Cilla shot Josh a smirk, at which Angie raised her brows. Cilla laughed. “Josh didn’t peg you as a classical lover.”
Josh gave a sharp, “Cilla!”
Angie laughed to cover the awkward moment. “What sort of music lover
do
I look like?”
“Jazz.” This he said with a note of hesitation.
“Ooh, I love Chick Corea.”
Josh seemed satisfied. He held Angie’s chair and she settled facing the house. On the kitchen counter, steam rose from an enormous crockpot.
Cilla made most of the conversation. Josh chomped on salad and feigned interest. His face wore that same glazed-over look Jarvis got when her mother visited. The only difference was, quite frequently Angie felt her own face getting that glazed-over look too since Gloria tended to monopolize all conversation.
It didn’t take long to figure out that tension existed between these two people. Not the sort of tension that comes from a discussion…“no, I really think she’ll prefer jazz music.” Angie had felt the same thing the other day when Josh dropped his arm around Cilla’s shoulder. There was something going on, or maybe not going on, between these two.
Cilla brought the crockpot and set it on a trivet with a mosaic picture of a butterfly. Seeing Angie looking at it, she said, “Our youngest son made it for us. We were talking the other day about all the things in our house that the kids made.”
“And how much stuff we have,” Josh added. “And how we should get rid of some
stuff
.” A flicker of a scowl crossed Cilla’s face. This too must’ve been a conversation they’d had before. And not one Cilla wanted aired in public.
To cover some of the awkwardness, Angie said, “My ex husband and I had that too. Though we don’t have children, we did manage to accumulate things through the years.”
“How long were you married?”
“Almost thirty years.” A shiver welled up inside her, as it did every time she thought about the demise of her marriage.
“That’s a long time,” Josh said. There was no envy in his tone.
Cilla shoved the ladle into the pot. Drops of boiling broth shot around the table. Some landed on Angie’s hands but she didn’t raise attention by wiping at them. Josh did.
Cilla spooned out a delicious smelling mix of potatoes, carrots and beef. She gestured for Angie to hold up her plate. Which she was more than willing to do. Anything to hurry this meal along.
“Mmm,” Angie said, “smells great.”
“It’s Josh’s favorite.”
They were finishing the last of the entrée when the phone rang. Josh slapped his napkin on the table and left the room muttering about damned telemarketers. He came back quickly—probably he’d hung up on them. But he didn’t return to the table. “That was Brent. He needs help moving a new sofa into his apartment.”
Though Cilla protested, “Does it have to be tonight?” Angie had the idea she was glad Josh’s negativity might be departing the premises.
Josh laughed. “Apparently they’ve got it caught in the stairwell. I’m sorry Angie, I was looking forward to getting to know you better.”
“Same here. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As her husband disappeared through the kitchen, Cilla stood up. “What if we have our coffee and dessert in the living room? I’ll light the fire. It’ll be cozy.”
Angie rose and began stacking plates.
“No. Company doesn’t do that.”
“We’re passing the sink anyway, might as well carry something.”
Cilla brought the crockpot and set it on the counter. She punched the button to start a pot of coffee. “I made pumpkin mousse.” Cilla removed a pair of white ceramic ramekins from the fridge.
Angie snatched one of the containers from her hostess’s fingers. “Not on my diet.”
“Same here.” Cilla laughed.
They strolled into the living room carrying the desserts. Cilla stopped at a long wall of artwork obviously done by children. At the top was a picture of each of their three sons. Judging by the similar backgrounds, probably school photos. Below each one, fanned in a rainbow arc, were framed pieces, obviously done at all stages of the boys’ development. A great wall of childhood history.
Cilla pointed to a purple scribble on yellow lined paper. “Brent did this when he was two.” Above this, a cute brown haired boy who looked a lot like Josh, grinned down at them.
“How old is he?”
“In the picture, he’s eight. He’s nineteen as of next week, attending a two-year college in town,” she said with a mother’s obvious pride. “He’s the one Josh went to help with the sofa.” She thumped a finger on the middle group of artwork. “Scott is our middle son. He’s eighteen.” Scott looked a bit like Josh also. The third son had Cilla’s blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked to be about seventeen years old. “You had your boys close together.”
Cilla laughed. “In just over three years. It was quite stressful for a while, as you can imagine.”
“I can only imagine. As I said, we didn’t have children.”
“Didn’t you ever want any?”
Angie’s insides tightened as a whisper of guilt passed through. It had been one of the
discussions
between she and Will in the early stages of their marriage. He’d wanted kids and she didn’t. It wasn’t till after their divorce that she realized she’d been too self-centered. Kids would’ve gotten in the way of her lifestyle. Kids would’ve messed up the house. The recognition of this flaw in her personality was, as they say, a bitter pill to swallow.
“It just didn’t happen,” was all she could think of saying that wouldn’t bare the painful memory.
Cilla led Angie to a leather sofa and chair set atop a low pile carpet in a pretty cinnamon color. She placed her ramekin on a coaster then went to push the button to turn on the fireplace. “I’ll get the coffee.”
She returned and placed a carved wooden tray on the coffee table. After cups were fixed according to each person’s tastes, Cilla leaned back against the deep cushioned sofa with the dessert.
“You have a very nice house,” Angie said.
“Thanks. We bought it two years ago when we moved here to Nashua. Josh is responsible for most of the decorating. He has great color sense. He told me you live in Alton. I’m not sure where that is.”
“It’s at the very southernmost tip of Lake Winnipesaukee.”
“Nice. We went there on vacation about ten years ago. Do you live right on the lake?”
“No, I have a condo in town.”
“I always pictured living on the water someplace. Not the ocean—I’m frightened of the ocean—but a lake or pond. Something peaceful. That would be nice.”
“I don’t care for the water either. I get seasick.” Angie’s stomach twitched at the confession. She quickly took a bite of the mousse. It was smooth and decadent. She savored the wonderful concoction as it slid down her throat. “Very good.”
“Thanks. Josh told me you’re dating a cop. That’s got to be stressful, always worrying if he’ll get hurt.”
“Alton’s a small town with fairly well behaved people.”
“Except when there’s a murder. Josh mentioned you solved a couple of cases.”
“Helped solve.”
“I don’t really worry about Josh getting hurt at work.”
“Except when there’s a murder,” Angie mimicked her words and they both smiled.
“Except then.”
Cilla’s attention became riveted on the flames licking the ceramic logs in the granite stone fireplace. Angie watched her watching the fire. All at once, Cilla asked, “Who do you think killed Gwen?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you don’t even suspect anyone?”
How to tell the grieving woman she had deliberately pushed potential clues to the back of her mind? “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be official. It would only be an opinion.”
Cilla faced Angie, tears glistening in her eyes. “I have to know. I have to…” Cilla brushed away the tears and went back to peering into the fire. Yes, the woman was grieving for her friend, but Angie couldn’t help thinking something else was wrong—and that something was the real reason she’d been invited here tonight.
Her mouth spoke before she could stop it. “Is something wrong? Besides Gwen’s murder, I mean.”
Cilla let her head fall back, took in a breath and straightened up. “Josh and I have been going through a rough time. Lately…” Cilla scraped the spoon around the edge of the dessert container, licked the last of the sweetness from it, then set it and the container on the coffee table.
A horrifying thought popped into Angie’s head. Did Cilla suspect her husband of murder? Was
that
what this was all about? Gosh, she so didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to hear any confession that might be coming.
Cilla turned, tucking one leg on the sofa, to face Angie. “The last of the kids moved out three months ago. I thought Josh and I would have time together, you know, that time when you tighten the bonds that brought you together in the first place. Not only were our kids born in quick succession they also came early in our marriage. We never had time to enjoy life, or each other.” Her eyes roved up and over Angie’s left shoulder. Angie thought she might be looking at the wall of childhood art. After a few seconds her attention returned, focusing on the base of Angie’s throat. Had Jarvis given her a hickey? Angie almost covered the spot with her hand but Cilla looked back onto Angie’s face, and said, “Whenever I bring up doing something…well, like the other day I mentioned going to the movies then getting a motel for the night. To be romantic. Get out of our rut. You know? He practically blew up at me. Called me a nagging bitch.”
Tears welled up in Cilla’s eyes. She blinked a few times and one rolled down each side of her nose. Why was she opening up to a complete stranger? Angie hated when people did that. With her track record, she obviously had no answers to spousal problems.
Deep thought wasn’t necessary. Angie knew why Cilla spoke freely—they were fellow women. Women’s bodies contained an extra gene, the sympathy gene. That sympathy could be turned in many directions, most especially toward each other. Now that her best friend Gwen was gone, Cilla needed somebody. For this evening it was supposed to be Angie.
Okay, for this evening, it would be Angie. Rather than ask the question uppermost in her mind—Do you think Josh killed Gwen—Angie asked, “Any idea why he reacted so strongly?”
“No. None.”
“Don’t answer because this isn’t a question and I’m not prying, but if there’s a money problem, it might make him unwilling to consider doing something…frivolous.”
“We don’t have money troubles. Josh is a good provider.”
Another long bout of silence. This time Cilla’s gazed focused on something on the mantle—perhaps the painted porcelain bowl with a tiny flower design. Pretty. It would look nice in Angie’s condo, on the shelf between the oil and vinegar cruets.
Cilla pulled her attention away from the mantle. “The reason I asked him to invite you tonight was because I thought he was…I thought he was—with you.”
“I’ve only just arrived in town.”
“Yes, but Gwen told me he’s been to your theater several times. She said he tried out for parts in your performances.”
Yes, she guessed it
could
be construed that way.
Cilla thought they were seeing each other. Angie looked the woman in the eye the way her grandfather always taught her. It was supposed to let a person know you were telling the truth. “Tyson—he’s my partner—handles most, if not all, the casting. My duties lean more toward office work, scheduling, advertising, costumes, set design. Things like that. I promise you, until I arrived in town, I didn’t really even know Josh. Yes, when I met him here, I realized I’d seen him in our place.” Angie clamped her lips closed. She was treading in dangerous territory, in the
she doth protest too much
category.
Cilla waved off Angie’s protest. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all in my own suspicious mind.”
Angie had thought the conversation would get easier if Josh left. She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.
“That’s the thing. I don’t think Josh is cheating, like having sex with someone.”
So, what did she think was going on? What sort of cheating was there if no sex was involved? And why would she rule out sex? Angie ran scenarios through her head. Outside of the fact that he could be impotent, she couldn’t come up with anything that made sense.
“I know the whole thing sounds stupid,” Cilla said, probably reading Angie’s expression. Everybody always said her face was easy to read.
The comment left an opening where Angie felt comfortable asking, “If you don’t think he’s cheating, what do you think is going on?”
Cilla stood up and walked to the fireplace. She stared down into the flames for a long time.
Why had this couple asked Angie here? Had Josh’s exit been carefully choreographed so she and Cilla could be alone? To divulge, or request, some information. Perhaps they had knowledge of Gwen’s murderer. Some tiny snippet they thought might be related but were hesitant to mention to the police, perhaps because it seemed insignificant, or perhaps they thought it would bring attention on their family.
Best thing to do was wait. Sooner or later the information would come to light.
But it didn’t.
After several minutes that stretched like an hour, Cilla visibly shook off whatever had possessed her, turned and walked to the coffee table. She gathered the dessert dishes and piled them on the tray along with the cups, even though Angie’s was only half empty. The message was clear. It was time to leave.
As awkward as it was, a relieved Angie stood and straightened her skirt. Usually she’d take the things to the kitchen, help with cleanup, but tonight it seemed best to make a rapid departure.
At the door she took Cilla’s soft, uncalloused hand. “I really hope you and Josh get things straightened out. Thanks for inviting me. You have a lovely home. I had a good time.”
“Liar,” Cilla said on a soft laugh. “Dinner was tense and embarrassing. I thought once Josh left things would smooth out. I thought we’d have some nice relaxing girl-talk. You know, swap recipes, things like that.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good at recipe-swapping,” Angie said to ease past the awkward moment. “Since opening the theater over a year ago, I’ve practically lived on fast food and frozen dinners.”