Best Friends Forever

2

Jupiter Island was a long, narrow barrier island north of Palm Beach. There were only a few access points to reach it from the mainland, which I assumed was by design to ensure the privacy of its well-heeled residents. I approached it from the south, driving up US Highway 1, taking a right just past the Jupiter Lighthouse, then heading north up the island on Beach Road.

I drove past the tall condo buildings of Palm Beach County. They abruptly stopped, signaling that I’d passed into Martin County with its more stringent zoning laws. I passed through the Blowing Rocks Preserve, where the road was lined with short palm trees and bushy sea grape shrubs. Just past the preserve and tourist parking, the private houses began. Some were visible from the road, others sheltered behind gates and privacy hedges. All were large and ostentatious. The houses to the east fronted the Atlantic Ocean, while the ones to the west faced the Intracoastal Waterway. Each property had a twee white sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.

Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.

We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.

“Are you okay?” I’d asked.

“No,” she’d said. “But I will be. At least, I think I will.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be on your own right now.”

“I usually hate the flight back from Europe, but I’m sort of glad that I’ll have this time to pull myself together. There will be so much to do once I get home,” Kat said.

“Have you spoken to Amanda?” I asked. Kat’s daughter was in her first year of medical school at Emory, in Atlanta.

“I’m going to wait until I get home,” Kat explained. “She’s studying for a big test in her anatomy class. I don’t want to upset her.”

“You probably won’t be able to avoid upsetting her,” I said as gently as I could.

“I know, but I’d like to at least put off telling her until after her exam is over.” Kat sighed. “Marguerite was apparently hysterical. It must have been awful for her, finding him like that. What does it mean when the housekeeper has shed more tears for my dead husband than I have?”

“It probably means you’re in shock,” I said.

Kat’s flight had been called then, and she had to hang up. I hadn’t spoken to her since. I’d tried calling and texting her a few times, but she hadn’t responded. I knew she was probably busy planning the funeral and dealing with her relatives. Stopping by now, uninvited, at a house in mourning seemed intrusive. I drove by.

I arrived at the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department. It was located in a charming yellow building with green shutters, lush landscaping and neat hedgerows, and across the street from one of the holes of the Jupiter Island Club’s pristinely manicured golf course. I parked my ancient Volvo in a small lot just to the left of where the island’s two fire trucks were housed.

I checked my phone, but Kat still hadn’t responded. I sent her a text:

At Jupiter island police. They asked me 2 come in 4 interview about Howard. Not sure what’s going on, but will try to be helpful. Hope ur ok. xx.

I dropped my phone into my bag and climbed out of my car into the Florida sunshine. It was an unusually warm morning, and I had dressed for it in a light blue linen shirtdress and flat brown sandals. But the fabric was already starting to wilt in the heat, and perspiration beaded on my forehead. There was a flagpole in front of the building with an American flag at full mast. A light breeze caused the pulley to bang with a metallic rhythm against the pole.

As I entered the police station, a frigid blast of air-conditioning hit me. The waiting room area was small and, apart from some chairs and a table scattered with magazines, empty. Jupiter Island did not appear to be a hotbed of criminal activity.

I walked up to the middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk. She wore a floral dress rather than a police uniform, and her glasses hung around her neck on a beaded cord. There was a small brass dish shaped like a pineapple and filled with candy on her desk.

“How can I help you, dear?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Detective Alex Demer. My name is Alice Campbell,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, smiling up at me. “He’s expecting you.”

I had deliberately not asked for Oliver. I hadn’t liked her, and I hoped she wouldn’t be there for the interview. But then I remembered the whole good cop–bad cop phenomenon. Maybe she’d been purposely rude so I’d open up to the more sympathetic Demer. Or was that just something from the movies?

The receptionist told me to take a seat, but I waited only a few minutes before Detective Demer came out to greet me, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand. His height should have made him imposing, but for some reason, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was his rumpled suit or his ugly tie, or the fact that his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. I wondered if his unkempt appearance was a result of living out of a hotel or if he always looked like this. Did he have a wife at home who did his laundry and picked up his dry cleaning? Or did he live in a bachelor pad with dirty dishes piled in the sink? I glanced at the detective’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

“Mrs. Campbell, thank you for coming in,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup.

I stood and shook his hand. “Of course.”

“Come on back. I’m working out of the conference room,” he said, nodding toward the hallway he’d just emerged from.

I followed him. The building didn’t look anything like the police stations did on urban cop movies, with the huge cement-floored rooms furnished with rows of industrial desks and perps handcuffed to chairs. Instead it looked like the office of an insurance company, with subdued furnishings and a low-pile beige carpet. We passed a few small offices, most of which were empty. Sergeant Oliver sat in one, and she looked up when we passed.

“Mrs. Campbell is here,” Demer said to her.

“I see that. I’ll be right in,” Oliver replied.

The detective led me to a small conference room and gestured for me to sit at a rectangular table with a shiny cherry finish. Sun was streaming in through two windows, and Demer adjusted the blinds so the light wouldn’t be in my eyes.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Although I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He held up his Starbucks cup. “I’m not a coffee snob by any stretch, so you can imagine how bad it would have to be to get me to spend five bucks on this. We also have soda and bottled water.”

“Water would be great,” I answered.

“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

Demer left just as Oliver strode in. She had removed her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blue oxford button-down. Her face was bare of makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of small gold hoop earrings. She took a seat across from me, dropping a notebook on the table.

“You took your time getting here,” she said. The bad cop was officially on the scene.

I wondered if she was always this bad-tempered or if there was something about this particular case bothering her. Was it contempt for the extremely wealthy area her department policed? But if so, why choose to work here over a grittier but surely more exciting law enforcement agency, like in West Palm or even Miami? Or did her anger stem from Demer’s presence? Maybe she was angry that he had been brought in from Tallahassee to work on an investigation that she had expected to take the lead on.

I chose not to respond to her comment. Instead I looked back at her steadily, wanting to make it clear early on that I would not be bullied.

“I heard you’re some sort of a writer,” Oliver said, folding her arms over her chest.

I nodded. “I’m the author of a series of books of logic puzzles for children.”

“How’d you come up with that idea?”

“It’s my background. I was an associate professor in the mathematics department at the University of Miami.”

The sergeant’s eyebrows arched.

“But you’re not a professor now?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you, like, get fired or something?” She gave a contemptuous snort. I knew she was purposely trying to needle me, but I didn’t know why. Either she was just an unpleasant person or she wanted to see how I’d react to her barbs.

I smiled without warmth. “I stopped teaching after my daughter was born.”

“And why was that?” Oliver leaned forward, her elbows braced on the table.

“Personal choice.” There hadn’t actually been much of a choice, but I wasn’t about to get into that now.

The door opened and Demer came in. He glanced from Oliver to me and back again.

“Everything okay in here?”

“Sergeant Oliver has been asking me about my work experience,” I said. “But I assume that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“No, it’s not,” Demer agreed. He handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to Oliver. The detective placed a folder on the table and flipped it open. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to come talk with us.”

“Of course. Although I’m still not sure how I can help you.”

“Why don’t you let us worry about that?” Oliver interjected.

I pressed my lips together and folded my hands in my lap. Demer’s eyes flitted in the direction of his partner. I sensed that he wasn’t on board with her interview technique. Maybe he didn’t like the good cop–bad cop dynamic any more than I did. Or maybe this was part of their act, too.

“As you know, we’re investigating the death of Howard Grant...” Demer began.

I nodded.

“As I’m sure you know, the cause of his death was unusual,” the detective continued. He glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you know how he died.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help but shiver. “It was pretty awful.”

“How well did you know Mr. Grant?” Demer asked.

I paused, not quite sure how to answer this. I had actually spent very little time with Howard over the years. But Kat had confided so much to me about her husband and their marriage that in some ways I knew him intimately.

“I knew Howard, of course, and we would occasionally be at social events together,” I said carefully. “But Kat was the one I was friends with—is the one I’m friends with. I knew Howard only because he was married to Kat.”

“So you consider yourself and Mr. Grant to be, what—social acquaintances?” Demer asked.

I nodded. “I suppose that’s the best description.”

“Were you ever alone with him?” Demer continued.

“No.” Then I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t quite true. “I mean, there were a few times when I was at their house and Kat would leave the room for one reason or another. But we never spent any significant time alone together.”

“Would you say that Howard Grant was a heavy drinker?” the detective asked.

“Yes.”

“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.

“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”

“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”

“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”

“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.

“That sounds high.”

“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”

“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.

“And more to the point, how did he fall over the railing?” Oliver chimed in.

I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”

I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.

“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”

“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”

“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”

This stark statement hung between us. I felt a frisson of fear.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Demer said. “How long have you known Katherine Grant?”

3

Three Years Earlier

“Attention, passengers on Flight 523 to West Palm Beach. We are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft that will cause a delay in our departure time. We will update you as soon as we get additional information. Thank you for your patience.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. It was the third time a delay had been announced over the crackling airport intercom.

“How much longer are we going to be stuck here?” Liam whined.

“Forever,” Bridget moaned.

I privately agreed with my daughter that it certainly did feel like we would be stuck there forever in airport purgatory. The terminal at JFK was crowded with holiday travelers. Everyone looked grumpy as they slumped on uncomfortable seats, their luggage and possessions scattered around them. When the announcement had begun, the herd had raised their heads hopefully, ears pricking up. At the news of another delay, shoulders sagged and groans rang out all around.

“Mom, my tablet is almost out of power,” Liam said, waving the device at me for emphasis.

Like most modern mothers, I firmly believed that my children should spend less time on electronics, staring at screens, and more time in the real, nondigital world. Looking at the scenery, interacting with real people, reading actual books. I was, however, willing to abandon these scruples completely when we were in crowded airports, only halfway through our journey, with no hope of being home before—I checked my watch and stifled another groan—midnight.

“Let’s find a place to charge up.” I looked around.

Liam nodded toward a bank of high stools in front of a counter equipped with touch screens and electrical outlets. Most of the spots were occupied, but miraculously one of the screens was free.

“Hurry. Let’s grab those stools.” I moved swiftly, pulling my small wheeled suitcase behind me. The kids took longer to gather up their belongings, so by the time they joined me, I had already claimed three stools, by sitting on one and putting bags down on the other two.

“Are you, like, using all of those?” a twentysomething girl asked, her voice a contemptuous squawk. She had squinty eyes ringed with black eyeliner and long, straight hair in an odd shade of pink-streaked blond.

“Yes, I am.” I nodded toward my approaching children. “My children are sitting here.”

The girl let out an exasperated snort, rolled her eyes and turned away. I felt a surge of petty pleasure at this small victory.

Once seated, Liam and Bridget were keenly interested in the touch screen. After they each plugged in their devices, they started tapping and discovered the screens offered very slow internet access as well as the ability to order food and drinks from a nearby restaurant in the terminal.

“Hey, Mom, can we get fries?” Liam asked.

“Only if there’s something resembling dinner on the same plate,” I said. “Do they have hamburgers?”

I got out my credit card while Liam tapped at the screen. He frowned. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe you’re tapping it too much,” I said. “Give it a chance.”

“It’s really slow,” the woman sitting next to us said. “It takes forever to place your order.”

“Did you get it to work?” I asked.

“Yes, finally. And not a moment too soon,” she said as a waiter arrived, bearing a single martini on a tray.

I looked at the drink and smiled—I loved martinis, and a drink seemed like the perfect antidote for the too-bright, too-crowded airport terminal.

The woman, I noticed then, seemed incongruously glamorous to the disheveled mass of weary travelers. I guessed that she was a bit older than I was, probably in her mid to late forties. She was very thin and had shiny dark hair cut into an angled chin-length bob. I’d always coveted a sleek bob, but it was a style I’d never be able to tame my wavy hair into. Her eyes were a startling bright blue, and her face was made up of interesting, strong lines—a long nose, full lips, square jaw. Her features were too angular to be truly pretty, but she was a very striking woman.

“A vodka martini, straight up, with a twist?” the waiter asked, setting the drink in front of her.

“Perfect,” the woman said, trying to give him a five-dollar bill.

The waiter raised his hands. “All tips have to be done electronically.”

The woman crinkled her nose. “Really? I didn’t know.” She tried to hand him the bill again. “Please, take it. I didn’t add one on my total, and I already checked out.”

The waiter shrugged and turned away.

The woman looked at me with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to order another one and double the tip.”

I looked at her drink again, this time covetously. “I’m jealous. That looks delicious. I wish I could have one.”

“You can,” she said. “Just tap the martini picture on your screen once it stops freezing up. And voilà! A drink magically appears.”

“I can’t,” I said, glancing over at Liam and Bridget. The screen was cooperating with them now, and they were entertaining themselves by ordering far more food than they would eat. I would need to delete half their selections before I swiped my credit card. “I’m here with my kids.”

“I’ve been there. Traveling with children should come with hazardous duty pay,” the woman said. “Trust me, you need a martini even more than I do.”

I hesitated. A drink sounded wonderful, but I was on my own with the children. We had spent the New Year with my parents in Syracuse. Todd had begged off the trip, claiming he had too much work to do. Although when I’d spoken to him the day before, he’d sounded deeply hungover from whatever party he’d been to on New Year’s Eve. It was not the first or the last time I would wonder how unfairly the parental burden fell. Men could get away with bacchanalian nights out, while their wives usually couldn’t unless it was preplanned under the pink polka-dotted banner of a Girls’ Night Out. In any event, on New Year’s Eve, my straitlaced academic parents had gone to bed early, as was their custom. I’d spent the night watching the ball drop at Times Square on television while my children—who’d insisted they were old enough to stay awake—slumbered heavily on the couch.

I decided this woman was right. I did deserve a martini.

Besides, Liam and Bridget were old enough that I didn’t have to monitor them like toddlers. And once we reached the airport in Florida, Todd would be there to drive us home.

“Are you on the flight to West Palm?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “If there ever is a flight to West Palm, that is. I’m starting to worry that we’ll be stuck here all night.”

“I’m on the same flight. And we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Here, let me order you a drink,” she offered.

“No,” I demurred. “I can order one through my screen.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Liam said dubiously. “It’s freezing up again.”

“I insist,” the woman said. “And you’d be doing me a favor, because now I can tip the waiter. How do you like your martini?”

“You really don’t have to buy me a drink,” I protested weakly.

She smiled, displaying two rows of very straight, very white teeth. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to guess, and I’ll probably get it wrong. That would be a tragedy.”

I laughed. “I like my vodka martinis straight up and very dirty,” I said.

She began tapping at her touch screen. It seemed to be working better than the one my children were using.

“Done and done,” she said.

“That’s very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I’m Kat.” She extended a hand.

I shook it. “Alice.”

“Do you live in West Palm?”

“Close. I live in Jupiter.”

“Me, too!” Kat exclaimed. “Small world.”

“We’re practically neighbors,” I said.

Later I learned that Kat actually lived on Jupiter Island, which boasted the highest per capita income and highest median home sale price anywhere in the country. Higher than Manhattan. Higher than Marin County. It was where mega-rich sports stars lived. We weren’t anywhere close to being neighbors.

“And these are your children?” Kat inquired.

I introduced Liam and Bridget, who were, thankfully, very polite. Bridget even remembered to extend a hand, which Kat shook solemnly. Then there was a flurry of activity as the touch screen finally started working properly. I was able to edit the children’s dinner orders and swipe my credit card. By the time I turned my attention back to Kat, the waiter had appeared with my martini. He held out the tray and, with a flourish, neatly set the martini in front of Kat. She slid it over to me.

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. Turning to Kat, I said, “And thank you.”

“Cheers,” Kat said, raising her glass to mine.

I took a sip of my drink. It was delicious and cold. A blue cheese–stuffed olive speared through the middle with a bamboo pick bobbed inside. I fished the olive out and bit into it.

“How long have you lived in Jupiter?” Kat asked.

“Eight years,” I said. I nodded at Bridget. “We moved there from Miami when my daughter was a baby.”

“Miami to Jupiter. That’s a big change.”

“It was. But a good change. I wanted to take some time off work while my children were little. And then my husband got an excellent offer to join an architectural firm in West Palm, so it all seemed, well, serendipitous.”

This was the Facebook version of our life, the one we liked to put on display, in which we appeared smart and in control of our lives. It left out the grittier details, like the real reason I’d left my job. And how every time I thought about the career I had left behind—probably so far behind by now I would never be able to get back to it—the pain of failure still cut deeply. That although it was true Todd had gotten a decent job offer from S+K Architects in downtown West Palm Beach, the job was not all he’d initially hoped it would be. Eight years later, he still hadn’t made partner or even received the large bonuses they’d hinted at when they hired him. The Florida real estate market had rebounded somewhat since the 2008 crash, but it had never gotten back to where it was in the early 2000s. Anyway, the partners at S+K had an inflated sense of the sort of projects their firm attracted. Most of their work was residential, with a few small but decent office building contracts. No one was hiring them to design the airports or shopping malls or museums Todd had once dreamed of. We had reached our late thirties with our marriage and family intact, but with most of the hopes and dreams of our younger selves in tatters. Life had not turned out as either of us had expected.

But this was not a conversation one had with a stranger in an airport.

“What are you taking time off from?” Kat asked, looking at me intently over the rim of her martini glass.

“I was an associate professor at the University of Miami,” I said. “I taught in the math department there.”

“Wow,” Kat said, looking impressed. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. “What did you teach?”

“Logic.”

“You mean like Mr. Spock?” Kat asked.

I smiled. “Not exactly, although he always was my favorite Star Trek character. I taught systemic reasoning.” Kat’s eyebrows knit together, and I knew she wanted an example. “Problems like...all humans are mortal. Kat is a human.” I gestured toward her with a wave of the hand. “Therefore Kat is mortal.”

Kat wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I like that problem.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I’m just kidding,” Kat said. “I think it’s fascinating. So these days you’re, what—illogical?”

I laughed. “Pretty much. That’s what being a stay-at-home mother feels like a lot of the time. But, no, actually I’m writing a book of logic puzzles for kids.” I surprised myself by telling her this. Hardly anyone knew about my little project, as I thought of it. I looked at it much like not telling anyone you’re pregnant until you get past the risky first trimester. I didn’t want everyone asking me about it if I failed to finish or publish the book. So why had I told Kat? Was I trying to show off?

Kat looked impressed. “Good for you.”

“What do you do?” I asked. I had already clocked her Louis Vuitton carry-on, her navy cashmere sweater, the diamond studs sparkling in her ears that I suspected were not cubic zirconia, like the pair I was wearing. If she was a stay-at-home mom, it was on a different level than the one I lived on. “You said you have kids?”

“Kid. One daughter, but she’s all grown up now. She’s premed at Vanderbilt. She obviously didn’t take after me, since I faint at the sight of blood.” Kat smiled. “I have an art gallery, which is probably about as far away from medicine as you can get.”

“Wow,” I said, intrigued. “What kind of art do you sell?”

“Mostly modern and contemporary, although my real passion is sculpture,” Kat said. “That’s why I came up to New York after Christmas. To tour some galleries, follow a few leads. Nothing panned out, but what are you going to do? How about you? Were you staying in the city?”

“No, we were in Syracuse, visiting family,” I said.

“You’re smarter than me. I don’t know what I was thinking going to Manhattan on New Year’s.” Kat rolled her eyes. “The crowds were insane. I finally gave up and spent the last two days holed up in my hotel room, eating room service and watching reality TV, which I really don’t get at all. Why does anyone find watching grown women wearing far too much makeup, going to awkward social events and throwing temper tantrums entertaining? It’s so bizarre. And why would anyone want to have someone following her around, filming her? That would be my worst nightmare.”

Her trip sounded incredibly glamorous to me. The idea of having two days to myself to luxuriate in a posh hotel, ordering room service and watching mindless television shows sounded like sheer decadence. I couldn’t remember the last time I had traveled without my husband or children.

“Total nightmare,” I agreed.

“Anyway—” Kat sighed and took a large sip of her drink “—New Year’s Eve is my least favorite holiday. I much prefer the cozy ones like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when you can curl up and relax at home all day.”

“Me, too,” I said, although I wasn’t sure about the relaxing part. Every year, the weeks that stretched from mid-October to late December devolved into a marathon of shopping, cooking, baking, sewing costumes and wrapping endless piles of presents, all while having to attend a never-ending series of school performances and holiday parties for every extracurricular activity the children were involved in.

There was another pause in our conversation as my children’s food arrived. A hamburger and fries for Liam, fried chicken tenders and fries for Bridget. Not a vegetable in sight. But then, my view on airport food was much like my view on airport electronics: anything goes. I took a moment to open Liam’s ketchup packs and cut Bridget’s chicken up with the dull plastic knife provided. By the time they were settled in, munching happily, and I turned back to Kat, she was grinning at me.

“What?” I asked.

“I just ordered us another round,” she said, tapping a short manicured nail against her martini glass.