“Thank you,” I said. The author of the Damn Fool’s Guide to Proper Etiquette would have been proud.

A young man in jeans and a green polo shirt appeared from the periphery of my vision. I figured him for the senator’s bodyguard, or maybe a traveling massage therapist. He didn’t look like any butler I’d ever seen.

Not that I’d ever actually seen one, except in the movies.

“Joseph will move your car, if that’s all right,” Clive said diplomatically.

Right. No good having my battered Volvo hunkered in the middle of the drive when the next limo rolled in. Besides, the neighbors might see it, and by now, they probably had their binoculars out. I handed over the keys.

Joseph looked me over like he thought Clive and Barbara ought to check my pockets before I left, but he had the good grace not to say anything.

Barbara wheeled into a cavernous parlor, to the right of the entryway, and since Clive followed, so did I. My mind was on Joseph, however. He was about to get an eyeful of my luggage, and I wouldn’t put it past him to go through my glove box, either.

Cocktails were served by a maid in an honest-to-God uniform, complete with ruffled apron and one of those little white hats. They must have paid her extra to wear it.

After the elegant and costly booze, there were little quiches and things wrapped in bacon, and after that, an eight-course dinner.

I kept waiting for the probing questions, but it seemed none were forthcoming. The Larimers talked about their wonderful children—a doctor, a lawyer and a couple of Indian chiefs.

“Mary Jo is in the medical field,” Clive told Barbara, at one point. The way he made it sound, I was doing neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins instead of punching in Medicare codes.

“Isn’t that nice?” Barbara said sunnily, but every once in a while, I caught her looking at me the same way Joseph had.

When dessert was served, Mrs. Larimer announced that she was feeling a little ill.

Clive excused himself, as well as his wife, and wheeled Barbara out of the dining room. I sat there, staring down at my Bananas Whatever, and wondered whether I was expected to wait until Clive came back to get lost or just go ahead and make myself scarce right away.

I heard a whirring sound in the near distance and decided it was an elevator.

I was about to get out of my chair and go looking for the guesthouse—or just hightail it for Jolie’s place in Tucson—when Joseph came through the door that probably led to the kitchen.

He fixed me with a glare and snapped, “Who are you and what the hell are you trying to pull?”

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX