Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (i want to read a book TXT) 📗

Easton stopped. He turned around in his chair to face me.

“What are you thinking?” I asked my brother. “Woman Scorned?”

“I don’t know,” Easton said thoughtfully. “I’m not 138 / SUSAN ISAACS

a cop. I don’t know how to weigh these things. But, Steve, I have to tell you: I didn’t like the look on Sy’s face when he saw her. I had a feeling something wrong was going on.”

C H A P T E R S E V E N

If I wanted to be on time, I had two minutes to make the ten-minute drive to Lynne’s. So what did I do? I drove right to Bonnie Spencer’s, parked around the corner and then stood diagonally across the road.

Her house was plain in that no-nonsense, almost severe colonial style—not much more than a large two-story box with a roof and chimney. But a big, soft willow stood in front, and, in the moonlight, the old gray shingles shone silver against the dark sky.

The curtains were drawn, although not so tightly that I couldn’t see the blue flicker of a black-and-white TV. Jesus, what had I promised Lynne when I’d called from the Southampton P.D.? That I’d be at her house by ten, ten-thirty? It was ten twenty-eight. I walked across the road and up the stone path toward Bonnie’s house.

That Moose was some watchdog! There wasn’t even a mild grrr until I rang the bell; then, through the long, skinny windows that framed the front door, I could see her tail going so fast it made her rear end shimmy.

The outside light went on. I stuck my hands in my 139

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pockets. I took them out. Finally, Bonnie walked into the front hallway. For a second I thought maybe I’d interrupted something that she and a guy had been doing with the TV

on. But as she got nearer to the door I could see there was no guy. She had on baggy cotton sweats and a red sweater.

No makeup, but then maybe she never wore makeup. Her hair was loose, down to her shoulders, but it stood up on the back of her head, as though she’d been lying on a couch for a couple of hours.

I tried to read her expression when she saw it was me.

Relief that I wasn’t some night-crawling creep, maybe mixed with some apprehension about what was I doing there again, and maybe—although it’s a lot to read through a skinny window—anticipation. It could be that moving in on her that morning had worked.

Except, I thought, as the door opened, who needed it? I felt like such a jerk. I couldn’t believe I had wasted a whole day fantasizing about this woman. “I know it’s late,” I said, before she could say anything, “but this is a homicide investigation.”

“Uh, would you like to come in?” The corners of her mouth wiggled for a second, deciding whether or not to smile; she opted for not. Then she turned and led me toward the right, into the living room. She switched on a couple of lamps, turned off some old movie she’d been watching on her VCR.

I could see the indentation her head had made on a pillow on the couch. I sat down next to it; the cushion was warm.

Moose stood by my legs, stretching her thick, hairy black neck, clearly contemplating the possibility of leaping up beside me. Finally, realistically, she lowered her big butt onto the floor, threw me the doggy equivalent of a come-hither look and, once again, lay down over my shoes. The girl may have turned out to be mediocre, I mused, but the dog MAGIC HOUR / 141

was as fantastic as I’d remembered. I swiveled my foot back and forth, rubbing her belly.

Bonnie sat across the room from me, on a rocking chair.

The room was nice—yellow and peachy pink and white—but not what I would have expected from her. Sure, it was comfortable, but it was a Manhattan interior decorator farmhouse. A room like this should be plain, nice at best, not charming. But it was all there: braided rag rugs on the pegged oak floor, old quilts, pillows made from more old quilts, samplers in frames and a lineup of old white water pitchers on the mantel. Plus, off to the left of the fireplace, a painted bellows big enough to inflate the fucking Goodyear blimp. She saw me eyeing it.

“When we bought the house, Sy got interested in American folk art.” To illustrate, she pointed out some shelves: books interspersed with wood decoys. “If it looked like it could quack, he bought it. He even put in a bid on an 1813 hand-carved loom. What did he think he was going to do? Spend his weekends weaving? Anyway, then we had our first party out here. This famous book editor walked into the room, looked around and said, ‘ Very cute!’ The man was so mean!

Why did he have to say that? But from that minute on, Sy hated the house.” I didn’t respond; she filled in the silence, fast: “So here I am—with a lot of ducks. Um, can I get you something? Coffee? A drink?”

“Why did you go to see Sy on the movie set?”

She took an instant too long to answer. “Just being friendly.

And I guess I felt some nostalgia for the good old days.”

“Between you and him?”

“No. Between me and the movies. Sometimes…” Her voice got a little scratchy. “…I miss it so much. The writing—writing something bet-

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ter than ‘A yummy cloud of almost-silk.’ And I miss the people and—”

I cut her off before she could get into an “I’m So Alone Blues” number. I didn’t want to hear it. “You went onto the Starry Night set. What happened? Was Sy happy to see you?”

“I guess you must already have the answer to that.” The lamplight made a patch of brightness on her dark hair, just where it grazed her shoulder.

“I want your answer.” I