“Tell us everything,” Lyle says eagerly as he leans forward to catch every detail. It is three days after my ordeal, and Jimmy is in jail pending his bail hearing. My mother, Lyle, and I are perched in Paris’s new hospital room as he’s been moved from the ICU to a regular room. He is making tremendous progress, and can now speak in complete, full sentences. This is the first opportunity we’ve all had to be together. The Jensons have thoughtfully allowed us time alone and are in the cafeteria presumably converting some poor heathen soul. I am elated that I have only the rope burns on my wrists to contend with, a few stitches in my forehead and a bruise from when Jimmy backhanded me—no hospital stay for me this time. My back didn’t even bruise from all his prodding, so I consider myself in tip-top shape.
“What do you want to know?” I ask coyly, laughing at the identical looks of dismay on their faces.
“Start with why,” Paris suggests, looking a hundred percent better already. He can sit up for short periods of time and even eats solid food—if you call applesauce, mashed potatoes, Jell-O, and pudding solid food.
“Why is easiest,” I say. “As you know, Jimmy wanted to run for mayor, and his platform was family values. Good-old fashioned moral man, that’s our Jimmy. Unfortunately for him, he had a harder time practicing than preaching. He has been carrying on an affair with Ursula, on and off for over twenty years.” I pause to drag out the tension. The three of them have their eyes fixed on me, raptly following every word. “That wasn’t a problem in and of itself since she would never divulge the affair for reasons of her own.”
“She liked being married,” Lyle breaks in, putting in his two-cents’ worth. “And she liked that clandestine nature of their relationship.” I resume the tale.
“So everything was going fine as long as they both knew where the affair stood. The trouble started when Ursula dropped the bomb on Jimmy—whom she called Benny, by the way—that he was the father of illegitimate twins—Paris and Robin.”
“I’m glad the bitch is dead,” Mr. Jenson shouts, spraying spit on Lyle’s face.
“We should go to the hospital,” I say urgently. We gather our stuff, forgetting about our brainstorming session. It’s more important we reach the Jensons and Paris before anyone else does. As we’re rushing down the front steps, Inspector Robinson is walking up them. She is wearing a taupe pantsuit that flatters her figure nicely.
I wake the next morning, Friday, feeling particularly refreshed. I did not wake up screaming from a nightmare, nor did Lyle have to wake me up. I am downright cheerful on my walk to work. I have put on a green blouse and white slacks because I feel so good. I even whistle a bit as I walk. The weather is sunny with no wind for a change, so it seems as if even the heavens are smiling on me today. At work, nobody is overtly friendly towards me, but no one pointedly ignores me, either. I pour myself a cup of coffee before sitting down at my desk. I drape my jacket on the coat rack, then power on my computer. I like to execute the same movements every morning as my own little ritual. I have emails from my sister and from Vashti as well as a voice mail message from Vashti. There is nothing from Ursula, however, which surprises me a bit. I decide to try to call her again during my lunch break. I read the email from Libby.
Lyle starts to say something, then stops. I look at him inquiringly. He reminds me that he talked to Ursula and Lois Wednesday morning. That leaves them out of the running as Paris’s twin was attacked on Wednesday. His news dismays me for a minute until I ask what time he saw them Wednesday morning. When I find out it was eight or so in the morning and that Lyle had stayed there just over half an hour, that put them back in the running. The assault happened around seven at night, so there would have been time for one of them to talk to Lyle in the morning, hop on a plane, do the dirty deed and be back in San Francisco before anyone was the wiser. The boys might not even have known she was gone. We are so engrossed in our discussion, I forget I was about to call Ursula’s sons.
“What a day,” Lyle mutters, the first to break the silence.
“All right, that’s enough!” My mother says loudly. Everyone but me is so shocked, they immediately stop what they are doing and practically snap to attention. “You are all acting like children. Is this the image you want to present to Paris?” The nurses continue on their way; the cop sits back down; Lyle slowly deflates; Mrs. Jenson’s shoulders sag; Mr. Jenson continues posturing. “I have tried to be diplomatic, but I have failed. Catherine, Douglas, you have the right to do what you want, of course, but I think it’s a crying shame that you want to banish one of the few people who loves Paris for who he is. Why don’t you ask Paris what he wants or don’t you care?” From within the room, we all hear a distinct if faint, “Want Lyle.” Mrs. Jenson has the grace to blush while Mr. Jenson continues to scowl.
He wasn’t able to find Billy Matthews, either, as the latter wasn’t at the gym today. Lyle tried to get an address or a number, but couldn’t charm it out of anyone. It’s a good thing, really, as it’s for the client’s protection; it just makes our task of hunting down Matthews a bit more difficult. I think about how I’m going to find him, but I can’t come up with a better plan than to go to the gym again in the morning—or have Lyle do it—and repeat until we get our man. Too bad I’m not V.I. Warshawski with her plethora of cunning ideas. I put it firmly out of my mind because it’s just giving me a headache to think about the case. I deserve a break after all the hard work I’ve been doing. I reach for my sandwich again, suddenly famished. We all gobble sandwiches as fast as we can.
I dress with extra care the next morning and even apply a little makeup since my face looks wan from lack of sleep. I don’t wear any of the five outfits I had in mind last night. Instead, I pull on a silvery-gray skirt, black tights, a black blouse and whatever accoutrements I think will match. I brush my hair until it shines, then peer at myself anxiously in the mirror. I’m not usually self-conscious about my looks, knowing that I’m put together in a way that is pleasing to most eyes. Short—five-two—curvy, with glossy black hair, dark brown eyes and full lips. I turn heads when I walk down the street, unless I’m with Paris, of course, who is truly stunning. Thinking about him brings me down to earth and away from my romantic aspirations. My mother nods approvingly at my outfit as I gobble down my breakfast. I am late for work, my sleep pattern being so erratic as of late. I arrive just in time to be pointedly ignored by my colleagues. I plunge into my work in order to not feel the shunning so deeply. I have an email from Libby that is so unlike her normal self, I read it twice.
“Let’s go talk,” Lyle says, grabbing me by the arm. With a wave at the others, he steers me to the cafeteria.