The Best of Sisters in Crime (10 page)

“Almost there,
Harry,” she was saying. “Don’t you love this area? Open country. Free. Natural.
I love the farmhouses, the space . . .”

Almost there.
Free. Natural. Wonderful words.

Leigh, eyes
still on the road, voice talking about the wonders of the countryside, placed a
manicured hand on his thigh.

God? he said
silently, needing the Deity for the first time in years. God, let this really
be happening.

After dinner she
sent Harry into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she insisted, “while
I clean up. I’ll bring in coffee.” No number about sharing the work. He couldn’t
believe his luck.

The tape
stopped, and he picked out a mellow one. Make-out music, they called it a
century or two ago when he was young. Why did that seem so funny? He stifled a
giggle. He turned the volume to a soft, inviting level, then settled into the
rich velvet sofa. He felt a little weird. Almost like a teenager again, that
racing high, that thrumming excitement.

What a woman! He
couldn’t believe his luck. He stretched and enjoyed the memory of the meal. Her
own recipe, her own invention. Spicy, delicious, exotic. Like Leigh herself,
like the charged talk that had hovered around the table, like the possibilities
of a long night in the remote countryside.

“Here you are,”
she announced, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, creamer, sugar bowl, and cups.
She bent close and his giddy lightheadedness, the speeding double-time rush of
blood through his veins, intensified.

She poured the
coffee, then stepped back and spread her arms as if to embrace the room. “Do
you like my place?” she asked. “The people at work think I’m crazy to be this
isolated, this far from everything. But I love my privacy. Or maybe I like
animals better than people.” She laughed. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Bubbles of
excitement popped in Harry’s veins. “Have a seat,” he suggested, patting the
sofa next to him. He wiggled his lips. They felt thick, a little foreign and
tingly. Stupid to have eaten so much. And all that wine, too. Now he was
bloated, sluggish.

Leigh, on the
other hand, seemed wired. “This is a working farm,” she said. “Cows, pigs,
horses. There’s a caretaker, of course.” She stopped her pacing. “But don’t
worry—he won’t bother us. He’s all the way on the other side of the property,
and anyway, he’s away for the night.”

“Leigh—” he
began. He sounded whiny and stopped himself. But all the same, why couldn’t
they start enjoying this nice private place before her stupid roosters crowed?
He was reminded of his teens, of dates with nervous girls chattering furiously
to keep his attention—and hands—off their bodies. It had annoyed him even then.
He decided to see if actions would speak louder than words, and smacked at the
sofa’s velvet.

It worked. She
finally sat down. But just out of easy reach.

He considered
strategy. He felt planted in the soft cushions. He took a moment to evaluate
the pros and cons of uprooting himself.

“Do you know
which is the most intelligent barnyard animal?” she asked.

Who cared?
Frankly, even a brainless chicken was beginning to seem brighter than this woman.
Didn’t she remember why they were here?

She refilled his
coffee cup. He sipped at it while he tried to figure a way to change the
subject.

“Pigs,” she
said. “It’s almost a curse on them, being that smart. They know when they’re
going to slaughter. They scream and fight and try to prevent their own
destruction.”

Harry finished
the coffee. There was no subtle way to stop her, so he’d be direct. “I don’t
care about pigs,” he said emphatically. “I care about you. Come closer.”

“I’m fond of
pigs.” She stayed in place. “Don’t you care about what I care about? About who
I am?”

“Of course! I
didn’t mean to . . .” Damn. She was one of those. He hadn’t expected it, from
the way she’d come on to him, but she was one more of them who needed to
discuss their innermost feelings first, get to know the man, make things
serious and important.

“Let’s take
things slowly,” she said. “I’ve waited years and years to be with you again.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he
said. “We’re adults. Don’t pretend anymore. I like you, you like me. Tha’s enough.
Don’t need games.”

She refilled his
cup, then held it out to him.

He stared at her
hands, confused.

“Games can be
fun, Harry,” she murmured. “And so can the prizes at the end.” She put his cup
in his hands.

It required a
great deal of effort to bring it to his lips.

“You still haven’t
answered the first question, you know,” she said with a small smile.

He shook his
head. He had no idea what she was talking about. “I really don’t like games,”
he said. The whole idea made him tired.

“Yes you do.”
Her voice was a croon, a lullaby. “Sure you do. I know that about you. You just
like the game to be yours, the old familiar one. But this one is new. This is
mine, and it’s called ‘Do You Remember Me?’”

She was all
smiles and burbles, but he felt suddenly chilled.

“Oh, you look
puzzled,” she said. “I’ll give you a clue.” She stood up. “
Campus
.” She clicked musically, sounding like a game-show timer.

“College?” he
asked, frowning. “State?”

“Good!” She
waited. “Any more? Who am I, Harry Towers? You have fifteen seconds.” She began
her manic clicking noise again.

“You were there?”
His voice sounded remote and dislocated, as if it weren’t coming out of his own
throat.

She nodded
pertly. “A freshman when you were a junior. Think.” He was afraid she would
begin her timer again, but instead she asked him if he wanted brandy.

He shook his
head. “Feel a
little . . .”
He clutched the arm of the sofa for support.

She nodded. “So,
how are we doing with those clues?”

“I. .
.”
He said her name silently, hoping it would
connect with something, but all it did was bang from side to side in his brain.
Leeleeleelee . . . a sharp bell tolling painfully.

“Ahhh,” she
said, “so you really don’t remember me. How about that.”

He couldn’t
think of what he should say. She was all snap-and-crackle confusion, and he was
fuzzy lint. “Sorry,” he whispered. Actually, he decided, she wasn’t worth it.
Too much time and effort. As soon as he felt a little better, he wanted out.

“Harry,” she
whispered. “Your mouth is open. You’re drooling.”

He tried to close
it.

“I guess it
would be hard to remember one girl out of that crowd of them you had.” She
smiled down at him, and he felt the tension ease.

There had been
so many girls sticking to him as if he were made of Velcro. Such a good time.
While it lasted. He wondered where his old letter sweater was, whether it still
fit him, then remembered he was supposed to be trying to remember Leigh. But
the girls were one big blur of sweet-smelling hair, firm breasts, lips,
assorted parts.

She sat down so
close to him that her perfume increased his dizziness. “Poor baby,” she
crooned. “You’re woozy. Rest your head in my lap.”

She stroked his
thinning hair as if she loved every strand. Beneath her hand, his head swirled
and popped, as the dinner wine and spices fermented. Maybe she wasn’t such a
bitch. He couldn’t get a fix on her. Maybe it was good she liked the sound of
her own voice too much. He needed time. She’d been at State with him. He
rummaged again through his memories of all those girls, those legs and arms and
shiny hair. Which one had been Leigh? He couldn’t remember any of them. Female
faces had a way of blurring away by the next morning, let alone after decades.

“Innasorority?”
he said in a soft hiss.

She shook her
head. “I was so shy. A loner. Until Harry Towers invited me to his fraternity
party and everything was magically changed.”

Which party? No
way to separate out all those drunken, sweaty, wonderful nights. God, but those
guys were fun. So many laughs. Best years of his life.

“Except that I
never saw you again,” Leigh said.

“Musta been outa
my mind.” he gasped chivalrously. Maybe it would appease her.

She chuckled
very softly. “Wish you hadn’t been. You can’t imagine what a difference it
would have made to me if you’d asked me out again.”

So he hadn’t been
the most steady guy. That’s how he was, who he was. But he’d never been a fool,
so why hadn’t he seen as much of this one as possible? Had something happened?
Damn, but the memory slate was clean. Not even a chalk smear on it. He tried to
sit up, to face her, to say something, but he only made it halfway.

Abruptly, she
stood. He flopped down onto the cushions, then grabbed the back of the sofa and
tried to pull into a sitting position.

She was going
into the bedroom. Maybe talking time was over, just like that. Maybe they weren’t
going to have to deal with ancient history and guessing games, after all. He
staggered to his feet.

“No. Stay,” she
called out. “I need something.”

Safe sex, he
realized. Sure. Okay. His legs wobbled and he couldn’t stop swaying. He sank
back into the sofa.

She returned and
handed him a ragged-edged snapshot.

“Whadoss . . .”
He gave up the effort of asking what this had to do with anything.

“It’s part of
the game,” she said. “The last clue.”

He focused his
eyes with difficulty. When he had managed the feat, he regretted the effort.
The girl in the photograph had a moon-shaped face with dark hair pulled back
severely so that her ears stuck out like flaps. Sunlight bounced off her
glasses, emphasizing the shadows cast by her enormous nose, her chubby cheeks,
and her collection of chins. For no reason Harry could think of, she was
smiling, revealing teeth that gaped like pickets on a wobbly fence. A real
loser. A dog. A pig. Harry let the picture drop onto the coffee table.

“Too bad,” she
said. “We’re out of time. Ladies and gentlemen, our contestant has forfeited
the game. But don’t turn off that set—we’ve got a few surprises left! It’s not
over till it’s over!” She loomed above him, a giantess. Then she pushed the
picture back in front of him. “Harry Towers, meet Leigh Endicott,” she said.

“Wha?” He had an
overwhelming sense of wrongness. His mouth was painfully dry. He reached toward
the coffee, but his fingers weren’t working properly. He sat, arms hanging
loose, staring at the old black-and-white snapshot on the table.

“How could you
not recognize me?” Her voice was sweet and coquettish. “The only changes have
been from time— oh, and a few superficial adjustments, like a diet, a nose bob,
contact lenses, ear pinning, chin enlarging, straightening and capping the
teeth and bleaching the hair. Nothing compared to what’s possible nowadays. But
that was a long time ago.”

A whoosh came
out of the hollowness inside Harry. He’d taken her—that photo girl—to a party.
He felt chilly, then hot. Something wanted to be remembered. Something hovered
just above his head, ready to fall.

“I left school
to earn the money for the changes,” she said. ‘Took me four years, same as my
degree would have.” She walked toward the window. “Only thing is, at the end I
was still the same girl inside, but who cares about that, right?”

He put up his
hand like a traffic cop, to stop her words from falling onto his skull. He was
cold again, afraid, needed to explain and defend himself, as if he were on
trial, but when he opened his mouth, he gagged. When was it? Why? Did he really
remember certain times . . . ? Why did Duffy’s Desperates suddenly stampede
into his mind in a great cloud of dust?

“Your party,”
she said. “My first date on campus. My first date, actually. I had such a good
time. Every little girl knows the story of Cinderella—why shouldn’t it happen
to all of us? And Prince Charming had nothing on you, Harry. But when I left
the room to powder my oversized nose, I overheard two of your darling
fraternity brothers. Very drunk and very happy fraternity brothers. They were
laughing so much. I could barely make out the joke, except that they kept
repeating one particular word. This is the last question in the game, Harry. Do
you know the word?”

His heart was
going to explode. Party—ugly girl. Laughing. It all connected, turned fiery and
molten. Pig. Pig party. Had forgotten all about them. Probably didn’t have them
anymore. Defunct, part of the world of the dinosaurs, but back then . . .

“Weren’t
supposed to know . . .” he said. “Just
a. . .
prank. Fun. No harm meant.”

She loomed over
him, stony and enormous. A warrior woman.

“F’give,” he
begged. “Boys will be. . .” What? What will boys be? What did he mean? Now or
then—what? His mind was falling apart, great chunks slopping like mud into
heaps. His hands were damp and cold. He tried to smile, although his mouth had
become enormous, like a clown’s, and rubbery.