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     marriage all those years to the lovely Mrs. Quentin.”
    “I don’t think so. I’m not sure, but somehow I think there was still a woman in Quentin’s
     life.”
    I rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “Did you know?” I asked idly, “that the
     word ‘salt’ has origins in European, Icelandic, Greek, and Gothic roots?”
    “Huh? Maggie, are you paying attention to me? I said I thought there might be some
     other woman in Quent’s life.”
    I fixed my eyes on the salt and pepper, lining them up just so. “Why do you think
     that? I didn’t think you knew him that well,” I asked.
    “I don’t. And it’s certainly nothing he said. Just a feeling. One day I dropped some
     proofs off, and we walked out of Small Town ’s offices up the street to lunch. Quent couldn’t tear himself away from that antique
     jewelry store on Sutter. I don’t think he was looking at earrings for himself, or
     that guy he lives with. You know anybody?”
    I took a swallow of coffee. “Not really.”
    “There’s something else,” said Calvin. “Wasn’t Quentin a little mysterious about this
     story he wanted us to do?”
    “He was. I thought he was just trying to do me a favor with this piece. I’d been bitching
     that I was sick of the cooks-and-books circuit I was on.”
    “Cooks and books?”
    “Oh, you know. Lisbet Traumer does the restaurant reviews for the magazine, but I
     do all the peripheral food stuff—101 places to buy capers and cornichons, and interviews
     with every precious little Eastern writer who comes to town.”
    “Oh, yeah. The Maggie Fiori Blue-Plate specials.”
    “Right. Well, I was having an attack of ‘I want to be a real journalist when I grow
     up,’ and Quentin told me he had just the thing for me.”
    “The Cock of the Walk story?”
    “That’s what we were supposed to work on together?”
    “That’s what Quentin told me.”
    A shadow fell across the table. The hostess, a generously proportioned walking advertisement
     for the excellence of the Pier 23 cuisine, was hovering.
    “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt such a pleasant tête-à-tête, but we need to close
     to get ready for dinner.”
    Out on the street, Calvin put his arm around me. “Tête-à-tête,” he mused aloud. “That
     I did learn in the Philly suburbs.”
    “Yeah?” I said, ready to one-up him. “Here’s a twist for you. Tête-à-tête is ‘head-to-head’,
     of course, but how about tête-à-bêche?”
    “Head to tail? Sounds like a French pornographic documentary.”
    “No, no. It’s something in philately: two stamps reversed in relation to each other.”
    Calvin shook his head. “My, my, you are full of information.”
    I sighed. “I know. It’s my hobby, or my obsession, or something. None of it’s very
     useful, I’m afraid. It won’t help find out what happened to Quent.”
    We lingered, not sure what to do next. It’s tough to find a body, lose a friend, meet
     someone new, get mildly snockered, sober up, and say goodbye in the space of four
     hours.
    “Give me your card, Maggie,” said Calvin. “As a general rule, I know that’s not what
     people do after a tête-à-tête, but I think we should keep in touch.”
    “Me, too.” I dug in my purse for a card, checked it for shopping lists on the back,
     and handed it over.
    Calvin looked at the card and looked back at me.
    “Margaret? Your first name is Margaret?”
    “That’s generally what Maggie is short for, isn’t it?”
    “Well, yeah. But Margaret seems like a weird name for a Jewish chick.”
    “It is,” I said. “But I was born in a Catholic hospital, before smoking became the
     eighth deadly sin. The nun who took care of my mom during labor kept a pack of Old
     Golds in the pocket of her habit. She’d light up and let my mom have a puff or two
     between contractions. My mom was so grateful she named me for her. I guess I’m just
     lucky she didn’t name me Goldie, in honor of the smokes.”
    Calvin shook