“Murder is bad,” she said. “Unless it’s justified. Like killing a Nazi. Or a molester.”
“You’re a communications major?”
“No.”
I waited.
So did she.
I said, “What is your major?”
“I curate my own major.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she mimicked. “As if you care.”
Milo said, “Have we offended you, Ms. Burdette?”
“Your role offends me. The need for your services offends me.”
“Crime—”
“Your presence means the world doesn’t have its act together. By now, we should be more than rampaging baboons.”
“You see the police—”
“Must we have a symposium?” said Amanda Burdette. “I see you as a prime symptom of a barbaric society. And yes, every society has needed people like you. Which is precisely my point: So-called humankind hasn’t evolved.”
I said, “The major you put together—”
“Cultural anthropology slash economic history slash — yes, communications, congratulations for being one-third correct.”
“I went to the U., don’t recall—”
“Obviously times have changed,” said Amanda Burdette. “The powers that be deigned to allow me to construct a personal but informed narrative contingent on taking a certain amount of so-called science courses. Ergo chemistry for the mentally challenged, which ergo I need to pass. Which ergo requires staying awake and memorizing molecular structure so if you don’t mind—”
I said, “Did you notice anything unusual during the wedding?”
“I noticed everything unusual. The phenomenon is by definition unusual. Two people wearing clown costumes and pretending they’ll be able to avoid fucking other people for fifty years.”
I said, “How about something specific to this wedding?”
“For starts she’s retarded.”
“Brears.”
“Brears Brearely Brearissimo.” She let out a metallic single-note laugh. “That sounds like a dog’s name. Yes, Brearely is barely literate.” Barest upturn of lips. “The image in my head is a pampered lapdog that gets its ass wiped by willing sycophants.”
Milo said, “You don’t like your new sister-in-law.”
Amanda Burdette looked him up and down. Twenty years old but well schooled in the withering glance.
“It’s not a matter of like. She’s not worth thinking about.”
“Your brother—”
“Gar’s always been gullible.”
“About?”
“Life. He’s always blinded by something. At this moment it’s alleged love.”
“Alleged.”
“I’m talking your language as a semantic shortcut,” said Amanda Burdette. “Alleged perpetrator until proven otherwise?”
She undid the thatch, drew her hair forward, and played with it. “If it doesn’t last, he’ll be shattered, and she won’t feel a thing because she’ll have already fucked a bunch of other guys and planned her exit strategy. Will he learn? Probably not. Though life will eventually go on for him, too. And in answer to your probable next question, I can see someone hating her and wanting to fuck up her wedding. Could that entail killing this person?” Tapping the photo. “Why not? Depends on the narrative.”
Milo said, “Whose narrative are we talking about now?”
“Obviously the alleged killer’s.”
“What exactly do you mean by narrative?”
Another dehydrating once-over. “I’ll keep it simple. Every reality is tempered by innumerable bio-psycho-social constructs, contaminants, and other intervening variables. Everyone tells innumerable stories throughout their lives to themselves and others as well as to the greater external environment.”
She engaged Milo’s eyes with her own, smallish orbs. “And that means, Mr. Policeman, that your job will always be a giant pain in the ass for you because you will never spend your days dealing with honesty, nor will you ever reach the point where you feel you’ve accomplished anything. Because you haven’t. Because people suck.”
She hefted her book. “Anything else?”
Milo said, “Guess you’ve covered everything.”
“I’ve covered nothing,” said Amanda Burdette. “And by saying I have, you obviously don’t get it.”
She turned her back and walked away.
Milo said, “Did that just happen? Nasty little piece of work. Thinks she’s brilliant but she just made me more interested in her.”
“You’ve got your narrative, she’s got hers.”
“What’s yours?”
“I’d like to talk to her.” Eyeing Leanza Cardell.
This time, the unlucky bridesmaid got up as we approached. Wiggling to maintain balance and calling out, “My turn?”
Thickly built but shapely and blessed by a beautiful, clear-skinned face, she knew her flaming waist-length hair was an eye-catcher and used it like a prop, tossing and arranging and rearranging as she sashayed toward us in impossible heels. Her glossy satin dress shifted between gray and mocha depending on the light.
The garment looked tight enough to restrict respiration. One of those sadistic things brides pick for their supposed friends in order to look good in comparison. But Leanza seemed to enjoy working it, walking in a way that maximized gelatinous bounce. Her smile nearly bisected her face, her teeth whiter than fresh snow.
Milo led her to the area vacated by Sean’s group.
She sat carefully, tugged her bodice down to expose an additional inch of bosoms.
“At your service, Lieutenant.” A look at me. “Yours, too, sir.” Tinkly, little-girl voice. Huge blue eyes awned by false lashes that could’ve been fashioned from tarantula legs.
Milo said, “Sorry for the wait, Ms. Cardell. Terrible thing you’ve been through.”
“Call me Lee, Lieutenant. Yeah, it freaked me out, I mean all I wanted was a place to... you know.” Spidery flutter. “The little girls’ room. But I’m fine now, had a Martini — that’s okay, right? I mean I don’t have to be totally sober to talk to you, do I?”
“What you endured, Lee, I can see booze helping.”
Leanza Cardell laughed. “You sound kinda like a TV detective.” Edging satin knees closer to Milo.
He said, “Columbo?”
“Who’s that?”
“Historical figure.”
“Huh?”
“Please run it by us again, Lee.”
With her hair and chest as props, Leanza retold her narrative, creating a mini-drama in which her bladder starred.
“I mean, really, you go in to tinkle — that’s what my grandma calls it, to tinkle — you go in to tinkle, are trying to pull down your panties, and you see that? I thought I’d lose it completely. So who is she?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Lee.”
“She was dressed to party, had to be on the invite list.”
“She isn’t and no one seems to know her.”
“Really? I assumed she was from his side. I mean I knew she wasn’t from Brears’s side, I know everyone Brears knows.”
“You and Brears go back?”
“High school, we were both cheerleaders.”
“So your first impression was she was Gar’s friend.”
“Well,” she said, “I just assumed. She’s not? Wow, that’s weird. You’re sure she’s not?”
I said, “No one from his side admits knowing her.”
“Admits? You think they’re lying?”
“Any reason they would be?”
“I’m not saying that — can I ask your name? So we can talk like people. You, too.”
“Milo.”
“Alex.”
“Nice names for nice guys,” she said, smiling crookedly. “All I mean, Alex, is that if she’s not from Brears’s side, she’d have to be from Gar’s side, right? It’s like, that’s the whole thing, right? So if they don’t admit — I mean it’s the process of elimination, right? She has to come from somewhere.”