Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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Masters,” she says, cutting her eyes at me as she gives Livy a professional smile.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, far too late.
“Liv Sutter,” Livy says, giving Caitlin’s hand a firm shake.
Liv Sutter. Another thing I’d forgotten: Livy’s name metamorphosed as she progressed through life. She wasn’t like a Matt who suddenly insisted on being called Matthew to be taken more seriously. Her name actually got shorter with each incarnation: “Olivia” in grade school; “Livy” in high school; and just plain “Liv” in college and law school. And there was never any question of people not taking her seriously—Livy Marston Sutter is as serious as a garrote.
“You two obviously know each other,” says Caitlin.
“Oh, we go way back,” Livy explains, laughing. “Too far back to think about.”
“We only go back a couple of days,” Caitlin replies. “But we’re looking forward to Colorado.”
There’s nothing quite like the meeting of two beautiful women of the same class. I would never have guessed that Caitlin had a catty side. Livy is ten years older but gives up nothing in any department. The friction is automatic.
“How’s John?” I ask as Livy studies me with new interest. “Her husband,” I add for Caitlin’s benefit.
“We’re separated. Six weeks now.”
So, Sam Jacobs’s gossip was accurate. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I should have gotten out of it five years ago.”
This bombshell leaves me tingling with a sense of unreality. We all stand around feeling awkward until Caitlin takes Annie from my arms, points at the broad picture window, and says, “Let’s go look at those big airplanes!”
They’re quickly swallowed by the crowd, but not before Caitlin gives me a reproving look over her shoulder.
“Who was that?” Livy asks.
“The new publisher of the Examiner.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Her father owns the chain.”
“Ah.” Livy feels comfortably superior again. “Nepotism run amok. She doesn’t seem your type.”
And what’s my type? Dead saints and ghosts from my youth? “I think my type is changing. Rich heiresses seem like a good place to start.”
Livy gives me a look intended to make me feel guilty, but we share too much history for me to be taken in by that.
“How long will you be in Colorado?”
“A couple of days.”
“Call me when you get back. We should get together and talk.”
We should? “Why don’t you call me? Then I can skip speaking to your father.”
She lets this pass. “I will. Wait and see.”
“I’d better find Annie. We’ll be boarding soon.”
She reaches out and takes my hand. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Twenty years after high school, and suddenly we’re both free.”
I can’t believe she said it. Gave voice to something I would not even allow myself to think. “There’s a difference, Livy. I didn’t want to be free.”
She pales, but quickly recovers and squeezes my hand. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put it that way.”
I take back my hand. “I know. I’m sorry too. I’ve got to run.”
I turn to go in search of Annie and Caitlin, but after ten steps I stop and look back. I don’t want to. I have to.
Livy hasn’t moved. She’s looking right at me with a provocative expression of both regret and hope. She holds up her right hand in farewell, then turns and disappears into the crowd.
“Daddy, was that lady a movie star?”
Annie and Caitlin have reappeared at my side.
“No, punkin. Just someone I went to school with.”
“She looks like somebody on TV.”
She probably does. Livy is a living archetype of American good looks: not a Mary Tyler Moore but a warmer, more accessible Grace Kelly. A Southern Grace Kelly.
“I didn’t think she looked like a movie star,” Caitlin announces.
“What do you think she looks like?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.
“A self-important B-I-T-C-H.”
“Hey,” Annie complains. “What’s that spell?”
“Witch,” says Caitlin, tickling her under the arms, which triggers explosive giggles. “The Masters intuition never fails,” she adds, looking up at me. “You’ve got it bad for her, don’t you?”
“What? Hell, no.”
“Daddy said a bad word!” Annie cries.
“Daddy told a fib,” says Caitlin. “And that’s worse.”
“I think I need a drink.”
The ticket agent announces that first class will begin boarding immediately.
“First love?” Caitlin asks in a casual voice as we move through the mass of passengers funneling toward the gate.
“It’s a long story.”
She nods, her eyes knowing. “If short stuff here goes to sleep on the plane, that’s a story I wouldn’t mind hearing.”
Perfect.
Airplanes work like a sedative on Annie. After drinking a Sprite and eating a bag of honey-roasted peanuts, she curls up next to Caitlin and zonks out. At Caitlin’s suggestion, I move her across the aisle to my seat and, when she begins to snore again, move back across the aisle beside Caitlin.
“You’re going to make me drag it out of you?” she says.
I say nothing for a moment. Certain relationships do not lend themselves to conversational description. Emotions are by nature amorphous. When confined to words, our longings and passions, our rebellions and humiliations often seem melodramatic, trivial, or even pathetic. But if Caitlin is going to help me destroy Leo Marston, she needs to know the history.
“Every high school class has a Livy Marston,” I begin. “But Livy was special. Everyone who ever met her knew that.”
“Marston? She said her name was Sutter.”
“Her maiden name was Marston.”
“Marston … Marston. The guy you asked me to check out? The D.A. when Payton was killed? Judge Marston?”
“He’s Livy’s father.”
“God, it’s so incestuous down here.”
“Like Boston?”
“Worse.”
Caitlin calls the flight attendant and orders a gimlet, but this is beyond the resources of the galley. There seems to be a nationwide shortage of Rose’s Lime Juice. She orders a martini instead.
“So,” she says, “what made her so special?”
“How many people were in your graduating class?”
“About three hundred.”
“Mine had thirty-two. And most of those had been together since nursery school. It was like an extended