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A
“Sixth,” Trixy said, then added grimly: “I know Scotty.”
A
“Scotty Butkus is an asshole,” Trixy said. “I hope he’s not a friend of yours…”
A
“Her sister Roberta hurt her back. Do
“Scotty tell you that?” A
“Yes. He did. Said Do
“There’s nothing wrong with Roberta’s back,” A
“What an asshole!” Trixy snapped.
“I assume you mean Scotty. What did he do-besides lie to you?”
“Oh, he and Do
“Did she say she was going anywhere?”
“No. She was going back to Scotty. She can put up with a lot. I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not. Scotty is killing her. He does that pedestal thing: In public he brags about her in front of her like she’s this thing he won. Then when they’re alone he picks and undercuts till she doesn’t know if she’s a princess or a prick-tease. I guess he didn’t start smacking her till fairly recently. A couple months. Do
“Like a handwoven Navajo rug,” A
“You got it.”
The phone booth door opened. The redhead stepped out. As Trixy rose to make her call, A
“Nope. I had to go do an evening program. She was pretty upset. I gave her some ice for her eye. Dave said he’d walk her home. That was it.”
Trixy’s call was short. The redhead waited with A
“It’s me,” she said. “Are you lying doggo?”
A click and a fumble. “ ‘Lying doggo’?” Molly said. “Is that a law enforcement term: ‘The perpetrators were found in Macy’s lingerie department lying doggo’?”
“I’m backsliding. They don’t have a support group in Houghton for women suffering from colloquialisms.” The familiar hush, the sigh of air. A
“Can’t. Hipbone co
A
She told her sister of the corpse’s half life, the bubbles and the floating hands, the porthole vandalism, about Do
“What an asshole!” was Dr. Pigeon’s concurring diagnosis.
“Do you think he could’ve killed her?” A
“Sure. Emergency rooms are full of battered wives. Some die. I see the rich ones who live. They come to me to find out what’s wrong with them, why they keep making a good man act so bad. That’s not saying this Butkus individual did kill his wife. He may just be a batterer and an asshole.”
“Do
“If it weren’t so profitable for psychiatrists, I’d lobby for one.”
“How about eating the body?” A
“The old Ha
“What if he wasn’t psychotic? What if he just ate her to dispose of the corpse?”
“A
“I guess,” A
“I guess,” Molly confirmed.
A
“I don’t suppose you’d come visit me?” A
“From the sound of things, I could hang out my shingle there and do a pretty good business.”
“Not at a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. You make more between coffee breaks than the average ranger takes home in a week.”
“Jesus! No wonder you eat your spouses. Not psychosis: lunch. With just enough salary left over to buy a decent table wine. Speaking of which, remember my ten o’clock? The gourmet with vintage envy?”
“I remember.”
“He’s taken a turn for the worse.” Molly laughed. “Another reason I can’t come to Wherever right now. He’s developed a fashion disorder. He’s taken to wearing canary-yellow suspenders with his Armani suits. Buttons them right over a belt of some no doubt endangered reptile.”
“Here in Wherever we’d call him careful, not crazy.”
“You’re forgetting motive, A
A
“Ciao,” Molly said. “Or is it ‘Happy trails’? Stay off the menu.”
Before the line went dead, A
Lest her sister should precede her through the pearly gates by too great a margin, A
The sharp flinty taste was a perfect accompaniment to the night. Out on the patio behind the lodge, the air was full of moisture and lay on her skin like damp velvet.
She relaxed into the Adirondack-style lounge chair, enjoying the gentle bite of the wooden slats across her back and thighs. Taking a sip of the Graves, she held it in her mouth, letting her tongue savor the taste, her body anticipate the alcohol. Onto the mysteries of the night, A