Free Veiled Threats by DEBORAH DONNELLY Page A

them.”
    “Of course,” I lied. “What's the problem, Dorothy?”
    “Oh, goodness, Carnegie, no problem at all. But the parking area is getting full, so you should tell the attendants to use both sides of the drive. Some of the waiters are pouring the wineglasses too full, and the bar nearest the lake has run out of lime wedges.”
    “Heaven forfend,” I muttered.
    “Pardon me?” She raised those goddamn eyebrows at me and smiled that goddamn smile.
    “I'll take care of it,” I said.
    Dorothy departed for the ladies’, and Grace crossed the room to survey the scene outside, shielding her eyes with one hand. She wore a diamond ring the size of a golf ball. “Oh, Holt, thank you! I haven't had a minute.”
    Holt had returned, a heaped plate in each hand and two napkins hanging out of his shirt pocket. Before he couldspeak, Grace took a plate from him and perched prettily on a wrought-iron bench on the terrace. “Here, there's plenty of room. I haven't seen you in ages.”
    He gestured to me with the empty hand. “But—”
    “I've got work to do,” I said. “Shall I send a waiter up with some wine?”
    “Thanks,” he said, and winked. “See you later.”
    Content with that for the moment, I was starting down the steps for the limeless bar when Grace said, “Who's that?”
    She was on her feet, pointing down the lawn to the first buffet table.
    “Who's who?” I asked.
    “With the bad haircut and the dreadful jacket.”
    “He has a press badge,” Holt remarked, squinting into the sun. He had smile lines around his eyes, and gold highlights in his chestnut hair.
    “That's what I thought,” said Grace. “That's Aaron Gold from the
Sentinel
. They were specifically told to send someone else. For God's sake, get him out of here before Douglas sees him.”
    Holt set down his plate and began to get up, but Grace put a dainty hand on his arm and produced a smile.
    “I meant her, not you, silly. Solving these little problems is what you're paid for, isn't it, Carnegie?”
    “It certainly is,” I said, holding onto my temper with both hands.
    I don't usually work as a bouncer, but getting rid of Aaron Gold clearly took priority over limes and wineglasses. I kept him in sight as I plowed through the crowd, until Douglas Parry entered the gazebo and tapped the microphone. People gathered to listen, and when the way cleared a bit, Gold was gone. I spotted Theo and worked my way over to him asParry introduced the senator. The crowd laughed and applauded on cue, giving me plenty of cover to tell Theo the problem.
    “In a minute,” he said flatly, not looking at me. “I've got another situation over here.”
    He nodded toward a trellised gate that marked a path to the famous rose garden. The roses were the one thing Douglas Parry hadn't changed when he had the old house torn down, and I'd heard that he had hired a special gardener just to care for them. The gate was twined with clematis vines, the feathery leaves and starry white flowers nicely framing the couple conversing beneath: Nickie Parry, looking dismayed, and a gaunt, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit, looking drunk.
    “Who's that?”
    “That is Keith Guthridge,” said Theo, “and I am going to evict his ass.”
    “Well, do it quietly,” I said. “I'll go with you and see if Nickie's okay, and then you go look for Gold, all right? I have to get back to the waiters.”
    “Fine.”
    Nickie saw us as we crossed the lawn to the gate, but Guthridge was absorbed in telling her his troubles. Like Grace Parry, he had splendid clothes and a perfect haircut, but money would never revive his ashen complexion, or still the palsied tremor of his hands. Keith Guthridge looked like expensive hell. Did he look like a man who would have Nickie killed? Of course not. Then again, what would a man like that look like?
    “I never meant to upset you, sweetie, you know that,” he was saying. His voice was old and slurred, and his lower jaw dropped slack, like