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The woman craned her neck in order to stare into Tess's face.
"Monaghan," she said, giving the name a hard g. "What kind of name is that?"
"Irish. But my mother's family was Weinstein. They came to Baltimore from a small town somewhere in Eastern Europe, before World War I. It was a Russian town when they came, I think, but I'm not sure where it ended up."
Actually, she believed that it was a German town, but the borders of that time were so porous that Tess didn't see any harm in trying to establish a small kinship with the Peterses.
The woman looked puzzled at this attempt to find common ground. "So you're a Jew?"
"I'm a mutt. Like everyone, right? We're all mutts in this country."
The woman frowned, pulling her head back into her round shoulders as if she had been insulted. "You vant information? I don't have much. But vat I have, I'll give you-for a price."
Tess paid for information all the time, so she was hardly surprised to be asked for money. She just hadn't expected a man's mother-in-law to pad his per diem costs.
"How much?"
"One hundred dollars."
Tess counted five twenties out of her wallet.
"Per piece."
"Excuse me?"
"It's one hundred dollars for every name or fact I give you. Cash."
"I only have two hundred dollars on me."
"Then you only get two things."
"How much do you have to sell?"
"Ve'll see. Vat vould you like first?"
"I'd like to know if Natalie has contacted you in any way since she left."
"No." The woman took a hundred dollars from Tess's hand.
"Wait a minute. You didn't tell me anything."
"You asked a question, I answered. That's one hundred. There's an ATM on Reisterstown Road if you need more."
A serious case of caveat emptor, Tess decided. She wasn't going to pay for any more of these so-called leads until she had road-tested at least one of them.
"No, that's okay. I'll ask you just one more question. If it's a bum tip, I won't be back, and you'll never get another hundred dollars from me, all right? And by the way, that doesn't count as my question."
The woman nodded. "You may ask one more thing."
"Did Natalie have a friend, someone in whom she confided? If so, I'd like a name and number-a simple yes doesn't count as the full answer." She held her money above her head, well out of Mrs. Peters's stubby reach.
"Natalie didn't care for friends, especially girlfriends."
Tess continued to hold the money above her head, and Vera Peters studied it the way Esskay the greyhound stared down an out-of-reach dog treat.
"But she had one, a girl from this neighborhood. They went to school together, vorked together before Natalie got married."
"Worked together? Mark told me his wife never had a job."
The woman smiled. She had gorgeous teeth for a smoker, big and white and probably fake. "Him. Between vat he doesn't know and vat he won't tell, you have your vork cut out for you."
Chapter Five
THE NUMBERS VERA PETERS HAD FOR LANA WlSHNIA proved to be a cell phone and a work phone. Unfortunately, there was no landline listed with directory assistance. Tess was ru
She tried Lana's cell but got voice mail, an electronic voice curtly instructing the caller to leave a message. Tess disco
"Adrian's," trilled a woman's velvety voice, with just a hint of supercilious challenge.
"Is Lana Wishnia there today?"
"She's with a client. Are you a client?" The voice indicated Tess should be. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No-yes-I mean-does she have anything open today?"
"I'll see if she has had a cancellation, although I doubt it." The voice was cool with disapproval. The Velvet Frost, Tess thought. "Perhaps if you could come in at four."
The voice made it clear that coming in at four was terribly gauche.
"Sure, I'll take that."
"And this would be for…"
"For, you know, that thing Lana does." Tess assumed that a place called Adrian's had to be a beauty salon or spa, although there was an outside risk that she was signing up for an MRI or a high colonic.
"We offer a full range of services at Adrian's. But, given Lana's schedule, you must choose."
"Choose…" Tess had found that repeating a word when lost in a conversation sometimes prompted the other person to provide enough information for her to continue whatever deception she was working.
"Feet or hands, pedicure or manicure. But there won't be time for any special treatments-massage or a wrap for your hands, reflexology. We ca
"Hands. A simple manicure."
"Very well. We will see you at four, Miss…"
"Theresa Weinstein," Tess said, not sure why she was lying, even less sure why she had chosen her mother's maiden name. But Adrian's was probably somewhere in Pikesville, so the Weinstein name might thaw the frost.
"At four, Miss Weinstein. Have you been here before?"
"No, it was recommended by a friend. I'll be coming from North Baltimore after a late lunch. What's the best way to get there?"
"Take the Beltway around to the Reisterstown Road exit. We're in the old Bibelot, the bookstore that folded."
Lose a bookstore, gain a spa. No wonder Baltimore was no longer known as "The City That Reads." But it did have great hair. Baltimore had even taken Broadway by storm with an entire musical devoted to the joys of teased coiffures.
Tess had said at least one true thing in her exchange with the Velvet Frost: She was due in North Baltimore for a late lunch. Such a journey, no more than eight or ten miles, should have been easy enough at midday. But perhaps Vera Peters had placed a gypsy curse on Tess, for she encountered an obstacle in every mile of her trip-a series of inexplicable traffic jams on the expressway, which she abandoned only to find herself caught in a tangle created by a road-construction project. She was blocked on her alternate route by a moving van, which didn't see why it shouldn't close two lanes of traffic to unload furniture, and finally by a beer truck, whose need to deliver four cases of Bud and Bud Lite was being treated like a presidential visit at the small corner deli.
And Tess would have been happy to offer these details as apologetic explanation to most dining companions, but the moment she saw Tyner Gray's scowling face and heard him bark, "You're late," she just shrugged.
"Sorry. I was working. Got here as soon as I could."
The restaurant Tyner had chosen was an oh-so-chic French bistro, Petit Louis, which had hit Baltimore's foodies like a Gallic love affair. Even the New York Times had anointed its kitchen, but Tess liked it anyway, especially during rowing season, when she had the metabolism of a cheetah. Tyner preferred it for a different reason: By one-thirty, when the ladies-who-lunch crowd cleared out, Petit Louis was fairly amenable to a man in a wheelchair. No steps, no carpets, just smooth wood and tile floors.
"So," Tess said, expecting Tyner to get down to business as he usually did.
"So?" he echoed, fiddling with the menu, picking it up and putting it down, as if he wasn't sure what to order. Tess selected the smoked duck for an appetizer and the steak frites for lunch, and she put in for the crème caramel at the same time, lest the kitchen run out at this late hour.