After dinner, Madame Secretary rose, tapped her goblet with her fork, and announced to the group that she had a surprise. They were going to enjoy an hour of dancing—to work off all the calories from dinner, she said, earning a few laughs and a couple of male groans. And so the group walked back into the large living room, where a small dance band had settled on a dais at the far end, all the furniture moved out of the way. A slow, easy dance song, one Davis hadn’t heard before, started up, and most of the guests stepped out onto the floor. Davis danced the first number with Natalie, and spent the next few minutes watching everyone around her watching her, or them. What did they expect? Coitus in the middle of the dance floor?
When the song came to an end, the speaker of the House, Herbert McGuffen, lightly touched her arm to get her attention and asked her to dance. Tall enough to carry off his weight, and looking as arrogant as a French aristocrat, the speaker wore a very finely made rug that blended well with his own light-colored hair. Davis was sure no one had ever said a word about it. The speaker seemed to be arguing with her about something, very discreetly, of course, but Davis was paying attention. Natalie shook her head at him, and he didn’t seem to like her reply. Her half-brother, Milt, was on the spot when the song finished, and she smiled at the speaker, added a light laugh, and traded partners. For a moment her eyes followed the speaker of the House, who didn’t appear to be at all happy. What would her half-brother have to say? Then it was Davis’s turn again.
“Trying to pump you for information?”
She laughed. “Yes, both of them are very good at it. But I’m the master. Davis, it was close tonight, but we nearly got him. He’s here and he’s close.”
“I took a call a couple minutes ago. The black truck belongs to a Mrs. Betty Steffens, of Nantuck, Maryland, reported stolen early this morning right out of her garage. We’ll go over it for fingerprints, but I doubt there’ll be any. What’s that song? I mean, it isn’t hot and fast like the Sex Pistols.”
Natalie laughed. “Nope, it’s soft and flowy, from ancient times. You’ve never heard it?”
“No, but then again, it’s easy to dance to, I don’t have to concentrate and can keep my eyes on all the desperate characters around us. Why was the speaker of the House upset with you?”
“You saw that? You’re good, Davis. Let’s say he’s not happy with a stand the president’s taken on a particular trade bill that affects his district. Despite the current situation, he knows I’m close to the president and he wanted me to help him change his mind, which I refused to do.” She shrugged. “He’ll get over it, since he’s got to know it’s going to be a no-go without the president’s backing. I think his biggest wish, though, is that I’ll be resigning to keep the party safe.”
She smiled up at him. “Any symptoms of poisoning?”
Davis grinned at her. “Not yet. Why is your kid giving me black looks? She was all smiles earlier.”
Natalie looked over at her daughter, now dancing with her uncle Milt. “She heard the gossip floating around tonight, told me in the ladies’ room I should have come with her and Day tonight, not drag you here to add to the gossip, what with your being so hot.”
“She thinks I’m hot?”
Natalie laughed. “Guys—you never change. I think she said hot, but, hmmm, maybe it was something else. I’m getting old, my hearing’s on the wane.”
“Yeah, right.”
“She thinks I bought your tux.”
“She doesn’t have a very good eye.”
“Not in this case, evidently. Your tux is obviously bespoke.”
“Yeah, my mom forced me to my dad’s tailor, told me if I ever gained weight, she’d shoot me.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. You dance well, Davis.”
“Thanks. I haven’t heard music this old in forever. What is that song? So she thinks I’m hot? Do you know I invited her to come into my house for a cool drink?”
“The song is ‘Moon River.’ It’s been popular for decades. Maybe she thinks you’re hot because of your derring-do yesterday morning. I told her it was probably an everyday sort of deal for you, particularly the part about the Starbucks in one hand and a gun in the other. You’re perfectly right, though, ‘Moon River’ sure isn’t James Taylor.” She gave him a fat grin.
“James Taylor? You mean that balding guy who played hippie ballads back in the Stone Age?”