The question made her laugh, sputtering in her coffee. "God, if that weren't so offensive, it'd really be offensive."
"Sorry."
"No, you're not. You're trying to provoke me. Give me a moment." She stared down at her coffee cup for a moment, as if saying grace over it, then looked up again. "See, many men and women need more tha
n s
ex. They like to sit at dinner and talk about what happened that day-- all the inane moments in daily life, who said what to whom, why so
-
and-so always wears blue suits, what happened to the Beaver's aileron. It's called 'having a life.' Hunter and Alyssa didn't have one. We did."
Lucas said, "Huh." They looked at each other for a moment, over their drinks, and then Lucas asked, "I don't want to sound too much like a TV show, but where were you the night Frances was killed?"
"Working," she said. "I'd been one week at General Mills and I needed to get up to speed."
"Witnesses?"
She cocked her head: "People came in and out . . . I work in a big bay, with cubicles. If you pressed, you might find people who saw me that night, but couldn't vouch for the fact that I'd been there the whole time. If anybody remembered at all. The story didn't get out until the next day, so it was just another working night. Or, come to think of it, there are cameras around, so there might be videotapes, if you asked GM security."
"So the short answer would be, 'No--probably no witnesses,'" Lucas said.
"Something like that, but not that short," she said. "Maybe, no witnesses, but videotapes."
"How often were you at the Austin house?"
She had to think, her lips moving, her eyes up toward the ceiling: "Three times. Or, let me see. I've got a feeling there might have been another time, a fourth, but I can't remember what for. All business
-
social."
"Did you help with the food?" Lucas asked.
"I don't help with food," she said. "I don't know where they kept the knives."
"In a drawer in the kitchen."
"There's a surprise," she said.
"What kind of name is Trenoff?"
Her forehead wrinkled: "What kind do you think?"
"Russian?"
She exhaled and said, "Your mind is a steel trap."
That made Lucas smile: "Not first generation."
"About fifth. What difference would it make?"
"Just making conversation, to prove that I'm human and to loosen you up for the killer questions," Lucas said.
"Well, here I am, all loose," she said. "Wheel those bitches out."
He laughed again and confessed, "I don't have any, I'm afraid. Do you like your new job?"
"I hate it," she said. "I'm at the bottom of the heap again. I took it because I needed to bring my marketing skills up to par. I went from a junior position at AUS to the top of the company, and now I need to sharpen up and get back into it. I've got a job interview, I won't say who with, but a company bigger than General Mills, in two weeks. I
will
get the job. And my office
will
have a door on it."
"So you're a little bitter," Lucas suggested.
"Oh, no. I couldn't stay at AUS. I knew that--I couldn't have stayed if Hunter and I had married. I was on my way out one way or another." Now her chin trembled and a tear popped out; she took off her glasses to wipe it away. "We were going to have kids. He wanted a son. Alyssa didn't like stretch marks, she didn't like being pregnant, I don't think she liked Frances that much. Maybe I'm not being fair."
"I think she loved Frances," Lucas said. "Maybe in a WASP way. As opposed to the Russian."
"That's about right," she agreed.
They chatted about smaller matters, but she was getting impatient. She had nice teeth, and a nice smile, and if he dropped his eyelids a bit
,
blurred her out, he could see her as the fairy. Some lipstick, some makeup, some clothes . . .
"What do you know about Goth?" he asked. "Goth? What do you mean, Goth?" she asked. "Gothic? Like the cathedral at Chartres?"
"Where?" Now
he
was confused. "Cathedral?" "Chartres. France," she said. "Like, the country." He shook his head. "No--I mean, like the people who walk around in black clothes."
The forehead wrinkle again: "Oh. Well. Nothing."
"I got nothing
else," he said, at the end of it. "Hmm," she said. "I'd expected one more thing." "About what?"
"About Alyssa's affairs," she said. "She had affairs?"
"Several. Maybe not several, but two or three. Dancer kind of guys. Hunter was really straight--you know, navy flier, hard work, even church, sometimes. He carried a little too much weight. He looked like a
man.
Alyssa was one of those women who . . . she thought she was Madonna. She always had the taste for the well-turned male butt."
"Dancer kind of guys," Lucas said. "Yes."
"So what are you telling me?" Lucas asked.
"I don't think she had anything to do with Frances," Trenoff said. "But what if there
was
a mistaken identity, but it was one of these guys?"
"Do you know any of them?"
"Frank Willett. W-i-l-l-e-t-t. Write it down," she said.
Lucas wrote it down. "Who is he?"
"He worked as a trainer at one of her clubs. Karate guy, you know. Model. Bicycle racer, rock climber, surfer, ski-racer. One of those guys you can't figure out how they make a living."
"When was this? The affair?"
"Well, they were going at it a year ago," she said. "Hunter told me about it."
"So he knew."
"She didn't tell him, but he knew. And they
did
do it at her house."
They sat in silence for a moment, and then she said, "Awful, isn't it? People selling each other out?"
"Trying to catch a killer," Lucas said.
"Well, if your online biography is right, you're pretty good at it."
"Not bad," he said. He stood up, and she stood up, and they shook hands again.
"Good luck with the new job."
She clutched the briefcase to her breast, looked out over it and said, "Luck is not a factor. I'll get the job and then I'll work harder than anyone they've ever hired."
He watched her going off down the skyway, weaving through the crowd, looking at her Rolex.
She would always be in a hurry, he thought, right up until she dropped dead.
Could be the fairy. Physically, anyway.
But if she was the fairy, what was she doing with the guy who shot at Lucas? She seemed to have nothing but disdain for Austin's lover. And, if Lucas could judge by a one-second look, and he though
t h
e could, the guy who shot at him would be one much like Frank Willett.
One of those guys who you can't figure out how they make a living.
He looked at his notebook: Maybe get a look at Willett, huh?
Chapter
13.
Fairy was
in the kitchen when he called to her; out the window over the sink, the moon was rising behind the bare branches of the winter oaks.
"Hello? Hell-o-o-o?" Loren said. He walked in, wearing another new outfit, this one with a ruffle at his neck, with a green velvet coat that was cut long, as though he'd been traveling in the nineteenth century. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. His lips were cold and dry. Then he stepped back and, looking down, said, "Those shorts aren't particularly becoming."
He was not trying to be offensive: he said it with the detached professional tone of a hairdresser about to suggest a change of style.
"I've been moving furniture," Fairy said.
He cut her off: "Just an observation," he said. He cocked his head and grinned, a practiced gesture that might have been made by a French fop in a romantic novel. But something caught in her throat, and she suspected he knew it. He was still holding her hand, and she could feel the edges of his fingernails in her palm, like claws. "Pale women have a problem with thighs," he said. "Their paleness, which can be very attractive, also makes them look a little heavy. A soft dress, on the other hand, something in a cool green, or a mint, would be stunning. Black would be good, in the evenings; Ivory would be fine, too--but of course, you know all this."
"Now you're a fashion maven?" Fairy asked.
"I have an interest in costume," Loren said, not quite dismissively. Before she could say anything else, he turned to the piano and hit a chord.
"You talk about the piano, but you never play," she said. "You
do
play?"
"Yeah, sure. I've seen your sheet music here, the
Moonlight. . ."
With a glance at a wall mirror, to check his look, Loren settled on the piano bench and played a long run from the final movement of Beethoven's
Moonlight Sonata,
missed a few notes, shook his head, tried again, missed again, and banged out a few loud chords. "My problem has always been, I think about it--if you think about it, you can't do it. . . . At least, I can't."
"Stupidity, a piano method by Loren Doyle," she said, pulling his last name from thin air, not knowing where it came from.
"Doyle," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, "It means 'dark stranger.' How about that?"
"You certainly fit the name," she said.
Loren threw back his head and laughed, his longish hair flipping back to his shoulders. "One thing you've got to remember about Beethoven," he said, picking out the theme of the
Moonlight,
"is that he's dead. On the other hand, Bob Seger is still alive."
Loren launched into "Old Time Rock & Roll," pounding it out, his right hand bouncing up and down the keyboard in a chord-claw, and Fairy began to laugh . . . and laugh.
And Loren stopped playing, stood up, and gripped the hair at the base of her skull in his left hand, and turned her face to his and said, "I need somebody to laugh for me." He kissed her on the mouth.
She let go, closed her eyes, opened her lips. His tongue was cold and she shivered, but she let it go.
Up and into
the bedroom: sex came first. She hungered for it, needed it, hung on to him. He said, "I'm very cold."
"Please," she said. "Please help me here."
"I was thinking . . . a hot shower?" One cool fingertip traced the line of her throat from chin to collarbone, then down, along the line of her blouse to the first button, popped it, and then another, and slipped inside to her breasts. He didn't seem intrusive: but it did seem practiced.
"All right," she said, half turning away, not meeting his eye. "AH right."
He always wanted heat, any way he could get it, from a shower, from her. Heat.
"You have
very nice breasts," he said. The water coursed down her chest and across her stomach to her thighs. He traced it with his knuckles, between her breasts, her stomach, over her navel, then to the side, just inside the line of her hipbone, to her thigh. "The first night that I watched you--that's the first thing I thought."
"I should shave my legs," she said nervously, stretching for something prosaic to right herself. "I'm like barbed wire."
"Do I feel cold to you?"
"Yes . . . but not so much as before."
"I don't think it's the water."
"No . . ."
"I think it's
you.
You bring me heat," he said. "Would you like me to shave your legs?"
"No, I'll . . . I don't . . ." Confused.
"Here. Let me." He stepped out of the shower, opened the medicine cabinet, probed it.
"No razor?"
"In the basket behind the cupboard on the left."
He opened the cupboard under the sink counter, took out a wicker basket, rattled the contents, took out a pink-plastic throwaway razor, started to put the basket back and then said, "What's this?"
A straight razor. He flicked the blade open.
"It belonged to my husband," she said. "Put it back; you can hurt somebody with it, if you don't know what you're doing."
He grinned at her and flipped his hair in the practiced way: "Yes, you can; but I do know what I'm doing."
"No . . ."
"It feels good," he promised. He pushed her back into the stream of hot water. "I've done this before . . ."
"With who?" she blurted.
"Before," he said. His left hand stayed with her body, trailing gently down her hip all the way to her ankle, as he knelt down.
"I, ah, jeez," she said shakily.
"Shut up for a minute," he said. Looking down, she saw him set the razor aside on the floor with his right hand, which moved to her groin. His fingertips probed lightly in her pubic hair, as though he were combing it. "Open here, just a little," he said. "Your legs."
His hands were gently, but insistently, prying.