Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

retro ambience.”
    Wetzon walked past Tavern on the Green, which even in daylight and in spite of the cars parked out front, looked like a sketch from a fairy tale. She crossed Central Park West. Cafe Des Artistes was in a Beaux Arts building just off Sixty-seventh Street.
    Laura Lee was sitting, her back to the bar, a glass of red wine in hand, chatting up a distinguished old gentleman to her right and charming two attractive Frenchmen with hair grazing their collars. “Ah, here she is! Wetzon, darlin’ say hello to Jeremy,” she tilted to the right, “and these two adorables,” pronouncing it in French, “are Pierre and Marc, who are here to make a documentary.”
    Jeremy’s wife arrived just behind Wetzon, a little stiff-necked to see him with Laura Lee, and dragged him off to their table. As for Pierre and Marc, Laura Lee told them Wetzon was an important client there to talk business.
    Wetzon ordered a California cabernet. The naked nymphs in the famous mural behind the bar frolicked. “Well,” she said.
    “Yes,” Laura Lee agreed.
    “How is Aunt Bren and the mistress business?”
    “Which one?”
    “Which one what? You mean he had more than one?”
    “In Shreveport, a stripper by the name—would you believe—of Tomasina de Lay.”
    Wetzon laughed. “Ooo la, that’s some Uncle Weaver.”
    “The Tallahatchie Republican Club is in a state, let me tell you.”
    “Oh, the judge was a Republican?”
    “Well, of course, darlin’, and a teetotallin’ member of the Christian Right.”
    “He shed the teetotal in Mississippi when he came to New York.”
    “A wolf in sheep’s clothin’. Poor Aunt Bren thought all the while she was married to the sheep. So it goes. And how are you doin’?”
    “Recovering. Smith’s thrilled with herself and has no time for me, which is good.”
    “And you have Silvestri home again.”
    “I do. I really do.”
    “And—”
    “And. And the guy I clobbered was in a coma till yesterday. The other one, Farber, has a torn Achilles and a fractured femur. I must have had an episode of superhuman strength.”
    “Rage cooked up your adrenalin.”
    “Laura Lee, did you ever think you could kill someone? I mean, not just to say, as I say about Smith, but for real.”
    “It could happen. Can’t ever say never, darlin’.” She put her hand over Wetzon’s. “You were defendin’ yourself. Everyone knows that.”
    “I know.” Wetzon set down her glass. “That guy, Oscar, the handyman in Bill’s building, the one I thought was creepy, like a would be rapist or something, turned out to be FBI.”
    “Takes all kinds.”
    “If he hadn’t stopped me I would have killed that thug.”
    “Speakin’ about killin’, the prosecutor called to tell me that Jason should be back in the country to face charges by the middle of May.”
    “Ugh.”
    “What have we decided about Bill Veeder?”
    “He was in financial trouble. Deep, with Russian mobster loan sharks.” She toyed with her glass. “Laura Lee, one of the things I can’t remember ... with Bill and me ... you said you knew what had happened.”
    “Ah, you mean when you went out to the Coast for the weekend.”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. You got out to the airport early and they put you on an earlier flight. He had to be in court, so he’d given you the number of the limo service in case the flight was delayed. The limo picked you up when you got in and took you to the Four Seasons.”
    Wetzon closed her eyes. “He left a key card for me at the desk. I remember opening the door.”
    “You found an actress type in a towel, blow dryin’ her red hair as if she lived there. You’d gotten there a couple of hours early.”
    “I was furious.”
    “She said, bold as brass, ‘Oops, it was a late night.’”
    “‘Oops, it was a late night’? What a hell of a nerve!”
    “You never even unpacked. You dropped the key card on the side table, walked out of there, and got on the next plane for New York.”
    “I’m proud of myself.”
    “He kept callin’ but you told him fuhgeddaboudit.”
    Wetzon sighed. “I wonder if I’ll ever remember any more of it.”
    “Sometimes the mind protects the bod.”
    “I don’t understand why he took such a chance. He knew I’d never tolerate it.”
    “He liked pushin’ the envelope, so to speak.”
    “I guess so. I think Oscar was put in place so the FBI could keep an eye on Bill, and when they got what they wanted, they turned him.”
    “Bill was working for the