Free Veiled Threats by DEBORAH DONNELLY

old-time suspenders and straw hats, to serve the shrimp, tend bar, and park cars. Things went so smoothly that, after directing the buffet arrangements and helping to set up the podium and microphones in the gazebo, I actually had time to people-watch.
    From the cedar railing of the back terrace, I watched the picnic tables rapidly filling. People were all decked out, the way Seattleites do when the sun finally shines: garden-party dresses on the older ladies, and linen suits on the older gents, nicely mixed with avant-garde play clothes in the most trendy of shades. The senator himself, who enjoyed the distinct political advantage of resembling John Wayne, was working the crowd. He was trailed by two bright young staffers with instructions to fend off reporters until after the speeches, which would come after supper.
    At this rate, I could even eat supper myself. My purse was on a side table in the living room; I stepped through the French doors to stash my clipboard there, too, and ran into Holt Walker. Physically. There was a lot of him to run into, and he kept me from falling with one hand, as if I weighed nothing at all. At this rate, I wouldn't need any wine. The sense of his body so close to mine went right to my head.
    “Sorry! I didn't see you, the sun's so bright out there.” I sounded like a nervous teenager. “It's going really well. Don't you think?”
    “Very well,” he said, picking up my clipboard and handing it back. “Thanks to you, no doubt.”
    He was wearing new-looking jeans, neatly pressed, with a tattersall check shirt, and my flat shoes made him seem even taller than he had at Diane's wedding. His eyes were still green. I couldn't remember whose turn it was to speak.
    “Are you busy?” he asked. “Of course you are, but do you have time to eat? I could get us both a plate.”
    “That would be fine,” I said, put suddenly at ease by his simple courtesy. “But don't you have to go meet and mingle?”
    He shrugged those nice shoulders. “I'm off duty today. I've already sent Sam a contribution, and I don't feel like answering legal questions on a Saturday.”
    “How about nonlegal questions?” I found myself saying.
    He narrowed his eyes curiously. “Such as?”
    “Such as, when you arrived late to Diane's wedding, did you see anyone else in the parking lot or along the drive?”
    The green eyes grew wary. “No. Was I supposed to?”
    Here we go again, I thought. I'm going to sound paranoid to him, too. And I really, really don't want to do that.
    “No, not at all, it's just that … it's just that I found this card case, and I'm wondering if one of the guests dropped it.” I rummaged in my purse and produced the card case. He took it, looked at it idly, and handed it back.
    “Looks expensive. No one's claimed it?”
    “Not yet. But I'm sure they will.”
    “Well, then, how about some supper?”
    “Wonderful.”
    We went back out on the terrace, and he crossed the lawn with a long-legged stride. I saw him wave to Nickie, who was holding hands with Ray at a table full of younger people. A contribution to Sam, I thought. Samuel Bigelow. Could I date a Republican? Could I date a Republican with those eyes? Noneed to be narrow-minded, after all. It's the two-party system that made this country great.
    Further political musings were interrupted by Grace Parry, coming up from the lawn, with Dorothy Fenner in attendance. Grace was wearing a tropical-print silk blouse over slim white pants and tiny white sandals. Her toenails were painted coral, probably by someone else. Dorothy looked proper as ever, in a linen sheath and a hat that would have done the Queen Mother proud.
    “Carnegie, there you are!” said Grace. “I've just been raving about you to Laura Simone. Her oldest girl just got engaged….”
    I felt a wave of relief. No hard feelings about the bank account, then.
    “Dorothy here has a few suggestions,” Grace was saying, “and I told her you'd be glad to hear