Free Tender Death by Annette Meyers

weather’s really killed me.”
    “My name is Bailey Balaban,” B.B. said, “and I work for Smith and Wetzon ... we do executive search on Wall Street ...”
    Wetzon closed the door behind her. She loved their office. Everything was black and white and red. Black vinyl tiles on the floor, white walls and shelves, white filing cabinets, and red countertops. Her section of the room was a little more cluttered than Smith’s, with mementos from her previous life as a Broadway dancer, antique odds and ends she had been collecting from flea markets over the years, two strange-looking aloe plants with long tentacles, and piles of newspapers and magazines and suspect sheets with interviews of potential candidates.
    Smith’s area was more pristine. Client files, several pictures of her son, Mark, at different ages, and a celebrity map of Connecticut, where Smith had a weekend “retreat,” showing where all the special people lived.
    “Oh Lord, there you are at last,” Smith cried. “What a day, and it’s not even ten o’clock! Everyone is canceling.” She stood up to give Wetzon a big hug. Smith looked gorgeous—tall, thin, wearing a Donna Karan outfit, a black wool jersey draped midcalf skirt, crimson turtleneck, and long black jacket, and high black leather boots.
    “Stunning, as always,” Wetzon said, returning the hug. “How many appointments did we have?” She turned away to look over her messages. Hazel had called.
    “Appointments? Not appointments. My party! ”
    “Oh now, Smith, tell me, who has canceled?” She didn’t much care about Smith’s party. She was thinking about Hazel.
    “The Crowleys, that’s who, and Gordon Haworth.”
    “Well, the Crowleys live in Wilton, so that was to be expected. Connecticut will be a disaster. And Gordon Haworth, if I remember right, has been in D.C. all week testifying again about cleaning up the industry. Anyone else?”
    “Not yet, but I just know there’ll be more.”
    “Really, Smith, that’s not too bad. Yesterday you were worried that you’d invited too many people.”
    “You’re right. I won’t worry about it until later. How was the interview?”
    “Weird. He wants to leave, but he can’t leave ... because—get this—he’s working for the FBI—”
    “What? What did you say?” For a brief instant Smith forgot all about her party and gave Wetzon her full attention.
    “You heard me. Can you believe it? He didn’t strike me as being overly bright, either.”
    “He’s probably lying,” Smith said. “You know they all lie. I’m sure he has a problem, the usual, compliance, unauthorized trading, whatever.”
    “Maybe, maybe not. There’s some kind of scam going on at L. L. Rosenkind that some brokers are involved in, or so he hinted. I think he was trying to find out if he could go somewhere after—”
    “After what?”
    “After the investigation is completed.”
    “Well, if it should happen to be the truth, which I would seriously doubt, I hope you didn’t say anything that could get us into trouble,” Smith said grimly. “The tarot warned me—”
    “Smith, what are you talking about?”
    “Because if he is working for the FBI, he was probably wearing a wire.” She turned her back on Wetzon, disgusted, to answer her private phone. “Hi, sweetie pie,” she cooed into the telephone, “how’s my Leonola today?” She was talking to Leon Ostrow, their lawyer, and her “best beau,” as she sometimes called him.
    Wetzon felt foolish. She tried to remember what she had said to Peter Tormenkov. Innocuous stuff, for sure. Smith was so paranoid, Wetzon had learned to discount a great deal of what she said. But sometimes, just sometimes, Smith was right.
    She sat down at her desk and dialed the number Hazel had left.
    What would Hazel think if Wetzon said “sweetie pie” or “Hazola” into the phone when Hazel answered? She smothered a laugh. Good work, Wetzon. Don’t let her get to you.
    “Hello.” Hazel’s voice was