and carefully this time. Barbara and the other senators’ wives had raised a slug of money for charity. If she’d had a miraculous recovery since I’d encountered her a few days before, the reporter hadn’t seen fit to include an account of it.

I was bugged.

I dug out Uncle Clive’s card and called his office number.

I got Joseph. I knew who he was even before he introduced himself, by the freeze in his voice when I gave my name.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The senator is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

“I just have one question,” I replied. “When did Mrs. Larimer shout hallelujah and rise out of her wheelchair?”

“It’s really none of your business,” Joseph retorted, “but if it will get you off the phone, I’ll tell you.” He waited.

I waited.

I had to pee, so I finally gave in.

“All right,” I said. “Tell me and I won’t call again.” Unless, of course, I damn well feel like it.

“Mrs. Larimer suffers from MS, and in this case, that is not an abbreviation for Mojo Sheepshanks,” Joseph said. What a smart ass, but I gave him points for a quick wit. “She has periods of remission, and only needs a wheelchair when she’s very tired.”

“I see.”

“Good,” Joseph said. Then he hung up on me.

“Arrogant bastard,” I said to the receiver.

“If I didn’t know about Tucker,” Jolie interjected, with a smile, “I’d say it was love.”

I snorted. “The man is a pig. He practically called me trailer trash the first time we met, and if he didn’t live so far away, I’d put him on the list of suspects for the chow mein caper.”

“Is he cute?”

“He’s a troll.” I slammed the paper down. Okay, a cute troll, but he probably gets his mail under some bridge.

“Why is this important to you?” Jolie asked reasonably.

“Damned if I know,” I admitted, but it was important.

I made a visit to the bathroom, then proceeded to the kitchen to check messages.

No mad killers.

No telemarketers.

Just Greer, wanting to know if we’d pick up some pasta salad at A.J.’s before we come over for dinner that night.

I hit 88 and called her back.

“Is Alex still out of town?” I asked.

“Hello to you, too,” Greer replied sunnily.