I thought fast. “Charlie, can you hold a moment?”
I pushed the SILENT button, turned to Beatriz, who was trying not to listen. “Do you want to go to a big party tonight?”
She plucked at her T-shirt. “We would have to shop again.”
“Charlie? Yes, I can make it if I can bring a guest. And Charlie, when you give our names, just say it’s the daughter of a Spanish Cabinet minister—”
“Which one?”
“Luis del Gato, Minister of Labour.”
“Pity it’s not trade.”
“Indeed. The daughter is Beatriz del Gato. I’m to be her nameless escort.”
“I’ll have to—”
“Just say ‘and bodyguard.’ And if you’re going to the party, don’t acknowledge me.” Beatriz had now given up all pretense of not listening.
“Don’t you worry about me. It’s at his house in Marietta, eight until he thinks he’s impressed everyone. Are you really a bodyguard?”
“More of an escort. Thank you for this, Charlie.”
I put the phone down and turned to Beatriz. “I want to meet a man, but I don’t want him to know I’m meeting him.”
“What kind of man?”
“That’s what I want to find out. The party will be a formal affair, and very public. There will be no danger to you, at least no more than in any other situation.”
She looked at me steadily. “You have helped me. I will do this for you.”
I picked up the phone again. “Will those flowers need watering before we transplant them tomorrow?”
She took the hint at once and went to water the flowers. I called Julia. “It’s me. Sweeting got me two invitations for a black tie party at Honeycutt’s tonight.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“That doesn’t give me much time to get ready.”
“It wouldn’t be prudent for you to go.”
“Don’t be silly. All our business was by phone. He’s never even seen—”
“I’ve already invited someone else.”
“I see.” Her tone was icy. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.” Click.
They don’t sell things in bad taste at Saks, so that’s where I took Beatriz. And after she had picked out a deep red silk sheath and even darker red backless pumps, I took her to the cosmetics counter where a woman like a lizard helped her select the things to go with her dress. Then it was on to Hairanoia.
While she was having her hair washed I beckoned Douglas over. “She’ll want something…excessive. If you keep it to the merely dramatic, I’ll be appreciative.” He nodded politely. I would hate to be a hairdresser, always being told what to do by amateurs who think that just because they’re paying they should be in charge.
She changed in the bathroom then chattered at me through the bedroom door while I got ready. This would be her first big party.
“What about all the parties in Madrid?”
“I lived all my life in a small town called Cuenco, about a hundred miles from the city. It was only after Papa was offered the Cabinet post that the family moved.”
When I stepped out of the bedroom in a tiny black Vera Wang dress, she stared at me.
“It’s not polite to be too surprised.”
“What? Oh, no, it wasn’t…. It’s just…” I let her flounder. “You’ll carry the gun in your purse?”
“I never carry a purse.”
“Then…”
I walked into the living room, put my left foot up on the couch and turned towards her. My dress rode up and exposed the black stretch neoprene thigh holster attached garter fashion, with black elastic to-the-waist strap and waistband attachment. Her blink rate went up. I slid out the little Sig Sauer P230, showed it to her, then put it away. “Time to go.”
By the time we were on I-75 her excitement was back. “Who will be there?”
“Everyone who is anyone. Politicians, media moguls, bankers, that kind of thing.” Money launderers, crooked politicians, murderers.
She didn’t say anything to that but began to root around in my CDs. She stopped and swore softly in Spanish.
“What?”
“My purse. I left it at your house.”
“Do we need to go back?”
“No,” she said, and smiled. “Besides, what do I need for a party?”
A gun. Car keys. Credit card and five-dollar bill for the valet parking. Bodyguard to carry it all. She went back to sorting through the music. We listened to Skunk Anansie, very loud, all the way to Marietta.
Honeycutt lived in a neighbourhood of oversized Georgians with gravel drives and half-grown hedges that went up five or six years ago when the land out here in the middle of nowhere was cheap and you had to drive three miles to pick up a pint of milk. Now the land is expensive and stuffed with houses that all look alike and belong to neighbours you’ll never meet—and you still have to drive three miles to get a pint of milk. There were people all over the lawn: women wearing little jewel-encrusted silk slippers, men in midnight tuxes with brilliant cummerbunds. Four men in white shirts and black trousers parked cars. I noted the cut of their trousers around the ankle, pocket, and waistband. No weapons.
To the smooth-eyed man with the list at the door I announced, “Ms. del Gato and escort,” and we were in. A server glided past bearing a tray of martinis and Beatriz grabbed one, eyes sparkling. The roar of conversation and shimmer of diamonds was overwhelming.
A woman I recognised from Eddie’s pictures as Cathie Tyers, Honeycutt’s latest girlfriend, was standing before a huge wall aquarium, playing host. She greeted us with the pursed vowels of a Canadian accent, usual generic smile and Pleased-you-could-come, and unwilling handshake, then turned her attention to the sudden stir behind us. Cess Silverman had arrived, along with Georgia’s Secretary of State. They were greeted then wafted discreetly by one of the staff towards the back of the house.
I glanced about at the walls, as if admiring the moulding, following the wiring, the phone lines. No sensors on the hall windows; probably specially designed glass, fitted by the security company. I edged Beatriz towards a sideboard groaning under hors d’oeuvres. “For tonight, I’m not Aud. I’m your escort, Torvingen. Treat me like hired help.”
“I will try to remember.”
“Try hard. You’re the one with the invitation. No one here has any reason to believe I would be here except as your escort.”
“No one except Charlie.”
“Except Charlie Sweeting. Who is the white-haired gentleman heading our way.”
He was holding out his hand but remembered himself just in time and pointed it at Beatriz. “Miss del Gato. Charlie Sweeting. A pleasure indeed.” He shot a bushy-browed look at my legs. He was too well bred to lick his lips, but I could see him revising his opinion of my intelligence. Why is it that some men equate the size of a woman’s brain with that of her dress?
I gave him an up-and-down and let him see my professional dismissal of him as threat. When he recoiled with injured vanity, I dropped him a wink. He recovered with aplomb and turned to Beatriz. “Ah, Miss del Gato—may I call you Beatriz?”
“Certainly.”
“Allow me to advise you on some of this food. A sophisticated European woman like yourself might not be familiar with our plain country fare.”
She glanced at me. I nodded fractionally.
“Very well, Mr. Sweeting. It looks quite delicious. What are those green vegetables?”
“Okra, I believe. Now, I once heard a story…”
I trailed after them as he exuded courtly charm and she giggled. She was in safe hands for a while. I excused myself.
I trawled the party. Music was playing in the reception room; no one was dancing, but the conversation was loud and fast, with a high laughter quotient. I beckoned to a passing server for a glass of whiskey, and sipped. Not cheap. I passed through room after room, smiling my Goodness me, look at all these people! smile, which always gets a response. In thirty minutes I talked to an insurance broker from Los Angeles; some drunk old photographer with a very handsome face who wanted to tell me all about her work and snarled at her husband when he came to find out who she was talking to; one of the bigger building contractors in the city; and the lieutenant governor’s wife—who turned out to be a civil engineer. I asked her the usual questions about her job, and she was happy to tell me all about the design of the elevated MARTA tracks and why the support arches were the shape they were.