“She looks quite baffled, doesn't she?” Penelope accused. “Downright dumbfounded that she's being photographed, booked, and processed.”

“I think she looks lovely,” Gloria remarked. “Like she's had a bit of a shock, certainly, but what a stylish ensemble to be arrested in!”

“I do agree with you about that,” Gigi said as she studied the black and white photograph of Camilla Otis on the front page of the New York Times. “Even with her hair down and disheveled, she looks like a film star. Lauren Bacall, perhaps.”

“But by now I'm sure she's wearing that hideous black and white striped uniform! Like all the jailbirds do!” Darla cried, shaking her head in dismay. “Horizontal stripes… Ugh. A true fashion tragedy.”

The others nodded, equally nonplussed.

Penelope Fitzgerald, Gloria Davenport, and Darla Vanderbilt were gathered around the table in Gigi Contini's very modern and chic breakfast nook, sipping mimosas and exclaiming over the Times article that detailed Camilla's arrest. It seemed nothing made a late breakfast more delicious than gossip-worthy scandal.

Though Gigi's excitement was not quite as candid as that of the other Book Club ladies.

After the shocking events of the previous day, Gigi had come home from the police station a bundle of nerves. She'd planned to speak with her husband immediately, but Guido had not returned to the manor until late. Upon his arrival he'd explained that he was having his bi-weekly meeting with none other than Antonio Castellano. The mobster father of Mario Castellano. Mario, who was dead by the hand of Camilla Otis.

Looking down at the newspaper image of Camilla's confounded face, a shiver of unease rippled across Gigi's skin. Her conversation with Guido the night before rang in her ears.

“You're sure?” he had asked. “No one knows? No one except Antonio?”

“I'm sure,” Gigi had replied, feigning a confidence she hadn't felt. “No one except Antonio knows that I introduced Mario to Camilla at our garden party. No one.”

But, of course, she wasn't sure. Especially after her strong reaction to hearing the news of Mario's death from Marcella yesterday at the police station. Fret ambushed Gigi's stomach as the events of the garden party played over and over in her mind. The moment Camilla had asked her about the ‘handsome young Italian man’ chatting with his father. The moment she had received permission to introduce them. The moment she'd led a coy Camilla over to a grinning Mario and said, “I think you two will get along famously.”

What had she done?

The anxiety was too much. And anxiety aged women in the most unflattering of ways, creating a physical proof of guilt. That would never do.

A distraction was in order. A temporary remedy. Therefore, Gigi had invited her friends for breakfast. As much to gauge their reactions to the Times article as to find reprieve in their chatty presence.

“I do hope they're feeding Camilla alright in that dungeon,” Darla said as she poured herself another beverage. “I almost feel guilty indulging in such a delectable breakfast, but it'd be a shame to let these frittatas and mimosas go to waste.”

“Darla, a ‘mimosa’ is fifty percent champagne to fifty percent orange juice,” Penelope educated her friend. She pointed to the cream-colored concoction in Darla's glass. “What you have there is champagne. Period.”

Darla laughed and took a long pull from the flute. “Well, I'm no expert in measurements. I simply poured! But the result is certainly tasty.”

“Scrumptious frittatas, as well!” Gloria praised. “The peppers add such a zing!”

“I'll pass your compliments along to my chef,” Gigi said.

“I wish I could take a helping to Camilla. What do you think they serve for meals in jail?” Gloria pondered. “Gruel? Porridge? Stale bread?”

“You need to cut back on the Charles Dickens, Gloria,” Penelope scolded. “You're thinking of orphans, not jailbirds.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Gloria said, tapping her chin. “Yes, you're right. Silly me!”

“You were saying you're going to visit Camilla later today?” Darla asked. “At the police station?”

“Well, they won't allow me to see her, I'm sure, but I'll be going there, yes,” Gloria replied. She took another bite of her frittata and hummed in appreciation. “I thought it couldn't hurt for Karl to meet with her. Have a little chat. You know, given his profession.”

“Ah! Of course,” Darla said, tapping the side of her nose. “I suppose you can't have too many lawyers when you're notoriously dubbed the…” she glanced down at the newspaper headline again, “Bullseye Broad.”

“Precisely,” Gloria agreed.

“Is that necessary?” Gigi asked. She glanced over at Gloria, forcing her facial features into an innocuous arrangement. “To have your husband see her? Camilla has a lawyer. Isn't two a bit overkill?”

“Overkill? Really?” Penelope scoffed. “Interesting choice of words, Gigi.”

Darla giggled in between sips of her ‘mimosa.’

“The Otis family lawyer is on retainer with Weston Otis,” Gloria explained. “And as Camilla was…oh, let's say, ‘stepping out’ on Mr. Otis with Mario Castellano, my husband feels that Mr. Otis may not allow his lawyer to represent her. He pays the lawyer, therefore it would be his prerogative.”

“Hm. That does make sense,” Gigi murmured, looking down at her half-eaten frittata. Her appetite suddenly abandoned her, and she pushed the plate aside. What if Camilla told Karl Davenport how and where she'd met Mario? That could lead to questions about how Gigi and her husband knew the Castellanos. And questions could lead to answers about their relationship, and far more frighteningly, their business dealings.

That would be very, very bad.

But Camilla had given Gigi her word that she'd keep the story of how she met Mario a secret. She'd promised. Gigi would have to trust that promise.

But as she sat, surrounded by the animated conversation of her oblivious friends, Gigi's anxiety bubbled in her stomach. If Camilla broke her promise, it wouldn't be long before she'd have a pair of new cell-mates: Guido and Gigi Contini. And no matter how hard she might try, Gigi simply could not pull off black and white horizontal stripes.

༺ ○ ༻

“‘The Bullseye Broad’,” Officer Spade read aloud from the front page of the newspaper. “‘New York socialite jailed for murder.’ What do ya think of that, huh?”

“I think, if Camilla Otis makes bail, this journalist will be the next guy she whacks,” Officer Marlowe said.

Seated opposite them on the other side of the wide, worn desk was the silver-haired P.I. Mack D'Knife. He let out a boisterous chuckle, his shark-like teeth shining pearly white. “You think a murdering dame like her will get bail?” he asked. His flinty gray eyes sparkled. “Don't count on it, fellas.”

“Judge Loughran already set her bail,” Marlowe said with a shrug. “He met with the D.A. early this morning. Price tag is more than my house, but it's not like Weston Otis can't afford it.”

“Weston Otis? That's the husband?” Mack asked. “The elevator man, right?”

Marlowe nodded. “Elevator millionaire. That's him.”

Mack humphed in amusement. “Yeah, he can afford it just fine, but will he pay? Nah. If it were me, and my old lady was behind bars for offing the young hipster she'd been shagging behind my back, I'd leave her in there outta spite.”

“Me, too,” Spade said. “She's no class act, that lady.”

“No class act,” Marlowe repeated.

“Easy on the eyes, though,” Spade remarked, studying the featured mugshot. “Real easy.”

“Keep it in your pants, Spade,” his partner chided.

Mack clapped his hands together and grinned at his visitors. “So, Jack Marlowe and Jack Spade. Jack-squared! All together we're ‘Jack-Knife’! Hey, that's catchy! To what do I owe the pleasure, fellas? I'm guessing you didn't drop by my office just so we could have coffee and read the newspaper together.”

Spade smirked at Marlowe. “He's a detective, sure 'nuff.”

“Nice as this is, you're right,” Marlowe told Mack. “Guess you could say we have some itches that need a scratch, and you got the helping hand. So, you were on 12th Street when Camilla Otis shot Mario Castellano. Witnessed the whole thing.”

“Sure did!” Mack declared. “I got some great timing, don't I? Just so happened to be grabbing a cup of Joe. From Sunbucks. Swell coffee shop. Just swell.”

“Yeah, you ‘just so happened’ to be there,” Marlowe said, playing along. “Great timing, alright.”

“Little too great,” Spade added. “Some might say coincidental. Some might say damn near perfect.”

“Almost like you were there on purpose,” Marlowe piled on. “Maybe…tailing a mark?”

Mack's eyes shifted from Marlowe, to Spade, to Marlowe. He then threw his head back and guffawed in hilarity. “Jack n' Jack, c'mon now! This isn't the interrogation room at the police station, and even if it was, I'm the one who taught you boys those tricks. They don't work on me. Well done, though. I'm impressed. But even if I was on 12th Street tailing a ‘mark,’ I couldn't tell you that. My clients pay for results and discretion. And the more they pay, the more discreet I'm inspired to be.”

Spade grimaced at the use of their first names. “So, I guess you got a real rich client, huh?”

Mack held his arms wide, indicating the surface of the desk which was piled high with fat gray client files. “C'mon fellas, I got lots of clients. I'm good at my job!”

“Anyone special, client wise?” Marlowe pressed. “Anyone surprising? Anyone who seems strange?”

“Most people who feel the need to hire a gumshoe are a little on the strange side,” Mack replied. “Still can't talk about 'em.”

“Sure, sure,” Marlowe relented. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “How about this, then: what's your opinion of a high society dame like Camilla Otis having a gun?”

“It's not illegal,” Mack said with a little shrug. “Seems to me she can have a gun if she wants to.”

“It's odd, though, isn't it?” Spade prompted. “I mean, where did she get it? What did she need it for? Wasn't like she planned to off the Italian kid.”

Mack smirked. “So, maybe she'd planned to off someone else. You got this broad in your holding cell; why not ask her?”

Marlowe and Spade sighed in unison.

“We've tried,” Spade said.

“Over and over,” Marlowe concurred.

“She's as tight-lipped as a Tibetan monk with a vow of silence.”

“Will only say one word: lawyer.”

“Huh,” Mack grunted, a pensive look on his face. He ran a callused hand across his sharp jaw. “She's got some smarts, then. Moxie, too, shooting a man in broad daylight. The gun she used, it's a small revolver, right? Look like it came from a pawnshop, maybe?”

“Nah, just the opposite,” Marlowe said. The facts involved still baffled him, even after rolling them around in his head for nearly twenty-four hours. “That's what's so strange. The gun is brand spanking new. Beautiful piece. Expensive. And the size and weight, well…perfect for a woman. Like an expert picked it out for her.”

“You don't say,” Mack mused.

“According to forensics, it's only ever been fired once,” Spade added. “The bullet that killed Mario Castellano.”

Mack's wide shark-esque mouth turned down at the corners in an exaggerated frown. “Well, ain't that a head-scratcher.”

“Real head-scratcher,” Marlowe and Spade echoed.

“How about this Italian fella?” Marlowe inquired. “Mario Castellano. You know him?”

“I know the name,” Mack replied. “His family is the real deal. Mob affiliated with all the trappings.”

“Yeah?” Spade asked. “What else do you know about them?”

“Nothing good,” Mack stated. He grinned, as though that fact brought him unseemly pleasure. “Antonio Castellano is the kingpin, and not to be crossed, unless you wanna end up six feet under. But Paola Castellano, Mario's mother? Pshhhh. She's the one to fear. They call her the ‘Iron Bitch of Little Italy’.”

Marlowe and Spade shared a loaded look.

“That right?” Marlowe asked.

“Wouldn't make up tall-tales, boys,” Mack confirmed. “It's the truth. You ask me, a holding cell is the only place in New York City where Camilla Otis is safe. She better pray her husband doesn't pay her bail. Not that I think he will, considering the facts.”

༺ ○ ༻

“And you did what?!”

Patricia Kent studied her husband's irate face in irritated silence. She'd known he would react like this. The events of the previous day coupled with the front page Times article this morning would be enough to upset even the strongest of people. And she'd always had more of a backbone than he had.

“I gave Camilla the gun,” Patricia repeated.

Her husband's eyes grew to twice their normal size and he brandished the newspaper he carried in her face. “This gun?” he cried, jabbing his finger at the paragraph describing the crime. “The revolver mentioned in this article?”

“Yes, Franklin. That gun.”

“My god, Patricia,” he berated. With a dramatic swing of his arm, he flung the newspaper down on the dining room table. “So, not only does Camilla Otis know about our not-strictly-legal side business, but you saw fit to give her shooting lessons, and then provide her with an unregistered revolver. A revolver that was used yesterday to shoot and kill the son of a mob boss. A revolver that is now featured in an article on the front page of the New York goddamn Times?!”

“That about sums it up, yes,” Patricia stated, a hand on her hip. “Now, if you're quite done waking the neighbors over this, maybe we can have a civilized conversation?”

“Waking the neighbors?” Franklin Kent exclaimed, his expression aghast. He ran a hand over his thinning hair and cursed at the floor. “According to you, all of our neighbors already know!”

“Not about the gun!” she hissed. “No one knows anything about that. But they will, if you don't lower your voice to an acceptable indoor volume!”

“But the police are looking into it. The gun. They're curious,” Franklin shot back. “That's what you learned from Marcella at the police station yesterday, and the Times article all-but says as much!”

“It doesn't ‘say,’ it ‘reads’,” Patricia snipped.

“What?”

“A newspaper article is in print, yes?” she asked, sarcasm coating her words. “It's not verbal. Therefore, it doesn't ‘say’ anything, it reads. That's the proper syntax.”

“Oh, oh! Is it really? Oh, thank you!” Franklin cried, his eyes wild. “Thank you so much for the timely lesson in correct grammar, Professor Patricia! That is what's important right now!”

“Franklin, calm down before you give yourself a nose bleed,” Patricia instructed. “Honestly, don't be such an alarmist. I was concerned at first, as well, but none of the Book Club ladies suspect a thing. The police won't be able to connect us to the gun.”

“Until Camilla Otis starts singing like a canary!” Franklin argued.

“She won't,” Patricia said. “She gave me her word.”

Franklin sputtered a series of pompous curse words and ran his hands down his perpetually ham-colored face. “Her word? Marvelous. Yes, I unquestioningly trust the word of a woman who shoots men on a busy street in broad daylight!”

“For pity's sake, Franklin. Stop your crowing,” Patricia commanded. “Do you honestly think I would give Camilla anything without first securing insurance? I'm not a fool. She was planning to leave her husband. That's why she wanted to learn to shoot: in case he tried to stop her. Camilla knows that if she spills the beans on us, I'll hang her out to dry. She wouldn't dare admit to the police where she got that gun.”

Franklin shook his head back and forth, signifying that he wasn't convinced. “For the sake of our marriage, she'd better not, Patricia. I let you bully me into this risky enterprise, despite the fact that we in no way needed the money, but I will not go to prison for you. My family's import business makes millions, for God's sake! Why wasn't it enough? Why did we need to sell our dignity by getting involved with arms dealing? As if the gangs and mobsters in this city don't have a myriad of ways to acquire weapons already!” He threw up his hands.

“Don't be stupid, Franklin,” Patricia said with a sneer. “There's no such thing as ‘enough’ money. And mobsters will always want more weapons. Your annual income doubled this past year because of my idea.”

Her husband huffed in indignation, but offered no argument.

“Franklin,” Patricia said, her tone full of warning. She took him by the shoulders and fixed him with a steely glare. “Listen to me. Grow a spine, keep your wits about you, and we'll come out of this unscathed. We're Kents. We're beyond reproach. If you believe that, so will everyone else.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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