Hud shrugged and resumed consulting his menu. “Not my area of expertise, sorry. Or the museum’s; we collect art, not weapons.” He put it down again. “But talk of hurting someone reminds me. How’s Sophie?”

“Just fine. She actually gets around despite the cast. They made it longer than her leg to discourage running or jumping, so she kind of paddles with it rather than walking on it. The vet’s assistant calls it the square-wheel syndrome. Sophie goes along very smoothly on three legs and then the cast lifts her about two inches.” Betsy moved her hand across the table, lifting and dropping it at intervals. “Like a pull toy with one square wheel.”

Hud laughed so hard at the image of a cat with a square wheel he had to put the menu down. His voice was a splendid baritone and his laugh matched it; people turned smiling to see who was making that beautiful noise. Betsy wasn’t sure whether to feel envied or embarrassed, and so picked up her menu and pretended to read it.

They had corn chowder with hunks of rosemary-flavored chicken in it, and the talk grew so friendly—Hud was familiar with San Diego, Betsy knew something about symbolism in medieval and Renaissance art—that by the end of the meal Hud had to remind her to order a take-out sandwich for Godwin.

Rather than going right to Crewel World with the sandwich, Betsy continued walking with Hud up Lake Street to his car. She had heard you could learn things about a man by the car he drove.

Hud’s was a big old black convertible, highly polished but slab-sided. Betsy was startled—she thought Hud was the sports-car type—until she saw the peaked grille with the fey creature perched on top of it. “Oh, my God, Hud; it’s a Rolls-Royce! Wow! Say, what kind of salary do they pay you, anyhow?”

“Not enough to buy a car like this.” Hud laughed, going to unlock the door. “I bought it seven years ago, used, at a government auction. It probably once belonged to a drug dealer. I paid eighty-two hundred dollars for it.” He slid into the tan leather interior and vanished behind darkened glass. When he started the engine, it purred almost inaudibly. Then the passenger-side window rolled silently down and he leaned sideways to look through it at her.

“Like it?”

“What’s it like to drive?” she asked.

“Smooooooth. Would you care to try it out sometime?”

“You’d actually let me?” Betsy had briefly dated a man who owned a Porsche. Nobody drove it but him; he wouldn’t even use valet parking.

“Oh, I’m not married to my car like some people are,” he said carelessly. “If it wasn’t a Rolls, it would be just another ugly car. By the way, there’s a dance this Friday, at the Lafayette Club. May I take you?”