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swallowed. She rested her chin on her hand and stared at Doug, an insolent expression on her face. Enunciating slowly, she said, “Why don’t you just go to—”
    “Jane!” Victor glared at her.
    “Hoover Dam?” she said, smirking at her father. She picked up her glass and took a large gulp of champagne.
    “Sometimes Jane forgets she’s supposed to be an adult,” Victor said to Doug.
    “And Daddy knows all about being an adult, don’t you, Daddy dearest?”
    “I think you’ve had enough to drink today,” Victor said, standing and beckoning to Jane.
    Jane angrily set down her glass and pushed back her chair.
    “We haven’t met yet,” a woman sitting between Mort and Victor said to me. “I’m Pearl Quint.” She fluttered her fingers at me.
    “Pearl is Henry’s sister, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.
    “I work in the office with Henry,” she said She lowered her voice, shooting a look at Victor, who was occupied with his daughter. “He’s their key man; he does as much as the partners—maybe more.”
    “Pearl, please,” Henry said softly.
    “Well, it’s true. They couldn’t manage without you.”
    “Pearl, that’s enough.”
    “You always say you do the work; they make the money. ”
    “Not here, Pearl.”
    “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, eager to stave off another confrontation. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”
    “Oh, I know who you are,” she said. “Martha told me about you when we met in New York. I’m a big mystery fan.”
    “How nice.”
    “I don’t think I’ve read any of your books, though.”
    “My publisher will be sorry to hear that,” I said.
    “Pearl!” Henry boomed.
    “Oh, dear. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “No offense taken,” I said. “Give me your address later and I’ll send you a copy of one of my books. We can’t have a mystery fan who hasn’t read J. B. Fletcher. It wouldn’t be right.”
    “Aren’t you nice,” she said to me. “Henry, give Mrs. Fletcher one of your business cards.”
    “Don’t give me orders, Pearl,” Henry said, but he handed me his card as a waiter placed the first course, mousse of whitefish on a bed of greens, in front of him.
    Victor and Jane sat down again, and a moment later, his call completed, Oliver reclaimed his seat. It was disconcerting to have so many people popping up and down during a meal.
    “Are you a native of Las Vegas, too?” I asked Oliver, hoping his conversational skills were better than Henry’s and Jane’s.
    “No, ma’ am. I moved out here from New York when Victor hired me.”
    “Oliver is our chauffeur, aren’t you, Ollie?” Jane said.
    He scowled at Jane. “I’m Victor’s business associate,” he said to me. “I do whatever he says needs doing. Sometimes that’s driving, sometimes setting up meetings, sometimes baby-sitting his daughter.”
    Jane made a face and looked away. Oliver smiled.
    “Oliver is my majordomo,” said Victor. “He’s the one who’s really in charge. We just pretend to give him orders.”
    Oliver nodded, looking pleased. “I started out as Victor’s personal trainer,” he explained. “Then I was promoted.”
    “How long have you worked for him?” I asked.
    “Must be about ten years now. It was right after he and Mrs. Kildare bought their house in Adobe Springs. Terrific lady. We got along great.”
    I wondered which Mrs. Kildare that might have been, but didn’t ask.
    The phone in Oliver’s pocket rang and he pulled it out and flipped open the top. “Yeah?” He listened a moment and handed the phone to Victor. “It’s Chappy.”
    “Chappy? That’s a funny name.” Betsy said. “Is that a man or a woman?”
    Jane snickered. “Chappy’d better not hear you question his virility,” she said, emptying her champagne glass.
    “Chappy is a man,” said Victor, “a large man, and one who knows how to get things done. Speaking of getting things done, here’s more champagne.” He rose from the table again and walked