Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

But Sy might have had other enemies, I thought: a pissed-off poet from his old magazine; an old show­biz connection with a grudge; some South Fork local he'd insulted—a gas station attendant, an electrician, a swimming pool contractor—some guy with a snootful of sauce and a pocketful of ammo. And what about Lindsay? Calculating, egotistical, arrogant, maybe ruthless, maybe about to be bounced in her dual role as star and concubine. Could she fire a rifle?

  And, damn it: Bonnie. How much research had she done for Cowgirl?

  "What about the ex-wife?" I asked Easton. "There's some talk that Sy was developing her screenplay."

  Easton shook his head. "No. Sy gave me her script fairly soon after I started working for him, before we were in production. Asked me to find some nice things to say about it. My guess is that when he told her no, he wanted to be able to say: 'Oh, but the dialogue was so fresh, so honest.' "

  "How was the dialogue?"

  "I don't know. Not horrible. But Sy said she was born forty-some-odd years too late, that she wrote 1942 women's B movies."

  "Did she ever call him?" Robby asked.

  "Yes. A couple of times a week, as a matter of fact. And she dropped in on him on the set, which did not amuse him. I know; I was in the trailer with him. You know how cool Sy always was? Well, I thought he was going to have a fit." Easton stopped. He turned around in his chair to face me.

  "What are you thinking?" I asked my brother. "Woman Scorned?"

  "I don't know," Easton said thoughtfully. "I'm not a cop. I don't know how to weigh these things. But, Steve, I have to tell you: I didn't like the look on Sy's face when he saw her. I had a feeling something wrong was going on."

  *7*

  If I wanted to be on time, I had two minutes to make the ten-minute drive to Lynne's. So what did I do? I drove right to Bonnie Spencer's, parked around the corner and then stood diagonally across the road.

  Her house was plain in that no-nonsense, almost severe colonial style—not much more than a large two-story box with a roof and chimney. But a big, soft willow stood in front, and, in the moonlight, the old gray shingles shone silver against the dark sky.

  The curtains were drawn, although not so tightly that I couldn't see the blue flicker of a black-and-white TV. Jesus, what had I promised Lynne when I'd called from the Southampton P.D.? That I'd be at her house by ten, ten-thirty? It was ten twenty-eight. I walked across the road and up the stone path toward Bonnie's house.

  That Moose was some watchdog! There wasn't even a mild grrr until I rang the bell; then, through the long, skinny windows that framed the front door, I could see her tail going so fast it made her rear end shimmy.

  The outside light went on. I stuck my hands in my pockets. I took them out. Finally, Bonnie walked into the front hallway. For a second I thought maybe I'd interrupted something that she and a guy had been doing with the TV on. But as she got nearer to the door I could see there was no guy. She had on baggy cotton sweats and a red sweater. No makeup, but then maybe she never wore makeup. Her hair was loose, down to her shoulders, but it stood up on the back of her head, as though she'd been lying on a couch for a couple of hours.

  I tried to read her expression when she saw it was me. Relief that I wasn't some night-crawling creep, maybe mixed with some apprehension about what was I doing there again, and maybe—although it's a lot to read through a skinny window—anticipation. It could be that moving in on her that morning had worked.

  Except, I thought, as the door opened, who needed it? I felt like such a jerk. I couldn't believe I had wasted a whole day fantasizing about this woman. "I know it's late," I said, before she could say anything, "but this is a homicide investigation."

  "Uh, would you like to come in?" The corners of her mouth wiggled for a second, deciding whether or not to smile; she opted for not. Then she turned and led me toward the right, into the living room. She switched on a couple of lamps, turned off some old movie she'd been watching on her VCR.

  I could see the indentation her head had made on a pillow on the couch. I sat down next to it; the cush­ion was warm. Moose stood by my legs, stretching her thick, hairy black neck, clearly contemplating the possibility of leaping up beside me. Finally, realisti­cally, she lowered her big butt onto the floor, threw me the doggy equivalent of a come-hither look and, once again, lay down over my shoes. The girl may have turned out to be mediocre, I mused, but the dog was as fantastic as I'd remembered. I swiveled my foot back and forth, rubbing her belly.

  Bonnie sat across the room from me, on a rocking chair. The room was nice—yellow and peachy pink and white—but not what I would have expected from her. Sure, it was comfortable, but it was a Man­hattan interior decorator farmhouse. A room like this should be plain, nice at best, not charming. But it was all there: braided rag rugs on the pegged oak floor, old quilts, pillows made from more old quilts, sam­plers in frames and a lineup of old white water pitch­ers on the mantel. Plus, off to the left of the fireplace, a painted bellows big enough to inflate the fucking Goodyear blimp. She saw me eyeing it.

  "When we bought the house, Sy got interested in American folk art." To illustrate, she pointed out some shelves: books interspersed with wood decoys. "If it looked like it could quack, he bought it. He even put in a bid on an 1813 hand-carved loom. What did he think he was going to do? Spend his weekends weaving? Anyway, then we had our first party out here. This famous book editor walked into the room, looked around and said, 'Very cute!' The man was so mean! Why did he have to say that? But from that minute on, Sy hated the house." I didn't respond; she filled in the silence, fast: "So here I am—with a lot of ducks. Um, can I get you something? Coffee? A drink?"

  "Why did you go to see Sy on the movie set?"

  She took an instant too long to answer. "Just being friendly. And I guess I felt some nostalgia for the good old days."

  "Between you and him?"

  "No. Between me and the movies. Some­times..." Her voice got a little scratchy. "...I miss it so much. The writing—writing something better than 'A yummy cloud of almost-silk.' And I miss the people and—"

  I cut her off before she could get into an "I'm So Alone Blues" number. I didn't want to hear it. "You went onto the Starry Night set. What happened? Was Sy happy to see you?"

  "I guess you must already have the answer to that." The lamplight made a patch of brightness on her dark hair, just where it grazed her shoulder.

  "I want your answer." I pulled my feet out from under Moose; the dog peered up at me, surprised at the sudden withdrawal of intimacy. "What's the problem? Was he happy to see you or not? This shouldn't be something you have to think about."

  "He seemed upset that I came uninvited," she said at last. "Not furious, like he'd want to beat me to a bloody pulp and stomp on my head and—" Suddenly her eyes grew wide with embarrassment. "Oh, God, for a minute I forgot what you did for a living. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make fun of..."

  "It's okay. You were saying he wasn't about to do you permanent damage."

  "Right. But he wasn't about to be polite and say: 'Tsk-tsk, you might have called first, Bonnie, dear.' "

  "What was his attitude?"

  "Something between—let's see—nonchalance and rage."

  "Do you want to be a little more specific?"

  "He didn't yell." I did a speed-of-light survey; her red sweater was just tight enough to show she had standard, conventional tits. If you took the entire fe­male adult population of the world, Bonnie Spencer's tits would mark the median. "But maybe that's be­cause he was trying so hard not to spit."

  "If you were such great friends, why would he act that way?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he was in the middle of a tantrum about something else and I just showed up at the wrong time."

  "Maybe." I wanted to give myself a swift kick in the ass: to think that over the day I'd built up this Marlboro Man's sister to be an embodiment of sensu­ality.

  And then Bonnie reached up and smoothed back her hair. For just a second, she held it up in a
ponytail. The undersides of her forearms were pearly, flawless. I pictured her stretched out on the couch beside me, her head on the pillow, her arms lifted, showing off that soft skin. I'd bend over and kiss it. Run my tongue over it.

  I coughed to clear my throat. "Did you drop in on him to ask about your screenplay?"

  "No." She let her hair drop. The action was beauti­ful, graceful, like a slow-mo replay of a perfect catch. "We'd gone over all his notes. I was working on the revisions."

  "And you say he liked it?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you ever think he might be saying nice things about your work to lead you on?"

  "Why would he do that?"

  "The truth?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Maybe he found you more interesting than your screenplay. Maybe deep down you sensed that and—"

  Her face turned a hot pink. "Let me clue you in to something. I am not one of those typical New York neurotic dames, just dying to believe the worst about herself. And Sy wasn't some sleazo who'd say, 'Ooh, baby, love your montage.' My work was good, and Sy liked it. I knew he did."

  "Hey, I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. It's just my job to probe. Okay?"

  She calmed down. "The fact is, Sy and I were friends. Look, I wasn't his type, not even when he married me, and ten more years didn't do much for me in the lusciousness department. I know what he 'went for'. A Lindsay, someone breathtaking. Or some­one wispy and intellectual and twenty-two from Yale. Or a jet-setty type with a French accent who could quote Racine—with hair under her arms and a cha­teau. I was his ex-wife; he had no reason to hand me a line. He knew better than anyone what I had to offer—and he'd already said no thank you."

  "What about for old times' sake?" She shook her head hard. Her hair swung softly. "Bonnie, were you sleeping with Sy? Is that why you felt so free to drop by? Maybe just a nice, spontaneous gesture?"

  "No!"

  "Or maybe to let the world know you were back on the map?"

  "No!"

  "Because if you were, that wouldn't bring you un­der any suspicion." Bullshit, of course. "Here you were, two adults who knew each other very well, who liked each other..."

  "Nothing personal, but that's a lot of bull."

  "Okay, no more questions," I said, getting up and walking over to her. Moose, the town slut, stayed by my side. "For now." Then I laid it on thick. Smile. Wink. Charm, charm. "I'm sorry if I offended you."

  "It's all right," she said, her voice softening. Charm, charm was working. She looked up at me; her eyes actually became a little misty, almost as if she expected to be kissed.

  "Good," I said. "Glad you understand." I reached over and ruffled her hair. Too bad: the button on the sleeve of my sports jacket got caught in her hair. "Sorry," I said, really sincerely, and tried to get the button free. Her hair smelled of some spring flower I couldn't identify: lilac, maybe, or hyacinth. I grasped the button and got it away, but unfortunately it yanked on her hair. "Listen, this doesn't count as po­lice brutality."

  She smiled. A great, wide-open, western smile. "I know."

  "See you around, Bonnie."

  When I got back to my car, I slipped four strands of Bonnie Spencer's hair into a small plastic envelope. Three had roots. Enough for a DNA comparison anal­ysis.

  I always hated making it with women who couldn't shut up. Listen, no guy minds an encouraging word here and there, a helpful suggestion, a sincere scream of enthusiasm. But for the longest time before Lynne came into my life, nearly every woman I picked up was a Gray line tour guide of sex.

  They'd all memorized the same script. About how the trip was going: Oh, it feels so wonderful. Oh, don't stop ... Directions to the driver: A little harder. No, easy, slow. No, up higher, higher ... And what tourist treat was just around the corner: I'm going to take you/it in my mouth (an offer I never sneezed at, since it embraced the twin joys of gratifi­cation and silence) ... And of course, they'd al­ways let you know when the tour was over: Oh, it's happening. Oh, yes. Wait, just a second. Oh, this is too much. Please, no, God, Jesus.

  Lynne, though, was quiet. What a relief. Of course, she had the self-confidence of the young and the lovely: she knew she didn't have to keep up a mono­logue to hold a guy's attention. And she was quiet, also, because somewhere—maybe at Manhattanville College—she'd learned that nice young ladies do not shriek "Fuck me harder!" when in the arms of gentle­men.

  But that night, her quiet had some measure of the silent treatment. She was angry at me for ringing her doorbell at eleven-fifteen, saying, "Oh, shit, I'm sorry," when I saw she'd given up hope of seeing me that night and had gotten undressed. Plus she was pissed at herself for letting me go to her closet, grab her raincoat, put it over her nightgown and lead her out her door with a tired line like "Please, I just want to be with you tonight." She hadn't said a word in the car.

  But she wasn't only getting back at me by being uncommunicative. As I unbelted her raincoat and eased it off, she reached over and turned out the bed­room light. She was denying me the pleasure of see­ing her.

  "You're really mad," I said. I took my gun off my belt and laid it down on my chest of drawers gently, so she wouldn't be further put off by its offensive clunk. "Why don't you say it?"

  "All right. I'm angry."

  "Tell me why."

  "Because you just assume I'm always available to you, any hour, day or night. I understand that you work crazy hours. But you don't seem to understand that I have to make a life—a structure—for myself. No. You want sex, you want to talk, so you expect me to drop whatever I'm doing. That's not fair."

  "I'm sorry." I came up beside her and slid my hands under the feathery cotton of her nightgown, easing it up and off. I pulled her to me. She was softening, but she wasn't yet at the point of offering assistance. I held her with one hand and took off my clothes with the other. "I love you." I waited. There was no "I love you too" response.

  Okay, a romantic, sweep-her-off-her-feet gesture was called for. I was so goddamn tired. But I lifted her up, carried her to the bed and laid her down. A little risky in the dark, what with guys my age slip­ping disks, developing hernias. But Lynne was light, I was desperate and, hey, it worked. She didn't say "All is forgiven." She didn't say anything. But she reached up from the bed, felt for me and pulled me down beside her.

  So in the blackness we started making love. Lynne's silent treatment wasn't so bad, I thought. Bet­ter, in a way, than her usual quiet, where she might say a couple of words; it enhanced the pleasure. I could concentrate on everything—the sound of her body against the sheet as she started to squirm, her breathing as it grew deeper.

  This had potential; it might be more than a routine roll. But just as I was about to call out, "Lynne," I lost all sense of her.

  I was no longer making love with my fiancee. I was screwing the way I used to: It didn't matter at all who it was beside me, on top of me, beneath me, just so long as it had all the stock parts. I just wanted to get it in and over with. And then...

  Big surprise. Well, it was to me.

  The faceless female disappeared. Bonnie Spencer was in bed with me. She was wild. The soft, stroking hands may have been Lynne's, but the Bonnie in my mind had her legs wrapped tight around me and was clawing at my back. Then she groaned with pleasure, letting out the same animal sounds I was making. Louder. Her dark hair was spread out all over the pillow; the flower scent was intoxicating. As I en­tered Bonnie, she let out a sob. Oh, God, I thought, this is the best. I called out, "I love you. Oh, God, how I love you!" and I heard Bonnie cry out, "Help me!" as she started to come, and then, "I love you so much."

  It was perfect.

  It was over.

  Lynne finally spoke. "That was nice."

  "Yeah, it was."

  "Wake me at six. Okay? I want to get home early. I have a ton of reading I have to do."

  "Okay," I said. Then I closed my eyes against the darkness.

  I spent Sunday going over the lab and autopsy reports and doi
ng my paperwork. Then, first thing Monday morning, I pushed open the heavy glass-and-brass door at five after nine and strolled right over to Rochelle Schnell, first vice president of South Fork Bank and Trust, Bridgehampton branch.

  "I respect your mind," I told her, and sat on the edge of her desk.

  "You gave me that line about twenty-five years ago."

  "Did it work?"

  "No. Of course not. But I liked it that you tried."

  Rochelle was forty years old. I knew that because we'd started Sagaponack Elementary School together, in kindergarten, and since we'd been born two days apart, we'd had to share our class birthday party. (Her mother, Mrs. Maziejka, was supposed to bring the cupcakes and mine the Kool-Aid, but since my mother worked, Mrs. Maziejka had always brought both. She'd never bitched about it; in fact, she even wrote "Rochelle!" in pink icing on half the cupcakes and "Steve!" on the other half in blue.)

  Rochelle sat behind her immense wood desk in a dark-gray dress-for-success suit. But then—as she strode over to kiss me and say "I haven't seen you around in months. You look fantastic!"—I noticed her skirt was one of those stretchy, midthigh things that look like an overgrown support bandage.

  "Yeah? Well, so do you, Rochelle, except you've got a real problem. No one is going to hand out their life savings to a banker whose skirt's so tight you can practically see her pudenda."

  "Don't bet on it. Now, what can I do for you? Or did you just drop in to check out my skirt?"

  I put my hand on her back and guided her to her chair, then sat down across the desk from her. "Off the record. I want to know if you have a depositor named Bonnie Spencer—"

  Rochelle cut me off. "Big no-no. You know I'm an honest woman. I can't even give you a name. I'll ver­ify it with our lawyers, but I'm sure you have to give me a subpoena. Then, if she does have an account, I'll have to call—"

  "All I want to know is if she has an account here. No details. Please. A personal favor, Rochelle. It's not like I'm some jerk you don't know."

  "No, you're a jerk I do know." She exhaled slowly. Then she swiveled around in her chair, faced the computer terminal on her desk and put her hands on the keyboard. Her giant diamond ring, courtesy of Mr. Schnell, who'd bought the bank to get her atten­tion, sparkled; her long red nails clicked as she typed. "Yes, she's a depositor."