by Lois Greiman
“Don’t you”—I took a sip. It was pretty tasty—“have business back home?”
He laughed. He’d left his alligator boots by the long window near my front door. “I’ll let them keep their knees a couple more days.”
I was beginning to wake up. “I heard you dealt in livers.”
“I don’t know how these rumors get started,” he said, and finished his drink.
“Wow.”
He filled my glass. “I’m slower at other things,” he said, and caught my gaze.
I could already feel the first flush of the champagne cruising through my system like sunshine, but I kept my voice steady, my dialogue serious. “What are you doing here?”
“Question is, why isn’t there a queue at your door?”
I glanced away “I’m taking a break.”
“From life?”
“From men.”
He canted his head a little. “We’re not all fucktards, you know.”
“That’s what they tell me.” I stifled a sigh and drank again.
“They who?”
“Men.”
He chuckled. “Anyone specific?”
I shrugged and settled back against the cushion. “There’s a guy in Edmond Park.”
“He good-looking?”
“I guess so.”
“Tall?”
“Tall enough.”
“Not a fucktard?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“But?”
“Sometimes I’m not a very good judge of men.”
“Who are your other options?”
“There’s a guy in Sespe. I think he might be a bazillionaire.”
He clicked his glass to mine in a kind of salute. “Looks don’t matter squat, then.”
I shrugged.
“So why are you here? Alone?”
“I keep wondering if they’re planning to kill me.”
“Bound to put the brakes on a budding relationship,” he said, and filled my glass.
“Are you?”
He finished up his wine and refilled. “What’s that?”
“Planning to kill me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. It seems to be a trend.”
“The Edmond Park guy try to kill you?”
“Not yet.”
“How about the ugly bazillionaire?”
“I didn’t say he was ugly.”
“Not as good-looking as me, though, huh?”
I drank again, watching him. Donald Archer wasn’t as good-looking. And probably not as rich. Or as powerful. “Do I owe you more money?” I asked.
He laughed. “Sometimes I honestly don’t think you know how cute you are.”
I drew back a wobbly half inch. “I’m not cute.”
“Beautiful, then.”
I felt a little dizzy. “Really?”
“Those damn cops. Never say what needs saying,” he said, and kissed me.
He tasted good, sweet like the wine. I drew back a little and watched his face. His eyes were sparkling. Harley was lying in front of the TV But he lifted his head suddenly and glanced toward the door.
I did the same, heart pounding.
“If he’s not here yet, he doesn’t deserve you,” D said.
I turned back toward him. “I know.” I felt a little weepy. Liquor does that to me. Not to mention New Year’s. And best friends marrying undersize doofuses.
He kissed me again. “If he shows up, do you want me to beat the crap out of him?”
I was feeling a little breathless, a little aroused. “He’s got a gun.”
“I’ve got a black belt.”
“Really?”
“Want to see?”
“You’ve got it on?”
“Under my clothes.”
“No kidding?”
He chuckled.
“Oh,” I said.
By midnight both bottles were empty. He slipped his arm behind my back and kissed me as “Auld Lang Syne” played with nostalgic moodiness on the television. His body felt warm and tight against mine. His lips were firm, his kiss as slow as summer.
“Want to move back to Chicago?” he asked.
“Not tonight.”
“Maybe later,” he said, and kissed me again.
After that we talked about family and plans and friends who married outside their species.
When I woke in the morning I was lying in my bed, covers tucked snugly up under my chin. I pulled them aside. I was absolutely, startlingly bone-jarringly naked.
30
Jealousy. It’s a terrible thing. Unless it’s someone else’s.
—D,
who likes to stir up the
hive, just to make sure the
bees are still awake
ESPITE MY LACK OF A SHOWER and screaming uncertainty regarding what I had done with D, I arrived at Rademacher Funeral Home early, signed the registry and watched the people. Rebecca Harris was survived by her husband and her son, but the son seemed to be absent. The husband, looking stoic and stiff in his boxy suit, did his best to meet and greet. I felt like a voyeur, but I had been becoming acquainted with the senators cronies for weeks now and scanned the crowd. Would the murderer feel a need to show his face here? Or was he too savvy for that?
“She was the best.”
I jerked toward the speaker, feeling guilty and jittery. The woman who stood next to me was in her early fifties.
“Faith that could move mountains,” she said. She dabbed her nose with a tissue. “I’m Beth Culbertson. I’m in… was in…” Her voice cracked. “Her circle at Shepherd.”
We shook hands. She waited for me to speak, but I was busy trying to look intelligent.
“Did you know her well?” she asked.
“No. I just…” Words failed me, but probably not for the reason she thought. “We were friends… a long while ago.”
“But you know Delbert.”
I blinked, mind scrambling.
“Her husband.”
“Oh… well…”
“They were well yoked.”
I ran that weird image frenetically through my mind, then got raggedly back on track. “I don’t remember him from the campaign,” I said.
She frowned. “What campaign is that?”
“Becky and I worked for Senator Rivera together,” I said.
“Senator Rivera?” She drew back, surprised.
“A long time ago.”
“Really? She never mentioned it.”
“You were friends?”
“We taught Tykes for Christ together for five years. She never said she had brushed with greatness.”
“Greatness?” I gave her a questioning glance, then caught her meaning. “Oh, yes, the senator. Sure. He’s amazing.”
“And so good-looking.”
“Like a god,” I said, but before I could swallow my tongue, I felt a presence beside me.
“Ms. McMullen.” The voice was dark-rum deep. “Can I have a word with you?”
I turned, and there he was. Rivera, in all his glaring glory, dressed in dark slacks and a navy-blue ribbed sweater with a V-neck. I refrained from passing out. I also refrained from spewing out an apology. I didn’t owe him anything, regardless of what I had or had not done on New Year’s Eve. But what the crap had I done? By the time I got out of bed, D was gone, as were the bottles. The glasses were clean and set in their proper place. I wondered if, perhaps, I was losing my mind.
“I’m rather busy right now,” I said, and gave Beth Culbertson my best refined-sugar smile.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Rivera said, not sounding sorry at all. “But the senator is on the phone.”
I turned toward him, baffled. Beth stared at him, agog.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, and, nodding curtly, tugged me away.
“The senator called?” I asked, but he glared me down.
“Sure. Said he wanted to take you for a ride at his rancho,” he said, spewing
sarcasm. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“It’s a free country, Rivera. What are you doing here?”
“I’m a police officer, McMullen.” He glanced at the crowd. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “A real one. With a last name and everything.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, and tugged at my arm. He didn’t relent.
“So you decided on a thug instead of milquetoast?”
I stiffened, finally catching up. The noise Harlequin had heard was Rivera at the door. D had left his boots in front of the window by the door. Holy crap! I thought, but kept my tone butterscotch smooth. “I hardly thought it would be possible,” I said, “but Officer Tavis—”
“Glad to hear the dearth is ended,” he said, but he didn’t sound glad.
“And how,” I said.
His eyes darkened a shade. “So Curly Top lost out.”
Anger coursed through me. Anger, and maybe a little madness, but I batted my eyelashes. Innocent as a butterfly. “Why would you say that?”
His lips thinned. “Some men don’t like to share.”
I smiled. “Some do,” I crooned.
For a moment I thought he might explode, erupt like a volcano, but he remained as he was—dark, quiet, and pissed. “I want you to get the hell out of here.”
“I’m just asking a few questions.” I yanked at my arm again. He tightened his grip more.
“If I remember correctly, you asked a few questions of the last couple guys who tried to kill you,” he gritted.
A man passed by carrying a Bible. I gave him a smile. Rivera nodded. If he was any more congenial than that, his head would have popped off. “Why wouldn’t Rebecca have told anyone about working for your dad?” I asked.
“Maybe she wasn’t as hot for him as you are.”
I was far past trying to mollify him. “And maybe she was,” I said, and jerked free.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he hissed, but I was already slipping into the crowd.
Despite Rivera’s glowering presence from across the room, I examined everyone. Not a soul looked familiar. Easing through the crowd, I offered my condolences to the husband, then studied his face and tone and body language for any smidgeon of guilt, but sorrow and shock seemed to be his only emotions. After a moment he was drawn into another’s condolences.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said a voice from my left. I turned. It was the man with the Bible.
“Oh, I’m Christina McMullen.”
He smiled benevolently. “And how did you know Rebecca?”
“We … umm …” I glanced toward Rivera. He was momentarily distracted. Possibly making some sort of pact with the devil. “We worked for the senator together.”
“Oh?” He canted his head a little. “What senator is that?”
“Well, he wasn’t actually a senator then. Just a mayor.”
He still looked confused. I refrained from scowling.
“Reverend, if I could have a moment,” someone said, and he turned away with an apology.
I spoke to four other people. None of them had any idea Rebecca had worked for the man who might very well be the next President of the United States.
I glanced to the right, and Rivera was there, not three feet away. I kept my heart firmly in my chest.
His cheek twitched. “Have you lost your mind completely or do you have some reason to think she had an affair with him?”
I considered refusing to speak to him, but he was so … loomy “Other than the law of averages?”
He snorted. “The woman was a saint.”
“Why only one child, then?”
He glared a question.
“Even the Virgin Mary had a bunch of kids, and she was a virgin.”
“I’m surprised you even know the meaning,” he said.
I stared at him a full fifteen seconds, then cracked a faux laugh and turned toward the crowd, but he grabbed my arm. “Who was it?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell me you didn’t really sleep with that damn smalltown crossing guard.”
I faced him, breath stopping in my throat. “Why do you think it was anyone?”
His brows dipped a little lower.
“You should have rung the doorbell,” I said. “As long as you were in the neighborhood.”
The world pulsed around us. “I’m not that fond of orgies,” he said.
“Too bad,” I quipped, and glided back into the crowd.
There was a woman standing alone, watching a little girl twirl like a top in her gauzy black skirt. I approached from a tangent.
“It’s unfortunate Becky never had more children,” I said.
The woman was short, plump, pretty in a bland sort of way. She smiled.
“The Lord’s will, I guess,” I continued.
She narrowed her eyes a little. “Or her fallopian tubes.”
“What?”
“I don’t necessarily believe in God,” she said. “But I have a lot of faith in a good healthy reproductive system.”
“And?”
She smiled, seeming to draw out of herself. “I don’t recognize you. Do you work at Children’s?”
“Becky and I worked for the senator together a long time ago.” Lying is like most things. Practice makes perfect.
“What senator is that?”
Crap.
“Senator Rivera. Are you a nurse?”
“A doctor. Obstetrics.”
Huh. Who would have thought I was sexist.
“Rebecca volunteered there. She also initiated a program to counsel couples with fertility problems.”
“Did she have one? A fertility problem? I mean, she seemed the type to want a whole house full of kids.”
“She and Delbert tried for years. But endometriosis can be a real bitch. They finally tried in vitro fertilization. Obstetrics threw her a party when they found out she was pregnant with Shane.”
“So Shane was her first child.” I realized after I spoke that it sounded like I didn’t know the deceased from the Parthenon. “We’ve been out of touch for decades,” I said. “I just happened to hear of her awful death.”
“Breech. Seven pounds, two ounces,” she said. “I was the attending when he was born. She had a lot of Demerol. Yammered like a parakeet. Funny, though,” she said. “She never mentioned working for a senator. Or you,” she added, eyeing me.
“I’m just one of those people who fade into the woodwork,” I said, and, glancing to my right, saw that Rivera was watching me. Eyes dark, mood stormy.
Apparently I hadn’t faded yet.
31
Real friends disregard your failures and endure your successes.
—Brainy Laney Butterfield,
who was, by all accounts,
irritatingly successful
N THURSDAY, I did what I do. Psychoanalyzed, watched the SuperSeptic guys do nothing in my backyard, wondered if Rivera would ever speak to me again.
Laney would be leaving the next day, so she came by that night, but things felt strange. A little strained. I wasn’t ready for her to get married. I certainly wasn’t ready for her to get hitched to a guy who, if inverted, could be used as a broom.
“How’s engaged life?” I asked. We were sitting on my couch, Harlequin between us.
She fiddled with Harley’s ear. “I gave the ring back.”
“No kidding?” My heart did a little burp, then soared with hope.
“I told him I just wanted a plain band; I couldn’t lift my hand,” she said, and grinned, knowing exactly what I’d been thinking.
“I don’t know why I ever liked you.”
She laughed, still the Laney I loved, despite her inexplicable attraction to subspecies.
“Tell me you’re not giving back that… planet in exchange for a cigar band,” I insisted.
“I’m looking forward to babies. Twelve of them.”
“What if they look like the Geekster?”
&nbs
p; “Ohhh.” She lifted her shoulders in a soundless expression of glee. “Wouldn’t that be great!”
“You are one sick woman.”
“Yeah. Lovesick.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re making me sick.”
“Marriage will be nice.”
“Sometimes it’s not, you know.” My tone was petulant, but I knew that despite Solberg’s irritating habit of being himself, he’d be good to her. That or I’d strangle him with his own entrails.
“We’re eloping tomorrow.”
“What! How the hell—” I ranted, but she was already laughing.
“I almost forgot how easy you are.”
“I’m not easy.” I might have been pouting a little.
“Tell that to Rivera.”
“He’ll never believe it. Not at this juncture.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged. Still childish.
“Have you seen him lately?”
I considered lying, but my heart wasn’t up to it. “At a funeral home.”
“You’ve always had such strange dates.” She had her legs curled up under her and was drinking some sort of green slop that would probably make her live forever.
I thought about her statement for a second and decided I didn’t want to talk about my dates just then. And possibly never. “Why do you suppose Rebecca Harris would avoid telling people about her time as the senator’s secretary?”
She shrugged, frowned a little—kept up to speed, I was sure, by Solberg, who needed to tell her everything. “Maybe it just wasn’t very interesting.”
“Working for Miguel Rivera?” I was skeptical.
“Do you think he came on to her?”
“Is he a man?”
“Do you think she accepted?”
“Donny’s father said the senator was excellent at avoiding child support.”
“So you think there was a child.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I had convinced myself there was. That Rebecca had gotten knocked up and gone off to bear the baby in shame. But turns out she had endometriosis and couldn’t get pregnant without in vitro fertilization.”
“Endometriosis? Isn’t that…” She paused, staring at me as if she should perhaps remain silent, but she spoke finally “Isn’t that sometimes caused by abortions?”
I stared at her for a full five seconds, then launched myself from the couch, scurried into my office, and wrote abortion under Rebecca’s name.
When I glanced back, Laney was standing behind me in the doorway. “You need a new hobby,” she said.