Obsession, Deceit And Really Dark Chocolate. Kyra DavisЧитать онлайн книгу.
I asked, cutting him off before he could miscast me in the role of innocent damsel in distress.
“I spent time with him every day. I’m Flynn Fitzgerald’s main strategist. Johnny here is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant.”
So he was that Rick! Perfect! Networking made easy.
“Flynn Fitzgerald?” Mary Ann asked. “He’s a writer, right? I think I might have read one of his books a long time ago. Didn’t he write about parties and socialites?”
Rick knitted his brow and studied Mary Ann as if trying to determine if she was joking.
Leah cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mary Ann, you’re thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Rick nodded in agreement. “I actually love F. Scott Fitzgerald. I just reread Tender Is the Night last month.”
“He was a great writer.” I patted Mary Ann’s knee. “But I’m fairly sure he doesn’t need an assistant or strategist.”
“Why not?” Mary Ann asked innocently.
Even sitting several feet away I could tell that Johnny was working hard to stop from giggling. “Well, for one thing, he’s dead, Mary Ann,” I explained.
“Oh!” Mary Ann put a gentle hand on Rick’s arm. “And you loved him! So much loss in such a short time! When did Scott pass away?”
For a second Rick just looked stunned, but then his expression changed and it was clear that he was amused despite himself. “I never actually met F. Scott Fitzgerald,” he explained. “Just Flynn Fitzgerald. The one running for the House of Representatives.”
“The man Eugene worked for!” Mary Ann smacked her hand against her thigh, the whole situation becoming clear to her. “That would explain how you knew Eugene.”
Rick broke out into a full grin. “Yes, that would explain it. Were you acquainted with Eugene?”
Mary Ann shook her head, causing her perfect chestnut curls to bounce around her face. “No, I’m just here to support Sophie.”
“That’s a shame. Eugene would have liked you.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What makes you say that?”
“Eugene liked sweet, compassionate, genuine people.”
Mary Ann blushed slightly. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid me.”
“They’re flirting,” Leah whispered in my ear. “They’re flirting at a funeral.”
I glanced over at our three other companions. Johnny was engrossed in the Bible and Rick had his head bent toward Mary Ann in a rather intimate fashion. I could make out that he was telling her about Eugene, but his voice was too low for me to really eavesdrop effectively. I would grill Mary Ann later. I shrugged and turned to Leah. “I had sex after your husband’s funeral,” I whispered.
“That’s different. You were bereaved, and bereaved people can have sex after a funeral. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“But I wasn’t all that bereaved….”
“Well you would have been if my husband hadn’t been an adulterous parasite. The point is that you and Bob were family, and any person who’s related to the deceased is allowed to have sex with someone after the funeral.”
“Melanie actually told me about this guy. Eugene was a friend of Rick’s family, which means they were almost related, so he should be able to almost have sex…or at the very least flirt.”
Leah clucked her tongue in disapproval. Just then a distinguished-looking couple walked down the aisle toward the front row where Melanie was sitting. The man was in his early forties, and was wearing a perfectly fitted, very expensive-looking suit. The woman on his arm was about ten years younger, dressed equally well, with sandy blond hair coifed in an elegant updo.
“There’s the boss man and the missus,” Johnny said, finally looking up from his reading. “I should probably sit with them. Never know when Fitzgerald might need his personal assistant.”
“At a funeral?” Leah asked skeptically.
Johnny shrugged. “Maybe he’ll need me to provide him with Kleenex.”
I started to laugh but checked myself when I noted that Johnny wasn’t joking. He jumped up and took a place at Fitzgerald’s side.
“Johnny’s very enthusiastic about his job,” Rick noted.
“Clearly,” I said, but I didn’t have a chance to add more since the priest had just taken his place at the pulpit.
The funeral consisted of one long-winded speech after another. Flynn Fitzgerald spoke, as did his speech writer, who claimed to have been close to Eugene. Neither of them said anything that would make me think someone would want to kill the man they were eulogizing. It was a full hour into the service before the priest called up Rick Wilkes. Rick walked to the front of the room and adjusted the microphone. His initial statements were basically the same as everyone else’s, just reworded. I was beginning to drift off when Rick started talking about Eugene’s previous vocations.
“Eugene excelled at everything he did. My father continually told me that Eugene was one of the best agents in the FBI, and everyone working on Fitzgerald’s campaign can tell you that he was a star….”
“Did you know about that?” Leah asked in a hushed voice.
“No!” I said a little too loudly. The woman in front of us shot me a mean look and I slipped down lower in my seat. “I can’t believe Melanie didn’t tell me,” I said in a much softer whisper. “If he was in the FBI, he could have been dealing with any number of unsavory types.”
“Maybe Melanie didn’t think it was important because he wasn’t that kind of agent,” Mary Ann whispered. “Maybe he was like a…a travel agent for the FBI.”
Leah started giggling and the woman in front of us shot us another glare. We all fell into silence as Rick continued to wax poetic.
When the service was over I tried to get a moment with Rick, but he was whisked away by other friends. I tried again during the wake at Melanie’s house, but while he took pains to check in with Mary Ann a few times, he never got more than a few words out before someone else took him away to discuss something. Flynn Fitzgerald was equally unavailable.
I was fiddling with my necklace while listening to Mary Ann and Leah discuss the wisdom of serving fondue at a buffet when Johnny sidled up to me, offering me a glass of wine. “I have a confession to make,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve read every one of your books. I just finished C’est La Mort. You’re one of my favorite authors.”
“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I said, referring to both the compliment and the wine.
“I’m an author, too, you know.”
“Really?” I asked. “What have you written?” My eyes sought out Melanie. She was in the middle of a group of women engaged in what looked like a friendly but somewhat somber conversation.
“I haven’t actually written anything, but I do have a book. It’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.
I managed not to roll my eyes. I had long since lost track of how many people (from lawyers to waiters) had told me that they were really writers at heart. As far as I was concerned that claim didn’t mean a lot until you wrote something. It was a detail that most of these unrecognized “authors” didn’t seem to be willing to address.
“I was a computer science major in school,” Johnny babbled. “But computers aren’t exciting. I mean, can you see me as a computer geek? Not my thing. I’m still amazed I didn’t flunk out due to intense boredom. Then I got my master’s in poly sci and somewhere along the line I said to myself, hey, I can write political thrillers! I still think