Shayne stood up. “You remember my wife, Sheriff. And this is Pat Casey, of the New York police.”
“I remember Mrs. Shayne, all right,” the sheriff drawled, bowing slightly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Casey. New York police, eh? On business or pleasure?”
Shayne grinned and said, “He came on business and stayed for pleasure, after meeting my wife. Anything new on Nora Carson?”
“Not a thing. Looks like she just flew the coop without telling anybody. Her husband has been giving me fits.” Fleming paused, then continued diffidently, “I’ve been checking around on Screwloose Pete like you said. I reckon you’d be interested to hear what Cal Strenk’s got to say. That’s his partner I told you about. If you’re not busy right now—”
“I’m not.” Shayne reached for his brandy glass and emptied it. He shook his head at Phyllis when she started to get up. “I wish you’d stick around, angel, and try to get acquainted with Christine Forbes — and with Celia Moore. Get them to talk if you can. It shouldn’t be hard, with so much informality at this hour. You needn’t tell Christine you’re the wife of the guy who had a run-in with Joe Meade”
Phyllis sank into her chair and made a wry face. “I could find out more from her boy friend,” she challenged in a hurt tone.
Shayne turned to Casey and asked, “Want to sit in on this?”
Casey waggled his round head negatively. “I’ll have to tend to my own knitting. Two-Deck will feel neglected if he’s without a tail too long.”
Shayne patted Phyllis’s shoulder as he turned to go with the sheriff. He noted, in passing, that Celia Moore and Jasper Windrow were no longer at their table.