baritone voice boomed. “Who emptied the gutters?”
Marge and Brecht turned to its source. He was tall and well-built. He appeared to be in his middle to late forties with icy-blue eyes, pale lips, and a Roman nose. He had a florid complexion crisscrossed with tiny spider veins throughout the nose and cheeks. His salt-and-pepper hair had been cut long enough to form a cap of curls, but the tresses were short enough to be neat. He wore a dark-blue linen blazer, a white shirt with a tab collar, a blue-silk jacquard tie, and white-and-blue-striped seersucker pants. Around his flat belly was a dyed-white lizard belt secured with a gold buckle. His feet were housed in white Cole-Haan calfskin loafers; a white-silk handkerchief fanned out from his breast pocket. Marge looked at him, then back at Brecht, whose bald head had reddened from anger.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brecht spat out.
“Visiting Mother, Frederick.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Brecht fired back. “Leave at once or I will call the authorities.” He glanced at Marge. “Make yourself useful, Detective, and arrest this man. Dr. Merritt is trespassing on private property.”
“I was invited down here—”
“Arrest him, Detective!”
Marge said, “Dr. Brecht—”
“Arrest him this moment!” Brecht whined.
Merritt’s thin lips turned into a mirthless smile. He took a step forward; Marge blocked his advance. Merritt’s eyes narrowed.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the police, Dr. Merritt,” Marge said. “Why don’t we all sit down and try to have a civilized chat—”
“You don’t know this man,” Brecht said. “You can’t be civilized with him.”
Merritt threw him a contemptuous look, then turned to Marge. “Why are the police here?”
“Investigating your sister—” Marge said.
“What kind of mischief has Lilah gotten into now?” Merritt asked.
“She hasn’t gotten into anything,” Brecht said.
Merritt’s eyes lost some of their self-confidence. He turned to Marge. “So why are you investigating her?”
“If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you, Kingston. Why don’t you leave poor Lilah alone. She doesn’t need you anymore.”
Merritt’s nostrils twitched. He sidestepped Marge until he was face-to-face with Brecht. “You little twit, don’t you dare tell me how to treat my baby sister—”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” Brecht said.
“Gentlemen—”
“I can damn well talk to you however I please!” Merritt gave Brecht a firm shove. “Now get out of my way!”
“Get your hands off me!”
“I’ll put my hands wherever I please!”
Marge stepped between the men and separated them with her arms. “BACK OFF! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF NOW!”
They stopped, shocked by the force of her voice.
“What the hell is going on here!”
Marge turned to the new male voice. Mike Ness—behind him a very worried-looking Ms. Purcel. She’d called in the guard dog. Great! Another puffed-up male ego to appease!
“Dr. Brecht, are you all right?” Ness said. But he was staring at Merritt. He wore a muscle shirt and shorts and was wiping his neck with a towel. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir!”
“The hell you will!” Merritt said. “My mother, Davida Eversong, called me down here and I intend to speak to her!”
“Ms. Eversong isn’t in,” Ness said quietly. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
“Then I’ll wait for her … young man!” Merritt said.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea … sir!”
“Mike,” Marge broke in, “why don’t you take Dr. Brecht and give him some of your stress-reducing consommé. I’ll stay down here and chat with Dr. Merritt until Ms. Eversong returns. When is she due back?”
“I don’t know,” Brecht said. “In the meantime, this man is not welcome here.”
“You don’t own the spa, Freddy!” Merritt shouted. “Lilah does!”
“Lilah despises you!”
“Then let her tell me personally!”
“You are both creating quite a scene,” Marge said. She smiled and jerked her head toward a small crowd that had gathered near the marble hearth. The men followed the glance and said nothing.
Ness’s eyes darted between Brecht and Merritt. Then he turned to Ms. Purcel. “It’s okay, Fern, everything’s under control. You can go back to work.”
Ms. Purcel scurried back behind the protective shield of the reception desk.
Ness said, “Dr. Brecht, I have a couple of questions for you anyway. If you have a few minutes …”
Brecht brushed off his trousers, but didn’t speak.
Ness gave a passing glance to Merritt. Then he said, “You know the ladies, Dr. Brecht. They ask technical questions. I just can’t answer. Let’s talk in your office.”
Brecht nodded. Slowly, Ness led Brecht upstairs. Marge thought about the confrontation. What bothered her most was not Merritt and Brecht, but Merritt and Ness. They were addressing each other like strangers, yet Marge sensed that they knew each other.
“ … detest that excuse of a man,” Merritt was saying.
“Pardon?” Marge said.
“Frederick,” Merritt muttered. “I don’t know how he has insinuated himself into Lilah’s heart. She always did have a spot for the downtrodden. Probably why she married the Jew.”
“The Jew?”
“Lilah’s ex-husband.”
“Is he a physician as well?”
“Perry? Good God, no!”
Marge smiled to herself. The one Semite in the bunch and he wasn’t a doctor. “Why don’t we sit down while you wait, Dr. Merritt?”
“Fine.”
Merritt parked himself in a wing chair; Marge sat in its mate. The two chairs were separated by a table piled high with VALCAN newsletters—the lead article entitled “Cellulite Reduction: Fact and Fiction.” Merritt picked one
