Free The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) by Marcia Muller Page B

head. The object thrown from above hadn’t sounded large. A beer can, maybe?
    Another clang. Definitely a can of some sort.
    Silence. Probably whoever had done the throwing wasn’t aiming at me. Just another refuse dumper.
    We’re becoming a nation of slobs.
    No sooner had I gotten to my feet than my cell vibrated. I pulled it from my pocket, checked the number. Ma.
    For God’s sake, not again! Not now!
    I switched the phone off, knowing there would be hell to pay when I returned the call.
    I’d been there in the pit long enough. Carefully I made my way to street level, clutching the top edge and peering up and down the street before I pulled myself up and headed for my car.
    11:20 p.m.
    The landline was ringing when I stepped into our new house.
    Not Ma again!
    The machine clicked on and announced that the parties it served were not available.
    The caller was my sister Charlene Christiansen, in Bel Air, outside of L.A. Mick’s mother, Ricky’s former wife. The smart one, with a PhD in international finance and a thriving career. But first and foremost a mother—she was devoted to her six kids.
    “What’s the matter with Ma?” she asked when I picked up. “She’s driving me crazy!”
    “I got the message about the show with her paintings in it, but that can’t be the trouble. What’s she upset about now?”
    “That Patsy has, quote, gone and done it again, unquote.”
    Patsy is the family’s youngest, a chef and restaurant owner currently living in the Napa Valley. She also has three kids by three different fathers, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if earth mother Patsy wanted a fourth.
    “So what’s Ma’s problem? Pats can support any number of kids.”
    “Ma finds it ‘unseemly.’”
    “What’s unseemly is Ma objecting. She loves her grandkids. She’s always after Hy and me to give her another one.”
    “That’s because you don’t have any. Have too many and—pow!—you’re in trouble.”
    She ought to know. I said, “I suppose you want me to talk to Ma.”
    “Would you? Please? Pretty please?”
    “Maybe. What’ll you give me?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I don’t do family stuff for nothing, you know.”
    “Bitch. What do you want?”
    “Free tickets to a Cheryl Wheeler concert.”
    “I’m sure Ricky can score some. Just ask him.”
    “No, you ask him.”
    “If this is about my reluctance to ask favors from my ex-husband—”
    “There’s a concert coming up in Boulder this June. I haven’t seen the Rockies in ages.”
    “You want plane fare.”
    “For two. And when I’m in Denver, I love to stay at the Brown Palace.”
    “Mercenary!”
    “Oh, and there’s this great little restaurant that serves the most amazing duck—”
    “Bitch!”
    “Beloved sister, whom I’m saving from a very uneasy conversation—”
    “Okay, you talk with Ma. I’ll foot the bill for your vacation.” Charlene’s voice softened. “Besides,” she added, “this mess of a family owes you more than you can imagine.”
    Before I called Ma, I decided to call Patsy. She was a hands-on restaurateur who would be there until the last dish was washed and the last dime counted.
    “Villa Napoli,” a chipper female voice said.
    “Patsy McCone, please.”
    “Ms. Patsy is busy right now.”
    I knew very well what Ms. Patsy was doing at this hour: relaxing with a glass—or three—of wine after the evening rush. “Tell her to get off her butt and talk with her sister.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    In a minute Patsy came on the line. “Which sister?” she asked.
    “The oldest one.”
    “Shar! How are you?”
    “Fine. How’re you?”
    “Couldn’t be better.”
    I cut to the chase. “Ma says you’ve ‘gone and done it again.’ Are you pregnant?”
    “God, is that all the family can give me credit for? I happen to have bought a new restaurant. In Sonoma.”
    “That’s great! What about Villa Napoli?”
    “It’ll go on. I’ve hired an excellent manager.”
    “So