The Summer Guests (The Martini Club, #2)

by Tess Gerritsen

“Excuse me,” Lloyd repeated. She turned. “What?” “I have half a pastrami sandwich. When I heard the barking, I thought it might come in useful, so I got it from the car.” He handed her the sandwich, wrapped in plastic. “You just happen to have a sandwich around?” “I always pack an emergency sandwich, in case I get stranded someplace without food.” Which, judging by the man’s girth, did not happen very often.

She opened the door, and the dog came trotting out of the trailer, tail wagging. Jo was the one who’d fed him, petted him, but to her annoyance, he headed straight toward the glowering Ben Diamond, of all people. To her surprise, Ben immediately dropped to his knees and wrapped his burly arms around the dog. “Oh, you are a good boy, aren’t you? Who’s a good boy?” he gushed, and was rewarded with a slobbery lick on the face. So much for Ben’s gangster act. All it took was a dog to unmask him.

Jo stepped into the house and paused in the foyer, sniffing the air. “Something smells awfully good.” “It’s just chicken.” Jo cast a longing glance at the kitchen. Does no one ever feed this woman? Maggie thought as she led Jo into the living room.

“Because of the backpack. Because I assumed . . .” Jo groaned. “Oh, fuck. Excuse my French.” “Oh, we know even better words in French,” said Lloyd.

“Do you serve martinis?” Declan asked. “Maybe another time, thank you,” Maggie cut in, and nudged Declan toward the elevator. “It was a perfectly reasonable question,” he said as they rode up to the third floor. “For a committed alcoholic.” “Should I ever move into a facility like this, I’d insist on a well-stocked bar and convivial fellow inmates.” “I don’t think they’re called ‘inmates,’ Declan.”

Ben said, “Consider all the advantages of our fair state. In particular, the advantages of a remote little village like Purity, far from prying eyes. A place where people are known to respect your privacy, where they don’t ask too many questions about why you’re here and what you do for a living.” “There’s also the ready availability of lobster,” added Lloyd.

“How did you get Betty Jones to tell you all this?” He leaned over Jo’s desk and whispered: “Baked goods.”

She believed that if Ingrid Slocum put her mind to it, she could locate a missing cat in Timbuktu.

He threw back his head. “Jesus, I’m in a goddamn episode of Murder, She Wrote!”