Her eyebrows raised slightly. 'You don't have to,' she said.
'It makes you uncomfortable.'
She moved around me into the kitchen. 'I just wonder how it must feel to live with what it means.'
'You get used to what protects you.'
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I suppose that's true.'
She lifted the cover from an enameled steel pot on the stove. A cloud of steam rolled up as she added wine from an open bottle.
'Sit down,' she said. 'It'll be another few minutes.'
I stood on the polished floor by the ivory wool couch like a tractor at Tiffany's. 'Let me clean up first.'
'There's a bathroom under the stairs.'
I went and used it, scrubbing rock dust from my hands, my arms, my face. I examined the face critically in the mirror as I dried off on a thick, soft towel. Dark eyes, too deep and too tired; the etched lines that smokers get, on the forehead, around the eyes and mouth; crooked nose and a lumpy jaw. Dark hair, rapidly graying. And the new addition, a collection of scratches and bruises in the ugly colors of healing on the left cheek. Clean, the face was better, but it would never be good.
Back in the living room, I chose the chair, whose dark upholstery gave it a fighting chance to handle the dirt I hadn't been able to brush from my clothes.
'Do you want wine?' Eve asked. 'I haven't got anything else except brandy. But this is good.'
She brought over the glasses from the table, handed me one, poured a garnet-colored wine into it and into the other. I tasted it. It was liquid silk and it had no argument with Tony's bourbon.
Eve settled on the end of the couch nearest the chair. Her clear eyes swept over me, face, hands, dirt, everything. She said, 'Shall we talk business before dinner?'
I put my wineglass down. 'The blond girl,' I said. 'When I called you before, it was because I thought I knew who she was. Now I'm sure, I've seen her. It could be a problem for you.'
She said nothing, watched my face.
'Her name is Ginny Sanderson. She's Mark Sanderson's daughter.'
'He's a powerful man,' she said after a moment. 'Is that what you mean?'
'Only part of it. I also think she's mixed up in this murder, the guy in Tony's basement. If she is, your robbery may be, too.'
She sipped her wine while Chopin's ambiguous tones flowed around us.
'Why do you think that?' she asked quietly.
I told her about Ginny, and about Wally Gould and Frank Grice and who Frank Grice was. I told her about the blue truck waiting outside the antique shop for Ginny
Sanderson, and about the keys that I'd found on the concrete floor by Wally Gould's body.
'The keys were to that same truck? How do you know that?'
'I don't, not for sure. But Jimmy Antonelli owns a blue four-by-four. It's been missing for a couple of days. The keys I found were his.'
'Oh,' she said softly. 'Poor Tony. Does he know that?'
'That the keys are Jimmy's? Yes. But I haven't told him about Ginny Sanderson and the truck.'
Eve's lined face seemed paler than before. Leo nuzzled her hand and she scratched him absently, sipping wine, thinking her own thoughts. She said, 'You say you spoke to her . . . ?'
I nodded. 'She claims she doesn't know anything about your robbery. I'm pretty sure she's lying, though I guess it's possible she's just fencing things and doesn't know where they came from. But, Eve, if she's got the truck, it could connect her to both crimes. If that's true I don't know how long I can keep your robbery a private problem.'
She searched my face. 'There's something you're not telling me.'
I thought about Jimmy, alone up at the quarry, and nodded again. 'But it wouldn't help.'
She surveyed her own living room minutely, intensely. It was something she must have done a million times.
'Is there something you want me to do?' she asked me finally.
'No. Give me more time. I'll try, Eve. I know how important it is; that's why I didn't push Ginny when I saw her tonight. I wanted to talk to you first. If there's any way I can keep it from coming out, I will. But I wanted you to know.'
Eve was silent. Dragged by the wind, branches scraped across her roof. The approaching storm weighed on the air.
'All right,' she said, standing. 'If things have to change, will you tell me first?'
'I promise.'
She looked at me for a few moments. Then she walked back around the couch, over to the stove. Leo jumped to his feet, followed her. I stood, too.
'Trouble or not,' she said, 'there's still beef stew. Why don't you pour more wine?' She put the enameled pot on
