CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jill Winslow led me into a big family room in the rear of the house and said, “Have a seat there.”
I sat in a leather armchair facing a plasma TV screen. She said, “I’ll be right back.”
She left the room, apparently to go to some secret hiding place. I should tell her that there are no secret hiding places in a house-I’ve never missed one in twenty years as a cop. But Mark Winslow was not a cop; he was a clueless husband. Or, as the old joke goes, “If you want to hide something from your husband, put it on the ironing board.”
I stood and walked around the sunlit room. There was a wall of framed photographs, and I saw their two sons, who were handsome, clean-cut young men. There were photos of family vacations from around the world, and a section of black-and-white photos of another generation standing in front of limousines, horses, and yachts, showing that the money went back a long way.
I studied a recent color photograph of Mark and Jill Winslow, taken at some black-tie affair, and you wouldn’t know they were a couple.
Mark Winslow was not a bad-looking guy, but he had so little presence, I was surprised that the camera even recorded his image.
On another wall were some stupid golf plaques, civic awards, business citations, and other evidence of Mr. Winslow’s many accomplishments.
The bookshelves held some popular fiction and mandatory classics, but mostly golf and business books. Interspersed with the books were golf trophies. I deduced that the man played golf. I noted there was no indication of any rugged pursuits such as deep-sea fishing, hunting, or military service. There was, however, a mahogany bar in the corner, and I could picture Mr. Winslow shaking up a few martinis so he could get blotto every night.
I mean, I didn’t dislike this guy-I didn’t even know him-and I don’t automatically dislike the rich. But I felt that if I met Mark Winslow, I would not ask him to have a beer with me and Dom Fanelli.
In any case, I think Jill Winslow had made her decision regarding Mark Winslow, and I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind while she was hunting for the videotape.
On a paneled wall was another trophy-an oil portrait of Jill, done maybe ten years ago. The artist had captured the big, watery brown eyes and the mouth, which looked both demure and sensuous, depending on how you wanted to interpret it, or what was on your mind.
“Do you like it? I don’t.”
I turned around, and she was standing at the door, still in her robe, but her hair was combed neatly, and she had on a touch of lipstick and eye shadow. In her hand was a videotape.
There was no right answer to her question, so I said, “I’m not a good judge of art.” I added, “Your sons are very handsome.”
She took a remote control from the coffee table, turned on the TV and VCR player, then slid the tape out of its jacket and slipped the cassette into the player. She handed me the cassette jacket.
I looked at it. It said, “Winner of two Academy Awards.A Man and a Woman.” Then, “Un Homme et une Femme.A film by Claude Lelouch.”
A sticker said, “Property of the Bayview Hotel-Please Return.”
She sat down on the couch and motioned me back to the leather chair next to her. I sat.
She said, “The man, Jean-Louis, is played by Jean-Louis Trintignant-he’s a race car driver who has a young son. The woman, Anne, is played by Anouk Aimee, and she’s a film script girl who has a young daughter. They meet while visiting their children’s boarding school. It’s a beautiful love story, but a sad one. It reminds me of Casablanca.” She added, “This is the English dubbed version.”
“Uh…” I thought I might have missed something in our earlier conversation, and I was about to see a French movie, but then she said, “That’s not what we’re going to see now. At least not for the first forty minutes or so that I recorded over. We’re going to see A Pig and a Slut starring Bud Mitchell and Jill Winslow. Directed by Jill.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.Bud Mitchell.
I glanced at her, and I could tell by her expression, and by her tone of voice, that in her short absence, she’d basically said to herself, “It’s time to come clean and the hell with the consequences.” She looked almost calm, and sort of relieved, like a heavy burden had been lifted from her soul. But I could also see a little nervousness, which was understandable considering she was about to watch an X-rated flick, starring herself, with a man she’d met less than an hour ago.
She sensed I was looking at her, and she made eye contact and said, “This is not a love story. But if you can get through this, you can watch the last hour of A Man and a Woman. It’s really better than the movie I made.”
I thought I should say something, so I said, “Look, Mrs. Winslow, I’m not here to be judgmental, and you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. In fact, you don’t need to sit here while I watch-”
“I want to sit here.” She hit a button on the end table and the window curtains closed. Neat.
We sat in the darkened room, and Jill Winslow hit a few buttons on the remote, and the tape began playing. There was some music, followed by the movie title in both languages, then the screen credits. About halfway through the credits, the image jumped suddenly to another, less clear image, with a poor quality audio, and it took me a second to recognize Jill Winslow sitting cross-legged on a dark blanket, wearing tan shorts and a blue top. On the blanket was an ice chest, and as I watched, she uncorked a bottle of wine.
In the lower-right-hand corner of the videotape was the date, July 17, 1996, and the time: 7:33P.M. The seconds counter was running, and then it was 7:34.
I recognized the locale, of course, as the valley between the sand dunes that I’d first seen with Kate on the night of the memorial service, then again by myself when I slept there and had the erotic dream of Kate, Marie, Roxanne, and Jill Winslow wearing the veil; the veil was off now. And finally, last night’s rendezvous with Ted Nash.
Jill said to me, “That’s Cupsogue Beach County Park. But I guess you know that.”
“Yes.”
The sunlight was fading in the scene, but it was still bright enough to see everything clearly. There wasn’t much audio, but I could hear the wind picked up by the camera’s microphone.
Then, I saw the back of a man walking into the frame, dressed in tan slacks and a sport shirt.
Jill said to me, “That’s Bud. Obviously.”
Bud took two wineglasses from the ice chest, sat down beside Jill, and she poured the wine.
I could see Bud’s face now as they clinked glasses, and he said, “To summer evenings, to us, together.”
Jill said to me, or to herself, “Oh, please.”
I looked at this guy closely. Hewas good-looking, but his voice and mannerisms were a bit wimpy. I was a little disappointed in Jill.
She must have read my mind because she asked, “What did I find attractive?”
I made no reply.
In the videotape, Jill looked at Bud and said, “So, do you come here often?”
Bud smiled and replied, “First time. How about you?”
They smiled at each other, and I could tell they were a little camera-shy.
Jill said to me, “I remember thinking to myself, ‘Why am I having sex with a man that I don’t think much of?’”
I decided to reply and said, “It’s safe.”
“It’s safe,” she agreed.
They had a second glass of wine, then Jill stood and pulled off her top. Then Bud stood and took off his shirt.
Jill dropped her khaki shorts and kicked them away and stood in her bra and panties watching Bud as he got undressed.
She said to me, “I’ve watched the part on the beach, where the plane exploded, twice… but I haven’t seen this part in five years.”
I didn’t reply.