Vi flipped one of her brown gray-flecked braids over her shoulder. “When we spoke earlier, you said you wished you knew something more about Mr. Mancini, other than the plan to evict his tenants.”
“He hasn’t evicted them, at least not yet. Anyway, how does that concern Trudie?” Molly cast a suspicious glance across the table. “Oh, my God.” Her aunt hadn’t christened her friend the mole for nothing. Buried deep inside the Hall of Records, Trudie had access to all sorts of personal information.
“Your Mr. Mancini is thirty-six years old and was born right here in San Francisco at St. Luke’s Hospital. His birthday is April twenty-ninth. He’s a Taurus.”
“That’s the kind of useless information I don’t need.” Molly gathered her cards. “It would help to know what he’s like inside.” She’d already decided the outside could stand up to anyone voted the Sexiest Man Alive.
“Taurus is a bull, sweetie.” Vi propped her elbows on the table and leaned toward Molly. “Either ride him until he’s spent or chance getting gored by his horns.”
Molly frowned. What kind of advice was that?
“Did Trudie find out if he’s married?” Dominique asked.
“What difference does it make if he’s married?” Molly picked up her cards.
“Have you checked out the lack of availability of thirty-something eligible men in San Francisco lately?”
“No. Also, Aunt Vi, looking up that kind of information is an invasion of privacy, if not against the law. Tell Trudie to quit.”
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