As far as I could tell that opinion was based on two things: Kane’s affair with Nina Hawthorne -- Kirkland’s sympathies clearly lay with Nina -- and the fact that Hawthorne’s death had left Paul Kane rich and in control of Associated Talent.

Not exactly conclusive proof. I flipped through the extensive photo section -- picture after picture of Paul Kane in the glowing picture of health -- and little else -- selected from film and stage roles as well as a number of candid shots. Fortune had favored him, no doubt about it. But it hadn’t all been luck. He had worked his arse off to get where he was, and there was plenty to admire in that.

After Hawthorne’s death and the disastrous relationship with Nina, Kane grew less and less discreet about his sexuality -- and I thought I began to better understand where Kirkland’s disapproval stemmed from. As she elegantly phrased it, “If it moved, Paul screwed it.”

In a couple of magazine interviews Kane had admitted he was bisexual and hinted that he had a taste for the kinkier side of romance. When he was photographed at Cannes in a compromising position with a male companion, his career had taken its first serious hit in over a decade. The experts at Entertainment Weekly and Variety had openly speculated that his career was over, but then The Last Corsair was released, and Kane ended up a bigger star than ever before.

It was late when I finished Glorious Thing, and I wasn’t sure if I really had a better understanding of Paul Kane. I wasn’t sure if it mattered. I tossed the book aside. It landed a few feet from the bed, cover facing up with Paul Kane grinning that dashing pirate king smile at me. I turned out the bedside light, pounded the pillows into shape.

The tune to Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Pirate King and Chorus” was running through my mind.

Oh, better far to live and die

Under the brave black flag I fly,

Than play a sanctimonious part,

With a pirate head and a pirate heart.

Away to the cheating world go you,

Where pirates all are well-to-do;

But I’ll be true to the song I sing,

And live and die a Pirate King.

Somewhere in the alley below, a cat was yowling.

Chapter Sixteen

“I realize that duck confit never goes out of fashion,” my mother said, discarding the elegant foldout brochure she had been browsing, “but I was hoping for something with a little more…verve.”

Verve. Yes, because what’s the point of eating food that just tastes good? Not that duck confit with pomegranate molasses on crispy rice paper exactly fell into my “just tastes good” category. I’d have gone with crab puffs if it had been left to me.

But apparently Lisa was speaking Nina Hawthorne’s language. “Of course,” Nina said, very businesslike. “I know the exact thing.” She opened a binder stuffed with gorgeous photos of comestibles -- I mean, you couldn’t call that stuff anything as plebeian as food. “Grilled New Zealand lamb lollipops with a blueberry port wine sauce.”

“Oh my,” Lisa murmured, gazing at the sumptuous photograph. She glanced sideways at me. “Adrien?”

Yep, she was enjoying this way too much.

“Lamb for an SPCA banquet?” I said doubtfully.

Lisa made a little exasperated sound. Another woman would have smacked her forehead. “He does have a point,” she said regretfully.

Nina took it with good grace. She had taken everything with good grace, and that can’t have been easy given Lisa’s peculiarly playful mood. I studied Paul Kane’s former paramour unobtrusively. It was strange to meet someone I had been studying as though she were on my final exam. Like meeting someone in history. Like Betsy Ross, but with fewer stars and more stripes.

She was a bit younger than Kane, but her odometer showed the wear and tear of those years of booze and pills and one-night stands. She was very pale -- almost dry looking -- and her face was very lined. Her hair was in the crew cut she had adopted a decade earlier, but she had let it go prematurely silver. The result was striking. She was small and fine-boned -- and with that papery, delicate skin she reminded me of origami.

“What about crispy swordfish bites with a wasabi dipping sauce?” she suggested, reaching for another binder.

Apparently she really wanted this SPCA gig.

“Your firm catered that party at Paul Kane’s, didn’t you?” I said, having decided we’d had enough preliminaries to get her relaxed. “I recognize the salmon canapés.”

Nina stared at me. Her eyes reminded me of Jake’s: that tawny color that looks almost amber in certain light. Lynx eyes, I thought.

“Yes,” she said briefly, dampeningly, and offered another binder to Lisa.

And, astonishingly, Lisa leaped to the rescue, taking the binder and exclaiming, “Oh, I saw that on the news! How dreadful for you! The man was poisoned.”

“It was not the food,” Nina said quickly.

“No, they think it must have been something in his drink,” I said.

Her eyes flicked to mine again. “Yes. I heard that also.”

“I was sitting right next to him when he collapsed,” I confided.

Lisa turned and gave me a long look -- which I ignored.

“That must have been terrible,” Nina said politely. Hard to believe she had once been in love with Porter -- but then she had been in love a lot back then.

“He was a big Hollywood producer,” I said. “Maybe you even catered one of his parties.”

“Porter didn’t give parties,” Nina said. Meeting my gaze, she said, “I knew him, yes. He was a friend of my family’s.”

“Was he the kind of person who gets murdered?” Lisa asked innocently.

Nina turned the lynx’s gaze on her. I could see various unkind comments going through her mind, but what she said was, “No. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Porter. He was…” She shrugged. “He was an inoffensive old sot, really.”

I said, “Maybe the intent was to kill someone else and they poisoned Porter Jones by mistake?”

Her laugh was jarring. “That would make more sense. I imagine half the people at that party had reason to want Paul dead.”

“I don’t really know him that well,” I said. “His production company optioned one of my books.”

“Congratulations,” she said politely. “Just watch the fine print on anything he asks you to sign.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Bitter experience,” she agreed. To Lisa she said, “Might I suggest our cornmeal-crusted calamari with a hot cherry pepper aioli?”

“Oh, yummy,” Lisa murmured.

I left them to it, concurring when requested, watching Nina while they pored over the books. I didn’t place much significance on her curtness. I’d have been pretty curt too if someone had treated the death of someone I knew as a tourist attraction. She didn’t seem particularly guilty, not that I would necessarily recognize guilt. I might mistake it for offense or wariness. But one thing did stand out: regardless of what Paul Kane thought, Nina Hawthorne still hated his guts.

* * * * *

After Nina gathered up her binders and departed, Lisa and I had lunch.

“You didn’t want to observe her in action for any event,” Lisa said, serving me a slice of spinach quiche warm from the oven -- Marie Callender’s oven, that is.

“Er…no,” I admitted.

“You’re investigating that man’s murder, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t really use the word investigating,” I said, avoiding her eye. I picked up my fork. “I’m asking a few questions at the request of Paul Kane, that’s all.”