The Edge
Page 33
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"Bad, bad thing," Alyssum Tarcher said, nodding that leonine head of his. "Everyone's been talking about it, trying to figure out who could have done such a thing, and why."
"He was a nosy old man," Cotter said. "He was always pissing people off when he pried into their business."
"A stranger went to his house and killed him, a random thing," said Tarcher. "It must have been. No one in Edgerton would have hurt a hair on his head."
"He didn't have much hair left," Paul said. He received a strained smile from Tarcher.
I turned to see Rob Morrison, looking like a hunk from Southern California in a black T-shirt, black slacks, and a black sports jacket, speaking to Maggie Sheffield. It was the first time I'd seen her out of uniform. She was a knockout. A red dress on a woman, especially one without much front or back, has an amazing effect. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and she was wearing three-inch heels. I had an urge to walk up to her, bite her earlobe, and go from there. Then I saw Rob Morrison's hand on her back, very low on her bare back. Very proprietary.
"Hello, Mac. You look very nice in that dark suit."
I turned to see Cal Tarcher, dressed like a frump in a long skirt with a black, high-neck, long-sleeved silk blouse and ballet flats. At least the skirt and blouse fit her, more or less. Her red hair was flat against her head, pulled back and tied with a black ribbon at the base of her neck. Her glasses had black frames. Well, at least she was color coordinated. "Hi, yourself," I said. I wondered what had happened to that young woman I'd seen briefly outside Paul and Jilly's house, the one who'd suddenly looked taller and arrogant and cold as ice. We were back to little miss prim and dowdy.
"I saw you staring at Maggie. She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"
"Oh, yes. I like a woman out of uniform. Maybe soon you can get out of your uniform. Maybe you could try a red dress like that."
The cold, arrogant young woman flashed across her face, then smoothed away. "Have you met my mother, Elaine?"
"No, not yet. The originator of BITEASS?"
"Yes," she said, and seemed delighted that I remembered. "I hear that Jilly is just fine now. I tried to get to the hospital today but what with the party, I didn't have time. Mother had me running around all day long. You wouldn't believe how much food is going to be consumed tonight. Can you believe someone killed poor old Charlie Duck?"
"No, I can't."
"You hungry?"
"I can't wait to attack the food. Oh yeah, do you know if Paul slept around on Jilly?" I watched her eyes widen behind her glasses. Just shock at what I'd said? It wasn't exactly acceptable party talk. Or was it surprise that I knew that? I realized then that I just had to let it go. Jilly was fine. There was no damned crime here, except for the random murder of Charlie Duck.
"Paul loves Jilly," Cal said after a moment. "He wouldn't ever sleep with another woman. Besides, Paul's too skinny. He does enjoy sex, that's what Jilly told me. She said he was really good."
"Were you jealous of Jilly, Cal?"
Chapter Nine
She didn't skip a beat, just said in a very nice, indifferent voice, "Not at all. I liked Jilly. She was always so gay, always singing. Would you like a beer?"
I stared down at her a moment, waiting her out, but she beat me in that staring contest. Finally, I nodded.
"Let's go to the kitchen. Cotter and I keep our stash hidden behind Father's mango supply. My mother hates mangoes so we have to hide the beer where she won't see it. She disapproves of beer, you know. It's low-class."
I followed her through the crowd of at least fifty people, all different ages, dressed to the hilt, all of them seeming to be enjoying themselves, digging into an incredible array of food-from oysters Rockefeller to trays of chilled fish smothered in limes to heaping platters of pesto pasta dotted with sun-dried tomatoes-set out on a wide table at least twenty feet long.
The kitchen was the command center. Cal didn't slow, just wove her way through the caterers to a huge refrigerator, opened it, and leaned inside. She was in there awhile, scrounging around. She came out holding two Coors. "Cotter's already been here. This is the end. We've got another six-pack out in the garage if we really get thirsty."
"This is great," I said, popped the lid, toasted her without saying anything, and drank. I loved beer.
"How old is Cotter?"
"He's twenty-eight, two years older than me. I know, I only look like I'm eighteen, but I'm not. You're also wondering what we're both doing still living at home at our age."
"He was a nosy old man," Cotter said. "He was always pissing people off when he pried into their business."
"A stranger went to his house and killed him, a random thing," said Tarcher. "It must have been. No one in Edgerton would have hurt a hair on his head."
"He didn't have much hair left," Paul said. He received a strained smile from Tarcher.
I turned to see Rob Morrison, looking like a hunk from Southern California in a black T-shirt, black slacks, and a black sports jacket, speaking to Maggie Sheffield. It was the first time I'd seen her out of uniform. She was a knockout. A red dress on a woman, especially one without much front or back, has an amazing effect. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and she was wearing three-inch heels. I had an urge to walk up to her, bite her earlobe, and go from there. Then I saw Rob Morrison's hand on her back, very low on her bare back. Very proprietary.
"Hello, Mac. You look very nice in that dark suit."
I turned to see Cal Tarcher, dressed like a frump in a long skirt with a black, high-neck, long-sleeved silk blouse and ballet flats. At least the skirt and blouse fit her, more or less. Her red hair was flat against her head, pulled back and tied with a black ribbon at the base of her neck. Her glasses had black frames. Well, at least she was color coordinated. "Hi, yourself," I said. I wondered what had happened to that young woman I'd seen briefly outside Paul and Jilly's house, the one who'd suddenly looked taller and arrogant and cold as ice. We were back to little miss prim and dowdy.
"I saw you staring at Maggie. She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"
"Oh, yes. I like a woman out of uniform. Maybe soon you can get out of your uniform. Maybe you could try a red dress like that."
The cold, arrogant young woman flashed across her face, then smoothed away. "Have you met my mother, Elaine?"
"No, not yet. The originator of BITEASS?"
"Yes," she said, and seemed delighted that I remembered. "I hear that Jilly is just fine now. I tried to get to the hospital today but what with the party, I didn't have time. Mother had me running around all day long. You wouldn't believe how much food is going to be consumed tonight. Can you believe someone killed poor old Charlie Duck?"
"No, I can't."
"You hungry?"
"I can't wait to attack the food. Oh yeah, do you know if Paul slept around on Jilly?" I watched her eyes widen behind her glasses. Just shock at what I'd said? It wasn't exactly acceptable party talk. Or was it surprise that I knew that? I realized then that I just had to let it go. Jilly was fine. There was no damned crime here, except for the random murder of Charlie Duck.
"Paul loves Jilly," Cal said after a moment. "He wouldn't ever sleep with another woman. Besides, Paul's too skinny. He does enjoy sex, that's what Jilly told me. She said he was really good."
"Were you jealous of Jilly, Cal?"
Chapter Nine
She didn't skip a beat, just said in a very nice, indifferent voice, "Not at all. I liked Jilly. She was always so gay, always singing. Would you like a beer?"
I stared down at her a moment, waiting her out, but she beat me in that staring contest. Finally, I nodded.
"Let's go to the kitchen. Cotter and I keep our stash hidden behind Father's mango supply. My mother hates mangoes so we have to hide the beer where she won't see it. She disapproves of beer, you know. It's low-class."
I followed her through the crowd of at least fifty people, all different ages, dressed to the hilt, all of them seeming to be enjoying themselves, digging into an incredible array of food-from oysters Rockefeller to trays of chilled fish smothered in limes to heaping platters of pesto pasta dotted with sun-dried tomatoes-set out on a wide table at least twenty feet long.
The kitchen was the command center. Cal didn't slow, just wove her way through the caterers to a huge refrigerator, opened it, and leaned inside. She was in there awhile, scrounging around. She came out holding two Coors. "Cotter's already been here. This is the end. We've got another six-pack out in the garage if we really get thirsty."
"This is great," I said, popped the lid, toasted her without saying anything, and drank. I loved beer.
"How old is Cotter?"
"He's twenty-eight, two years older than me. I know, I only look like I'm eighteen, but I'm not. You're also wondering what we're both doing still living at home at our age."
