Free Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) by Phyllis A. Humphrey Page A

selective memory, Livvie. Like the names of obscure actors, but not your school teachers."
    "That's because I haven't seen a teacher in a hundred years. However, this conversation is still fresh in my mind, and my selective memory is going to remember everything Debra said and print it out for you."
    "Good." He paused. "I'll see the vice president tomorrow and sweet talk some secretaries. Maybe I can find out if there's any funny business going on at Hammond Jewelers. With the kind of money that's involved, it would be surprising not to be a factor. I have a hunch greed didn't die with the revelations of the Wall Street bankers. In my opinion, greed motivates ninety percent of what's wrong with society today."
    I teased him. "My, we're getting profound, aren't we? Next you'll be telling me that money can't buy happiness."
    "'No, but it's way ahead of whatever's in second place.'"
    "'Or it can buy you the kind of misery you prefer,'" I quoted, and we played another game of who can remember the most clichés .
    As usual, Brad won. His eclectic style of reading included not just psychology, law, and the mysteries of Dashiell Hammett, Michael Connolly, and Lee Child, but also Oscar Wilde and collections of the ever-popular Murphy.
    As I left the office building and walked across the parking lot to my car, I continued to grin, but the black sky and cold night air chilled me, reminding me that someone I once knew had been murdered, and that was no laughing matter.

CHAPTER NINE
     
    Tino's was a well-known Italian eatery, famous for its fettuccine with clam sauce. Personally, I usually went for the ravioli, because that's one thing you can't easily make at home. Not that I cooked much anymore. I'd tried to be the perfect wife and mother, perfect housekeeper, and perfect chef while Stephen was alive, but afterward, I allowed myself to slip. With the twins grown and on their own, I had no one to cook for, no need to prepare gourmet or even non-gourmet meals, and for all I knew, space aliens had taken up residence in my oven.
    While in college, I worked summers in a health food store and read their literature, so by then, except for restaurant meals with friends, which supplied the necessary levels of protein and cholesterol, I lived most of the time on fruit, cereal, salad, and whole wheat bread, with only an occasional foray into the wilds of Kentucky Fried Chicken. And chocolate.
    Thanks to Cadbury's dark chocolate, I almost consumed enough sugar to decay all the teeth in California.
    In the dim light of Tino's lobby, Carl Novotny looked even younger than he had that afternoon, and, whereas I'd pegged him at mid-forties, now I wondered if he'd even reached that decade yet. I'd had just enough time to go home, change clothes, and repair my makeup before meeting him, so I didn't think anyone would mistake me for his mother, but I'd have preferred to look twenty-something and holding. Instead, I harbored a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Guilt, I decided. He only wanted to get his briefcase back and have dinner without people thinking he had no life, and I acted as if it were a date. Stupid. Showed what lack of practice in the social arts could do.
    "Hi." He looked just a tad uncomfortable too. Probably regretting his rash invitation.
    I contributed my part to getting the witty repartee off to a good start. "Hi." Then I remembered I was supposed to return the briefcase, and I'd left it in the trunk of my car. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Novotny. The briefcase is in my car." I pointed toward the parking lot.
    "That's okay. Mr. Featherstone's is in my car too. We'll swap them after dinner. And please, call me Carl."
    "Call me Olivia." Then a waiter came up and led us to a table.
    Tino's Italian decor consisted of a ceiling of crisscrossed lath strips clogged with plastic grape vines and tables holding Chianti bottles with dripping candle wax. I figured the only reason they didn't have aspiring opera singers taking requests for "Come Back to