Moon Music. Faye Kellerman
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herself in her looking glass. She picked up a brush and began ripping into her hair. “I look like shit.”
“You look gorgeous.”
“I can’t figure it out. No matter how long I run on that damn thing, I still have these big, fat thighs!” She pounded her flesh for emphasis. “Like saddlebags.”
“You’re as thin as a cat’s tail. Shame on you for buying into that anorexia shit.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“You’re overdoing it. It’s not healthy.”
“Can you kindly leave so I can get dressed?”
Poe paused. “All right, I’ll leave. But if I hear the water running—”
“Stop it!” She threw her towel at him. But she was smiling now. And a beautiful smile at that. “Go make yourself useful.”
“By doing …”
“Make some coffee.”
“Where’s your family?”
“Steve took the boys out for dinner.”
“When did they leave?”
Alison gave him a slow, seductive look. “You’re allowed to be here even if he isn’t. I’m not chattel.”
Poe wasn’t too sure about that. “I’ll make some coffee.”
She joined him just as the pot had finished brewing. Dressed in a loose black tunic over black leggings. Her face was awash in an after-exercise blush, her blond hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing perfect cheekbones. Two gold studs decorated her earlobes. Her lips were coated in something pink and wet.
He poured two mugs of coffee: they sat at the kitchen table. The house was ranch-style, a decent-sized thing on a generous lot which held a pool. It had a formal living room and dining room off an entry hall. The back part of the home was made up of an enormous kitchen, a breakfast area, and a den—the true living room of the house. At the moment, it was a bit messy—a stack of old papers, a couple of discarded items of clothing, a dirty dish on the coffee table. But Poe had seen it worse. The bedrooms were on the left side of the house—three of them.
“Why are you here?” Alison asked.
“Just to say hello.”
“Yeah, right.” She sipped coffee. “You’ve got that look in your eyes. What do you want? Besides to sleep with me. The answer is no.”
“Alison, when was the last time I asked you to sleep with me? Like twenty years ago?”
“Try six months ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You kissed me, Rom.”
“Alison, it was your birthday—”
“Not a chaste kiss. You gave me tongue.”
“You gave me tongue.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Rom. Just drop it!”
Poe didn’t respond. Instead, he began drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
Alison put her hand over his to quiet his fidgeting. “Steve was really working last night, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“A corpse in the desert.”
Poe eyed her. “He told you?”
“Occasionally we do talk. He was very upset by it. Did he know the woman, Rom?”
Poe shook his head no.
Alison studied him, scrutinized him. “You’ve become very hard to read.”
Poe said, “It was an awful case. She was … messed up.”
“Stabbed?”
Poe didn’t answer.
“Just spit it out, Rom. I won’t melt. He slept with her, right?”
Poe said, “Alison, do you remember the Bogeyman case?”
Anger coursed through her heart. Fiercely, she glared at him. Poe paled at her fury. “Wha … wha … what’d I say?”
Knowing she was irrationally angry, Alison softened her expression. “You don’t remember, do you?”
He thought: Oh God, what nerve did I touch this time?
The Bogeyman. He had been around ten. Which meant Alison had been seven, maybe eight—
Her mother!
Anything associated with her mother …
He said, “It was right around the time of your mother’s death. I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“It’s not just mere association. Think harder.”
Poe was confused, remained silent.
“How could you have forgotten?” she chided.
“I … I’m sorry, but—”
“My mother … her death. The cops had ruled it a suspicious suicide. They came to my house to ask me questions—”
“Oh, Christ!” Mentally, Poe kicked himself. “I don’t believe …”
How could he be so stupid! He had been there. The knock on the door. Two men in suits, one dressed in a cowboy hat and string tie with a turquoise clasp. They came in without even asking permission. Descending on the two of them. Two little kids. They’d been playing Clue—game number twelve or something like that. Her father had asked Poe if he could watch Alison while he did some grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping that took six hours.
Man, her dad had disappeared for a long time.
The men had introduced themselves as detectives. Started asking questions even though her father wasn’t home. Questions about her mother that made her cry. It had been only a month or so after the funeral.
Finally, Y had shown up. The Paiute Indian—an old friend of both his and Alison’s mothers—had materialized like some kind of apparitional savior. Seeing the police questioning two frightened children, the old man went ballistic. Poe still recalled the veins throbbing in the Indian’s red neck. Y had told the cops—in colorful terms—to leave. As far as Poe knew, the fuzz had never returned.
Eons ago. When Y had been strong and vital … Poe said, “Jesus, Alison, I am so sorry.”
“They thought Mama was one of the Bogeyman’s, you know. That she might have been with him the night she … killed herself. Because … she had cut herself up pretty badly.”
Tenderly she reached for his hand.
“You can’t remember everything. I’m sorry. I’m emotional these days.” A small squeeze. “Why did you ask me about it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Does this case remind you of the Bogeyman?”
Poe cleared his throat. “Maybe. From my faded childhood memory, perhaps there are some similarities.”
He waited a beat.
“Faded memory is right. How could I forget? The whole thing … it’s so clear in my mind now. Y popped in during the interrogation. Booted them all out. He was the real hero of the story.”
“Absolutely.” She took her hand off Poe’s. “How is the old man?”
“Same as always. Gambling away his Indian benefits. Both he and my mom …”
Alison said, “He was very close to my mother. I think they were lovers.”