Because if you do, you’ll be expected to keep up that standard the rest of your life. I still had my key to the old office. It was after ten and I went in as quietly as I could, groping my way in the dark past the reception room, across Shelly s parlor and into my broom-closet office. I turned on the lights, and while I made my calls I looked through my mail. The only thing of interest was a far-from-cheap engraved invitation to the wedding reception of Anne Peters to Preston Stewart at the Beverly Hills Hotel. No RSVP was necessary. Just show up. The reception was tomorrow. I wasn’t invited to the wedding itself but my name was. Anne’s name, before we were married, was Mitzenmacher. She could have used her second husband’s name, but since he had been a murderer who owed a lot of people money when he died, she used “Peters,” when it suited her. Like when she married someone else. I put the invitation in my pocket and called Violet Gonsenelli.
