I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of money.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper-middle-class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors... donations... handouts. I had money once. I know what it’s like. Royal pain in the ass.”

He didn’t slur one word, and I realized then that Graham Beadford might not be as drunk as I’d thought—though from the smell of him, he was well on the way.

The coffee urn that looked like it could have provided enough java for a cruise ship breakfast sat on one end of a shiny teak table. The now-weeping ice sculpture rested in the center surrounded by silver platters of cold crab, pate and crackers, boiled shrimp, cubed cheeses, marinated mushroom caps, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with something swirled and yellow. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab claw.

I held up two fingers to the waitress manning the urn and she filled scalloped china cups and handed them to me.

When I gave Graham his, he pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and spiked his coffee, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After restashing his bottle, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.

“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.” His bald, freckled head glowed under the crystal chandelier hanging over the table.