“Sergeant,” I said carefully, “I don’t want my son to know what we’re actually talking about.”
“Should I call you from my car?”
“Don’t think that’s necessary. Just act as if I’m giving you permission to sign that slip Arch has.”
“Go ahead.”
“Last night, I catered a party where Bob Rushwood was a guest. It didn’t end well.”
“I’m listening,” she said, her voice deadpan.
I gave her a quick rundown on Bob and Ophelia’s breakup. I told her about Bob’s spying on Ophelia and his seeing me introduce her to Brewster Motley.
“The main thing I’m worried about,” I concluded, “is that Bob was apoplectic with rage last night, and so I was hoping you would keep Arch as close to you as possible today. This is just in case Bob does indeed blame me, and he extends that blame to my son.”
“Done,” she
