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“I’ll let you know.”
“What about trying the Supper Club the day after tomorrow? I think they might even have a live band playing that night,” said Barnaby.
“Oh, Deuce is right! There’s going to be a band,” said Priscilla. “The Mud Valley Quartet. Have you heard of them? I think they’re some kind of bluegrass folksy band. You know, I think Ramona Turner’s husband might be in that band. Isn’t he, Deuce?”
Barnaby nodded. “So, T and C, are you two in?”
I looked at Tom since it was now his turn to make an excuse to get us out of it.
“Okay, that works for us. Right, Courtney?” He took another swallow of beer and smiled at me.
“Um… Sure,” I said. Our plan to avoid the McGhees wasn’t going very well. Mainly, because I was the only one trying. We ended up going out to dinner with them once every week or so despite that we’d never once initiated contact with them.
Barnaby began sniffing and looking around the room. I guessed it was the smell of our dogs, or our ancient hodgepodge of saggy furniture, but he said, “Royal Secret?”
When both Tom and I just looked at him blankly, he continued, saying, “I smell Royal Secret. My grandmother used to wear that.”
“Leave it to Deuce to know what perfume his grandma wore,” Priscilla said.
“Sometimes it smells like perfume in here,” I said. “Actually, it happens a lot.”
“That’s funny,” said Priscilla. She frowned and sat up a little more primly on the couch that was trying to devour her.
“Not just any perfume,” said Barnaby. He seemed a little worked up about it. “It’s Royal Secret. I’m positive. I used to buy her a bottle every Christmas.”
I coughed, unsure what I was supposed to say or do about this.
“It’s a rather unique scent,” he added.
“I guess I never gave it much thought,” said Tom.
“You mean you’ve noticed it before too?” asked Barnaby.
“Now and then,” said Tom.
“It makes me feel a little… uncomfortable,” said Barnaby.
“His grandmother has been gone a few years,” Priscilla explained, squeezing her husband’s hand.
“It seems a little strange, that’s all,” he said.
“Sometimes, out of the blue, it smells like cigars in here,” I said, either to change the subject or add some fuel to the fire. I was good with whichever way it went.
“Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” asked Priscilla.
“Of course not. Go ahead,” I said. I didn’t need to tell her where it was; she’d used it dozens of times by this point.
“Well, enough about that. How’s your writing going?” Barnaby asked Tom.
“Oh, not bad.”
“So, you got yourself on that schedule you were talking about?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” said Tom.
“That’s great. It must take a lot of self-discipline.”
“Yeah, actually it does. It’s easy to get off track if you let yourself,” he said, giving me a quick, sharp look.
