Madeline, curled up to sit sideways on the seat, snorted derisively. “I hate seatbelts.”
Out of the corner of her eye Carol could see that she was smiling. Carol said, “Madeline, this is ridiculous. You’re breaking the law.”
“So what’re you going to do, Officer? Arrest me?” She chuckled. “You could handcuff me. That sounds promising.”
Carol sighed. “Are you going to be in this mood all night?”
Madeline wriggled around to click on her seatbelt. Abruptly serious, she said, “What’s wrong, Carol? Are things okay between you and Sybil?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
Her hand on Carol’s shoulder had the same disconcerting effect as her earlier touch had had. Carol almost said, Don’t touch me. She smiled as she considered what Madeline’s response would be.
“Okay Carol, I’ve made you smile at last. What did I say, so I can do it again?”
“I was just thinking of something.”
“That’s your trouble-you think too much. Why don’t you, just for once, take a chance? Do something outrageous?”
Carol turned smoothly into the restaurant carpark. “I may order dessert tonight,” she said. “That outrageous enough?”
The restaurant had achieved the elusive mix of attentive service and circumspection. Carol and Madeline sat in a private island, attended by unobtrusive waiters and plied with expensive wine and exquisitely presented food.
“Looks far too good to eat,” said Madeline as her order, cornets of trout, was placed in front of her. Carol smiled an agreement. Her own dish was flawless miniature vegetables grouped reverently around veal cutlets.
“It’s the secret of my occasional culinary success.” said Madeline. “I can’t cook my way out of a predampened paper bag, but I can sure present things so they look good. And that fools people, you know. They think if it looks good, it must taste the same.”
Over coffee, Carol said, “Okay, I’ve been patient.”
“Was Collis Raeburn HIV-positive?”
“Tell me why you think he might have been.”
As Madeline smiled, Carol noticed that one of her teeth was slightly uneven. Somehow such imperfection in one of such polished comeliness was endearing.
“Carol, how do I know you’ll give me an exclusive if I tell you what I know?”
“Trust me. And tell me anyway, because you’ll be obstructing justice if you don’t.”
“I love it when you’re tough.”
“Madeline…”
“Okay, okay. The channel, or, more specifically, my program, was approached by a guy who claimed to have a story for sale about Collis Raeburn’s HIV status. He’d obviously heard we were preparing a special and thought we might be in the market for some scandal, so he demanded twenty thousand for the story, fifty if we put him on camera.”
Carol sat forward. “Who is he?”
“Says his name’s Amos Berringer. Claims to be an ex-lover who’s got the dirt on Raeburn’s clandestine activities.”
Wanting to appear casual, Carol leaned back in her chair. “Suppose you’ve checked him out?”
“Surely that’s your job,” said Madeline, grinning.
“So you’re paying him twenty thousand on spec?”
“Of course not. We checked him out.” She made a face. “Grubby little number, who seems to have made some spare cash gently blackmailing married men who fancied a dabble in gay sex.”
“I’ll run him-see if we have anything on an Amos Derringer.”
Madeline shrugged. “Doubt if you will. The word we have is that Derringer’s careful of his marks. They’re always the sort who’d pay rather than run any risk of publicity.”
Carol felt somehow disappointed that Collis Raeburn would have anything to do with someone like Derringer. “Did he show you any hard evidence, or was it all colorful description?”
“He swears Collis Raeburn was HIV-positive and that he got it from unprotected gay sex.” She paused to see if Carol would respond, then said, “Well? Was he a candidate for AIDS?”
Carol felt a thrill of anticipation. This was an approach to Raeburn from another angle, and information gained here might dovetail with other apparently unrelated pieces to form a coherent picture. She said matter-of-factly, “Just tell me what you’ve got.”
Madeline opened her purse and handed Carol an envelope. “A brief report on Derringer and copies of a couple of photos he gave us. They’re nothing startling, just Raeburn in what looks like a gay bar. Derringer’s playing coy and won’t say where it is, because, he says, he doesn’t want anyone else selling us the story.”
The photographs clearly identified Raeburn in a crowd of men, many dressed in leather and all apparently having a good time. He wore jeans and a denim shirt and was laughing in both photographs: in one toasting a startlingly handsome young man; in the other apparently sharing a joke with a group notable for bare chests, leather and studs.
“Straights have been known to go to gay bars, just for the novelty,” Carol said. Then, “I don’t want you to run this story.”
“It’s too thin anyway, unless we get more from Derringer. Frankly, we’re stringing him along so he doesn’t offer it anywhere else, but if it looks like anyone in the media has it, we’ll go to air straight away.”
“Will you tell me if you’re going to do that?”
Madeline smiled lazily. “For you, anything.”
Half an hour later, walking back to the car, Madeline said, “Do I get an exclusive, now that I’ve cooperated so fulsomely with you?”
Carol looked at her sideways. “I won’t promise anything. You know that.”
“Ah,” said Madeline with a soft laugh, “but you’re full of infinite promise, Carol.”
They were silent on the drive to Madeline’s. Carol again felt the disturbing combination of anxiety and anticipation. She tried to rationalize it away-the anger and disappointment she felt about Sybil was fueling this disturbance to her usual equilibrium.
Madeline’s house was set back from the road and extensively landscaped for privacy. Carol turned into the driveway and drew up smoothly at the shallow sandstone steps.
She said, her voice deliberately cool, “Good night… and thank you for the information.”
“Would you like to come inside?”
“Thanks, but no. It’s late.”
“Since Paul’s been gone… I’ve been lonely.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Sure it is, Carol. You know it is.”
“No, I don’t know that at all.”
“It’s going to happen. Why not now?”
“Good night, Madeline.”
Madeline slid out of the car and walked around to the driver’s door. Carol wound the window down, looked up at her. “Madeline, we’re not doing a reprise of Desert Hearts you know.”
Madeline was smiling. She leaned through the window and kissed Carol lightly on the lips. Drawing back, she said cheerfully, “It’s going to be fun, Carol. And more…”
Carol turned the ignition key. “No.”
Her emphatic negative drew a broader smile from Madeline as she stood back from the car. “I can feel it, and so can you. Say what you like-it won’t make any difference.”
When Carol glanced in the rear view mirror as she turned out of the driveway, Madeline was still standing there, gazing after her. Carol swore, trying with words to chase away the spiraling tension that Madeline’s words and touch had accomplished.
Carol was home before Sybil, who had a committee meeting for Women in Politics. The red light was blinking on the answering machine, so she pressed replay while she primed her ancient coffee percolator. The first message was from her Aunt Sarah, confirming her plans to arrive on Saturday morning. The second was a whispered voice she didn’t recognize. Collis Raeburn’s death was an accident. Put that in your report. Just say he died accidentally. It’s the best thing to do for everyone, and it’s true. Don’t cause trouble. There’s some things about your private life you wouldn’t want to get out. Remember that.