When it Rains - Chapter 7 EXCERPT

CHAPTER SEVEN: Let sleeping dogs lie, Harvey.

"Oh, the rest of the country can have their depression.  Me, I'm not sad at all!"
A loud whoop erupted from the huge woman, setting the jewels upon her breast quivering like glistening jelly, and the small crowd around her was set aroar with polite belly laughs.  Harvey moved past them, straightening his tie, to the long buffet of refreshments arrayed in the rotunda of the Artois Museum of the Arts.  An enormous gold-plated statue of an elephant towered over the fountain, mountains of hors d'oeuvres, a scaffolding of champagne in crystal, and corpulent, old-money, presiding as a god of decadence, liberated from some exotic land and done up in Art Deco.

He saw a familiar shape float by, a well-known, asymmetrical swish of hips in silk.  Veronica.  He'd smelled her perfume an hour earlier and almost left the gala then, but some masochism kept him here.  Harvey looked up into the golden idol's blank eyes and cursed himself.

She was probably doing him a favor by pointedly ignoring him.  If people saw them together again, they would surely ask questions.  All the same, while leaving the old scars alone, being unacknowledged by a friend opened new wounds.

The only reason they were both here at all was because of the late detective.  He had been the favorite P.I. of Bernie Artois for years, so the latter probably thought he was honoring Verdugo's memory by inviting the daughter and protégé of his old friend.  No thanks for small favors.

Harvey loitered at the buffet and popped another beluga caviar-encrusted Melba toast into his mouth.  He could at least try to get his money's worth for the three-dollar donation.
She worked the room so well, it was almost vulgar.  She'd learned to own that limp--make it something characteristic and mysterious, but Harvey couldn't help but feel that twinge of guilt every time he saw her move.

For anyone to deny that Harvey harbored feelings for the girl would be ludicrous.  It wasn't that they were no longer friends; no, it was probably quite the opposite.  But every time they were in the same room, that shared grief, all they had been through together: it was like a yawning grave had opened between them.  Any love they shared, Platonic or otherwise, was drowned in the tired sting of something long loved and long lost.

"Oh, here he is!  Detective Black, so glad you could make it to our little fête."
Harvey turned to see Bernard Artois cruising his way, trailing an entourage of sycophants like giggling ribbons on a kite tail.

"How are you, man?  I heard you've taken to filling some rather large shoes, and I dare say they fit quite well."

Harvey pasted on a toothy smile that could have easily been a grimace.  "I'm getting along.  Thanks for the invitation."

The flamboyant curator chuckled, quite unnecessarily, and waved wide, dismissive.  "Oh, but of course.  Did you see Miss Verdugo, also?  I dare say she's rather hard to miss."  He elbowed Harvey hard in the ribs and lifted his nose into the air to peer around the room through a pair of tiny spectacles perched there.

Harvey cleared his throat and took a sip of champagne.  "Yes, quite."

Not far away, on the other side of the buffet and in the shadow of the elephant, Veronica was laughing at someone's joke.  Then she was touching his arm, inclining her head, smiling--genuinely.  He was not a tall man, but he had a natural posture, confident; shiny, black hair; and a thin, sleek moustache to match.

"That would be Charles Hartley with her now."  Bernie indicated Veronica's companion.  "My dear brother-in-law.  Good man, good man.  Here, I'll introduce you."

Before Harvey could politely disengage, Bernie had taken his free elbow and was leading him toward Charles and Veronica.  She put on one hell of a brave smile when she saw him approaching.

"Good evening, Miss Verdugo.  Charles, I'd like you to meet Detective Harvard Black: old friend of the family."

"Harvey."

He shook Charles' hand with a nod and a thin smile.  Charles returned the gesture and an all too knowing look.

The silence was almost a beat too long when Veronica expertly stepped in with a flounce of her hair that had them all starting.  She pawed in Harvey's direction, affecting the surprised expression of having just come upon an oh, so clever idea.  "Oh, Harvey, dear, it only just occurred to me: Mr. Hartley was wanting me to sing, but the pianist doesn't know any of my numbers.  Could you play for me, pretty please?"

He nearly choked on his drink.  Taking a survey of the crowd, most of them looked encouraging, and Veronica most of all.  Harvey was used to her playing at hearts, but he couldn't imagine why tonight would be any different, why she was actually trying.

"Sure, doll, I'll play for you."

As she led him off to the piano, Harvey hissed, "Why are you doing this to me?"

She made a strange face then, almost entreating.  "Don't be a pill, Harvey.  Please, for me."

"Don't tell me you've decided to take up gold digging."

It was bad enough that the late detective wasn't fond of his teenaged daughter hanging out in a speakeasy.  He would have eaten his hat if he knew the flappers had rubbed off on her.  Harvey couldn't really blame himself for that, but he felt guilty all the same.

Veronica snorted in response.  "Maybe I like him, okay?" she spat, so softly Harvey hoped he was mistaken.  "Excuse us, please."

She shooed the pianist off the bench and Harvey sat down.

"Who, Hartley?"

Veronica sighed, her eyes lolling toward the ceiling before shooting him a dirty look.  The effect was unsettling.  "I'm a big girl, Harvey.  And you're a big snoop."

"Professional snoop, thank you."

He'd done it now.  She leaned into the crook of the piano and tossed her midnight bob and a wave of rose oil.  "Still doesn't mean you know everything about everybody.  Let's do 'Who's Sorry Now?'  It was Daddy's favorite."