Free 07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery by Lois Greiman

clout.”
    “An ex-senator who will hardly even talk to him.”
    “And whose fault is that, Mac? It’s not as if Rivera is Mr. Cotton Candy. I mean, for all we know he might have shot Andrews.”
    “He did not!” I said, and suddenly I was on my feet. “You take that back!” She stared at me, both eyebrows lost in her hairline.
    I faced her for an instant longer, then collapsed back onto the couch, deflated, head in my hands, eyes closed.
    “So it’s official,” I said, and nodded dismally at the obvious truth. “I’m certifiable.” Chapter 8
    A fool and his money are soon elected.
    —Senator Rivera’s political opponent, who actually stole the quote from someone older and wiser…and consequently not in politics
    “Christina.” Senator Rivera drew me into his arms with warmth, caring and a good deal of drama. I could feel heads turn toward us as every eye in the room was brought to bear. Maybe it was the fact that he had been California’s senator for umpteen years.
    Maybe it was because he had once been a presidential hopeful, but perhaps it was simply his phenotype that made men growl and women purr.
    Miguel Rivera was an extremely attractive man. He was tall, dark and exotic, with a honey-edged Spanish accent and the politically advantageous ability to make an individual feel as if she were the center of the universe.
    He pushed me to arms’ length and stared into my eyes, making me grateful that I had taken special care with my makeup that morning. Usually it’s a dab of this and a smidgen of that, but today it was more like a boatload of this and a couple tons of that. Plus my hair, usually as lank as an anemic mule’s tail, had been curled and tortured and lacquered into submission.
    “Christina.” He said my name again, crooning it like a Latin lover. The sound made me miss Francois something fierce. “How are you faring, my dear?”
    “I’m…” I cleared my throat and managed to refrain from glancing at the onlookers.
    Their attention made me fidgety. It’s possible that the senator no longer noticed when he was the epicenter of attention, but I rather suspected he was not entirely oblivious. “I’m well,” I said, using my best diction. It always came out when my hair was curled. “How are you?”
    He shook his head, looking somber and wise and paternal. It was an impressive performance, considering his history involving young women and old scotch. “Let us not speak of me. It is you with whom I am concerned.” That’s how he spoke. Not like an everyday, on-the-street kind of guy, but with an old-world charm that left the great unwashed masses, of which I was just one mass, hanging onto every word. Sometimes I wondered if he had to spend extra time slumped in his easy chair at home, wearing nothing but his whitey-tighties and cursing the TV just to offset his public demeanor. “I know this is not easy for you.”
    “Senator.” The maitre d’ appeared with shining obsequiousness. “Might you wish for your usual seat?”
    “Ahh, Antoine. Si, gracias.” And touching a hand to my back, the senator ushered me toward the inner sanctum of one of L.A.’s snootiest restaurants. If I were paying for the meal we would have been throwing down French fries at Micky D’s by then, but the senator had picked the spot and therefore, I assumed, also planned on making the payments.
    The maitre d’ pulled out my chair. I eased into it, remembering, before I sat down, to tuck my skirt against my thighs like an honest-to-goodness lady. The ensemble I wore was one of my favorites. The skirt was a cute little silky number, popsicle green with a ruffle around the hem just for fun. My blouse was just as adorable. It was strappy and form fitting and topped off with a funky beaded necklace that my sister-in-law had made while pregnant. She and my brother’s ensuing offspring was proof positive that it doesn’t take a shitload of brain cells to create motile sperm.
    “Antoine,” the senator said,