Invasion of Privacy

dry red called Imperial Dao. Sampling it, I approved, and he poured for both of us before leaving with our meal orders.
    Nancy looked at me over her wineglass.
    I said, “I’m not touchy.”
    “Is it age or aging or what?”
    I told her about Mo and Freddie Norton.
    She nodded. “And my kidding around just reminded you of the... differences between the generations?”
    “I sometimes have trouble following Mo’s train of thought, Nance, maybe because he’s so much older than I am. And I guess I don’t like to think that people close to me are having the same trouble with what I say.”
    Nancy took a polite sip. “We’re not.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Most of the time.”
    “Drink your wine.”
    The bread and the kale soup arrived, nearly constituting a meal in themselves.
    Between spoonfuls, Nancy said, “So, how was your day?”
    “Interesting, I think.”
    “You don’t know if it was interesting or not?”
    Nancy and I have developed an uneasy truce about my obligations as a private investigator to keep client matters confidential and her obligations as an assistant DA to prosecute crimes, but I didn’t see any problem with an abstract outline. “A woman came to see me. She wants a confidential investigation of her boyfriend-cum-fiancé.”
    “To see if he’s on the level,” Nancy said, very matter-of-factly.
    I looked at her. “Yes. That doesn’t surprise you?”
    “These days? Uh-uh. One of the other prosecutors was dating this professor at her old college—somebody she met again going back for a reunion?—and they became intimate. Of course she took precautions, but when the relationship became more serious, she asked one of the state troopers attached to our office to just check him out. And guess what?”
    “The professor was married.”
    “No.”
    “Not really a professor?”
    “He’d been her teacher, John.”
    “Okay, I give up.”
    “Be a little more imaginative.”
    I’m slow about some things. “Bisexual?”
    A nod before another sip. “Kind of chilling, huh?”
    I had some of my wine. “You ever have me ‘checked out’?”
    “Yes, but not that far.”
    “How come?”
    A self-satisfied smile. “You’d been on the shelf a while.”
    “And out of circulation means safe?”
    “John, you just have a feeling about some people, you know?”
    An image of Olga Evorova came into my head, her shy blushing showing her love but not stemming her concerns about the man she wanted me to investigate. I didn’t envy my client that feeling.
    “John?”
    “Sorry.”
    The entrées arrived in hand-turned pottery bowls, hot and fragrant and just spicy enough on the tongue. And, as always, too much food.
    When we finished, I said, “Doggie bags?”
    Nancy shook her head. “Leftovers wouldn’t keep where we’re going.” Checking her watch, she brought out the wallet from her handbag. “And we should be going.”

    As we arrived in Davis Square , I said, “The Somerville Theatre.”
    “The same.” After parking a block away, Nancy bought us tickets at a window on the side of the building. A small line accumulated behind us as she got her change and the stubs, handing me one. When we got to the front of the theater, the marquee read: SCOTTISH FIDDLE RALLY. I looked from it to Nancy . “A coming attraction, right?”
    “Wrong. Come on.”
    On the right side of the lobby was an old-fashioned counter for popcorn and soda and the usual overpriced cavity-creators in brightly colored boxes. On the left side were tables displaying cassette tapes and compact discs with names on them I didn’t recognize. As we reached the doorways leading to the seating, a teenaged girl in a tartan skirt handed us yellow programs.
    I said, “The Boston Scottish Fiddle Club.”
    “Yes.”
    “Nance, we’re Irish.”
    “The cross-pollination will be good for you.”
    I flipped through the program. “They’ve got fifteen, twenty entries on this. ‘Reels’ and ‘airs’ and ‘marches.’ ”
    “So we’ll get our money’s worth.”
    “We’ll be here till dawn, too.”
    “A friend of mine saw this last year and said it was terrific. Let’s find our seats.”
    Inside the theater proper, the orchestra level sloped down toward the stage, somebody having impromptu-marked the chairs with letters and numbers on taped pieces of cardboard. We got to our row, the red velvet cushions flat and worn as I sat down. The two couples behind us were comparing culinary experiences from ocean cruises.
    After