Synopsis

Her tailor had skimped on the material between the bodice and the neck. The slit in her dress up the thigh certainly wasn’t a wardrobe malfunction. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in years. Why the hell was Dan Trix’s ex-wife sitting at the peninsula in his kitchen?

Pamela had left Trix, a man who earned nicely into six figures, for a man who earned very nicely into seven. Bronco J merged and acquired and sold companies. He was missing. She had been threatened and beaten by men eager to find him. When the same happens to his wife Elaine Newman, Trix and his buddy Lester Ponzolli focus on Bronco’s last deal, the acquisition of a private for-profit university.

When the owners of the university begin to die from other than natural causes, Trix and Lester know they have little time. Pamela is one of the owners.

Chapter 1.

A few people in Black Forest Country Club have dropping-in rights at our home in Naughty Pines.

We’re fond of an English couple who are easily beguiled with a cult Pinot Noir or a bush-flavored gin from Tanganyika. We’re good friends with a couple who administratively reign over Naughty Pines. She’s the neighborhood intermediary between the country club administration and fools such as I who failed to get permission before removing an oak tree whose aggressive roots ate into our water line like a scythe into peanut butter, causing both a mess and expense. They favor Chardonnay.

Coincidentally, such drop-ins normally occur about cocktail hour.

The doorbell rang. It was almost 09:30.

My after-dinner uniform is ritually a snappy pair of boxer shorts in bold checks, striking stripes or stamped with macho symbolism like yachts, train engines, space rockets or corncobs (Go Cornhuskers). Accompanying the shorts you’ll find a unisex T-shirt bought on our/my travels that doubles as a nightshirt. One is stamped with the flag of Lithuania, another with a wine label from Argentina. We’re fond of the city map of Berlin. There is fierce competition for the red one with the giant yellow corncob. (Go Huskers.)

Since these dropper-in-ers are good friends and easily bemused, I answered the door without slipping on walking shorts.

Elaine would not have allowed such behavior. She considers clothes to be a sign of respect for those who are witness to what we wear. If we wear torn sackcloth and tattered slippers, we announce our lack of regard for those we encounter in particular, for society in general. Appropriate couture says we attempt to make the environment visually pleasing for those in our presence. Like flowers in a vase, we are a modest enhancement of their day.

I challenged her to open Vogue and explain how such frantic regalia enhances anything other than the cash flow of the designer. She was not amused.

“Corncobs? You poor bastard. You need counseling,” she said as I opened the door.

I wasn’t at a loss for words. There were too many available. I didn’t know which ones to choose.

“Pamela,” I finally said.

“I expected something more,” she said.

“You look great.”

“The hell I do. Are we going to stand here exchanging banalities or are you going to invite me in?”

“Of course. Come in.”

She did.

“Do you need to introduce me to anybody?” Pamela said.

She shook as would a dog that had just rolled in the sand. Thankfully, without the same effect.

“It’s cold in here. Maybe it’s so damn hot and humid outside, it feels cold. Where to?” she said.

I pointed toward the peninsula in the kitchen. It was the gathering place.

“Not the den with your computer, telephone and bookcases filled with erudite resources? Of course not. That would be like humping by the front door without even a kiss. Maybe you’ll show me the den later. We do need foreplay.”

She gave my cheek a gentle pat.

“I do hope you still have your sense of humor,” she said.

Pamela was one of those women who could barely disguise her sexiness in a spacesuit. She wasn’t in a spacesuit.

“Where should I leave this?” She nodded at her carryon.

“Right there.” I pointed to a spot near the front door.

“For a quick and easy exit?”

She shrugged and left it between the front door and the peninsula.

She slid onto one of the bar stools as would the Queen of the Silver Dollar. She crossed her legs. Her dress designer had skimped on material between the neck and the bodice. The scarlet dress had a slit up one side to just above the knee. The less-is-more effect.

“You didn’t drink a lot or well back then. I hope you’ve matured,” she said.

“Full service,” I said.

“Something opaque would be consistent with the zeitgeist of my life.”

With her little fingernail, she loosened something in her teeth. A silver cigarette holder tipped with a Gauloise and she could have been a poster in a French bistro.

I returned from my wine room with a Chilean Carmenère that was intended for a special occasion. This qualified.

“You have graduated. Congratulations,” she said after a sip, then held her glass for a clink.

“Nothing but the best for the best,” I said.

“Trix, you’re not running for office and I’m not a voter,” she said.

“Just out for an evening stroll with your carryon, thought you’d knock on the door, see how things are going?”

“That’s pretty much it. And by the way, I think someone is trying to kill me. I’m looking for a place to hide. Thought maybe I could crawl under your bed.”

“How ’bout them Huskers?” I said.

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