Snuffling sound as Therese dropped the phone, replaced it on the cradle, wiped her face. Sunday, I thought. Sunday. They’d be here in less than five minutes.
“Therese. Stand here. No, it doesn’t matter about the blood now. Listen. Sandra, here’s what happened. He came in, just like last week, and pressed you against the sink, where you were washing the knife. You struggled because this was just like last week. Just like last week. He reached around, grabbed your hand, broke it, grabbed the knife. You were struggling even more. He cut your face. Dropped the knife. You picked it up, cut his arm, just the way you said, then cut him again. You were panicked, because this was just like last week, but worse. Then you called Therese. That’s all you remember. Don’t mention the self-defense class. Now, tell me what happened.”
“Washing knife. Came in, like last week. Squashed me. Broke my hand getting knife. Cut my face. Like last week but worse, worse. Dropped the knife.” She was beginning to gasp with shock and pain. Her face was a mask of blood. She looked like a woman who had just fought for her life. “Then called Therese. Then… I don’t remember.”
“That’s fine. Therese, Sandra called you. You came straight here. You don’t remember what you did, exactly, but at some point you called me. Later, they’ll ask how you know Sandra, why she called you. Tell them you met at Crystal Gaze. Don’t mention the self-defense class. They’ll ask why you called me.”
“Why did I call you?”
“You probably panicked.”
“I did panic.”
I nodded. “You knew I used to be police, you knew I’d know what to do. You met me at the bookshop, too.”
“At the bookshop. When?”
“Don’t worry about it. You won’t be expected to remember any details in a situation like this.” I studied her. She was sweating; she’d missed a bit of mucus by her mouth. The perfect picture of middle-class shock. “How are you?”
“I think I might vomit.” I nodded. “You broke her hand. You just broke it. And you cut her face, like she was a… a piece of fish.”
Sandra started to slide off the smooth wood of the dining room chair.
“Hold her up, please. I need to make a phone call.”
I called Bette’s new associate, who sounded bright as a new penny, despite the fact that it was both weekend and evening, gave her the address, told her to get here ASAP, and then scanned the room. The body was drained; the blood pool was no longer growing. It was already darkening slightly, congealing. The confused footprints and handprints of Therese and Sandra could be easily explained by the automatic movements of someone in shock.
The officers of APD Zone 5 were not fools. If they looked hard enough they’d see that some of the evidence didn’t add up but at first glance there was enough plausible detail to hang a story on. Everyone knew Sandra was being abused. They themselves had been called out last week. And there was undeniable injury and shock of the victim.
I heard the first sirens in the distance.
I rinsed my gloves under the tap, shook them dry, then carefully stripped them off and put them in my pocket.
The kitchen lights had stopped dripping. Sandra’s breathing was loud but even. Therese was murmuring something, stroking her hair. For one moment, Sandra’s gaze caught mine, and her eyes flashed, and then they dropped.
In the current political climate no Atlanta DA would prosecute Sandra for defending herself, when she could prove she had reason to fear for her life, and when her attacker had clearly meant her harm. Why, it was even his own fault that the knife was so sharp.
The sirens were louder, and now the red kitchen gleamed with a more fiery red and flickers of blue.
She had done it very welclass="underline" the children conveniently gone, her friend to back her up, me to provide the finishing, undeniable touches. I had shown her how, and I would even provide the lawyer. At least I had made sure it hurt.
SIXTEEN
THE DINING ROOM WAS ROUND AND TIGHT WITH SUNSHINE. THE STEAM FROM MY tea appeared and disappeared in the bars of light and shadow. Kick was in her old silk robe, which kept slipping open. I wore her toweling one, which came barely to my knees.
She mused over the newspaper. I tilted my face to the sun and thought idly how pleasant it would be to sit here all day, warm and drowsy and thinking of nothing.
“Where are you?”
I blinked. “Thinking that warmed-up pizza and hot black tea make a surprisingly good breakfast.”
“You want some more?”
“Yes.” But I couldn’t be bothered to move. I closed my eyes, opened them again when I heard her get up.
She fussed with paper towels and sprinkled water and pizza slices. I wondered what she’d make of my kitchen. I longed to see her in it.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
“Mmmn?” She pushed buttons.
“About how well we know each other.” The microwave started its hollow drone. She sat down. “You know what food I like but I’m not sure you really know me.”
“Of course I know you. Food is everything.” Her smile was affectionate. “No. Really. Sometimes I think I know you, know who you are deep down, better than you know yourself. You think efficiency is the key to your personality, but it’s not. You’re a sensualist, a hedonist of the first order. Look at the way you cradle that cup, the way you tilt your face to the sun like a flower.”
“It’s efficient. Absorbing heat means my body doesn’t have to create its own.”
“But it’s also delicious.”
The microwave beeped and I got up to attend to it.
“And see how you did that? Pushed the microwave door with precisely the amount of force needed to shut it? Not too hard, not too soft. The pressure of the hard plastic against your fingertips, the swing, the thunk as the catch engages, all without a micron of wasted effort.”
“Erg,” I said. “You meant erg, not micron.”
“And the little pebble-like word, erg, feels better on your tongue than micron, so good you said it twice.”
“Come with me,” I said. “Come to Atlanta. Come see where I’ve been. See my life, see my house. Come sleep in my bed.”
She was quiet for a long time. “I don’t know,” she said eventually, and now her face was remote and unhappy. “My life is here. The business, the climate, the people. My family. My doctors. I don’t know.”
We both stared at our pizza slices, the shriveled pepperoni, the wrinkled green pepper. She didn’t know.
We went upstairs and showered and dressed in silence.
DORNAN POURED coffee for the crew, whistling through his teeth. "Well, I’m happy to see you this morning. Delighted that you didn’t get yourself or Kick killed last night.”
I nodded.
“You were a one-hour wonder here at the set. No one left until midnight. Isn’t that right, John?” The wardrobe assistant waiting for his coffee nodded obediently. “I’m delighted, too, that you’ve—” He broke off, peered at me, and handed John a cup that was only half-full. “Go away,” he said to John, and turned back to me. “Are you sure you weren’t hurt?”