There were moments since my last dog, Achilles, died that the pain, always present, reached a crescendo and stole my breath. Once or twice, I’d been absurdly tempted to slam my face into a tree and leave bloody teeth embedded in the bark. Just to express the pain, to one-up it. The moment always passed.

I turned my head slightly where he couldn’t see, and cuffed myself once, hard. Little birdies and wheeling stars were preferable to the awful melancholy of contemplating the mortality of loved ones.

“Where are we going next?” Lionel said.

“Got to buy a bouquet of roses if I want to receive a dinner pass.”

“Think roses will get us back in the house?”

“Roses will get me back in the house.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

That evening, I opened the door at Meg’s to find Delia Labrador standing on the welcome mat, clutching a gift bag and smoking a cigarette you couldn’t buy in the USA. She wore a cardigan over a casual shirt, tight velvet pants, and too precious by half snow bunny boots with pink trim and tassels. On another day, it would’ve been a leather jacket and combat boots fitted with spikes. She was a mercurial woman. Doubtless her father would’ve preferred she fronted Zircon Corporation the way Tom Mandibole did the Redlick Group. Instead, she served behind the scenes in a titular, albeit inconsequential role, and lived life on her own terms. Jet-setter or mingler-among-peasants as the spirit moved her. Like I said, mercurial.

“Merry Christmas, Delia.” My hands were damp from washing a batch of dishes, so I nodded instead of offering to shake. She didn’t care.

“A reliable source informs me that Daddy wants you shot.”

“Would that reliable source be your father?”

“I put in a word for you. Reminded him you’re more useful without an extra hole in your head. Hope it helps.” She swept past me into the house.

I was struck once again with her sheer charisma, otherwise known as sex appeal. Blond or brunette, ballroom gown or burlesque and barely clothed, she was a knockout, a 1940s pinup. Her magnetism was the finishing blow. Charming and vicious, sometimes in the same breath. Far too intelligent and far too wily for my good friend Lionel.

“Investigating the Redlick Group? Silly, silly boy.” She set the bag on a table.

“A pernicious falsehood.”

“Is that a pretentious way of saying it’s a damned lie?”

“You got me.”

“Too bad. Because if you were trying to reach my father’s heart, kissing his ass or giving him lots and lots of money are the surest methods.”

“I live to disappoint.”

She rubbed her hands to warm them.

“Some insider info you might want—Redlick Group and Zircon have climbed into bed on about a million business deals. Our families knew each other so far back, we didn’t even have servants. Indian-Wars-and-dying-on-the-Oregon-Trail depth of history. And who fucking cares at the end of the day; Daddy utterly loathes the Redlicks. We all hate the Redlicks.”