“By hiring myself a shark lawyer, the kind who’ll produce photos of Aaron and his whore together. Then I’d get it all. The townhouse in Georgetown. The farm in Virginia. The stocks, bonds, every last penny he’s made from his books.”
“You two didn’t sign a pre-nup?”
“Pre-nups are for cynics,” Carly replied, her blue eyes twinkling at Des devilishly. “I’m a romantic. Maybe the last one left on earth. Mind you, Acky resisted. He even held out for a few weeks. But in the end, he married me on my terms. He wanted me.” Carly admired herself in the mirror, her chin up, her self-confidence returning with a vengeance. “And now the bastard’s got me, for richer or poorer.”
Des took this particular display of spunk ‘n’ sass as her own cue to get up out of her chair and say, “Ready to join the others now?”
“God, no!” Carly flew right back into total panic. “I can’t face them after this. They all think I’m a menopausal hysteric.”
“Are you planning to hide in here all evening?”
“I’ll go up to bed in a little while. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Des stood there thinking it over. “I may have an idea. Stay put, okay?”
“Believe me, I’m not budging.”
Des stuck her head out the door. She could hear voices coming from the taproom, but the coast was clear. She darted up the castle’s stairs to Aaron and Carly’s room, fetched Carly’s mink and purse from the bed, and started back down with them.
Her gallant, pudgy white knight in rumpled corduroy was planted there at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for her. “What’s going on, Master Sergeant?”
“Just a little aiding and abetting,” she said hurriedly. “It’s a girl thing.”
“Is Carly okay?”
“She’s perfectly fine. Can’t say I care much for her taste in men, though.”
“You’ll get no argument from this reporter. Anything I can do?”
“There is, baby. Go back in the taproom with the others and play dumb.”
“I can definitely do that.”
“Oh, and please don’t say anything about Carly’s shoes.”
“Her shoes? Why would I do that?”
“No reason.” She kissed him on the cheek as she slipped by on her way back to the lounge.
Carly was sitting right where she’d left her. Hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Here, put this on,” Des commanded her, handing over the big fur. “You were outside having a smoke. Act completely surprised by all of the fuss.”
“Actually, I could kill for a cigarette right now.” Carly dug a pack of Marlboros out of her purse and lit one with a gold lighter, dragging on it deeply.
“You see? It’s not even a fib.”
“But no one will buy it,” Carly pointed out. “The weather’s absolutely awful. And only a streetwalker would wear these heels out in the snow. Besides which, look at them-they’re completely dry.”
“Trust me, those folks will buy whatever you sell them. And Aaron will back your play. He wants this to disappear just as much as you do. You can pull this off, Carly. Just breeze on into that taproom with your head held high. Anyone tries to smart-mouth you…”
“I can sink my teeth into them.” Carly smiled, showing Des her teeth. They were nice and white, and looked exceedingly sharp. “It’s something I’m good at.”
“There you go. I’ll stay here a minute before I join you. We were never in here together. Never met. Got it?”
Carly took one more pull on her cigarette before she flicked it into the nearest sink and climbed into her big mink coat. She looked like a million bucks in it and she knew it. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she wondered, narrowing her eyes at Des suspiciously.
“Just doing my job.”
“Patching up my mess of a marriage is your job?”
“I do whatever needs doing in Dorset.”
“Well, I owe you one. And I hate owing anyone anything. You see, I’m really not a nice person.” Carly took a deep breath, steeling herself. Then she said, “Wish me luck,” and darted out of there.
Des sat herself back down in front of the mirror. She hadn’t been there for more than ten seconds when the door flew back open and in came Ada Geiger, a goblet of red wine clutched in her thin-boned, translucent hand.
“I believe you ordered this, my dear,” she said, gliding over toward her with it. The old woman had an uncanny way of moving, almost as if she had a cushion of air under her. Or maybe that tweed jacket she wore over her shoulders doubled as a set of wings.
“Why, thank you,” Des said, taking the glass from her. “You knew Carly was in here this whole time. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it was obvious that she did not wish to be found. I respect that. I respect what another woman needs to do. Besides, my grandson is an ass. He’s cheating on her, isn’t he?”
Des sipped her wine in discreet silence.
“Of course he is,” Ada went on, undeterred. “They’re terribly ill-suited for each other, you know. He’s needy and selfish, and she’s a fading debutante with a post-graduate degree in bullshit. I assume they’re drawn together by their mutual weakness. That is, after all, what passes for love among most couples-unless they happen to be very lucky. Are you lucky, Des?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
Ada eased herself slowly down onto the plump little chair next to Des and turned her penetrating, hooded gaze on her. “I wish to have a word with you. It’s rather important.”
“All right.” As Des studied Ada’s face in the mirror, she found herself recalling something her granny had told her once: Everyone gets old, but a rare few grow old. Ada Geiger was one of those- someone who had seen it all, done it all and, most significantly, savored it all. There was no regret in her proud, deeply lined face. No fear. Only wisdom. “What’s it about, Ada?”
“You, my dear. You need to be rescued.”
Des frowned at her. “Rescued from what?”
“I happened to take in the student show at the Dorset Academy yesterday,” she replied. “It invigorates me to see what young artists are doing. Mostly, what I saw them doing was dreck-lifeless, passionless, highly derivative. There was only one artist in the whole exhibit who genuinely moved me. I asked about this artist. I said, ‘Who draws the murder victims?’”
Sitting there, Des could feel her pulse quicken.
“I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to learn that you would be Mitch’s companion this evening.”
“Well, that’s life in a small town.”
“Spare me your modesty, okay?” Ada shot back. “We are kindred souls, you and I. When I was your age, I did the very same thing you’re doing-except with a camera. Ever hear of an old-time tabloid photographer named Weegee?”
“Are you kidding me? I love his work.”
“I thought so,” Ada said, nodding to herself in satisfaction. “I knew him well.”
Des gaped at her. “God, tell me about him. What was he like?”
“A horrible, unkempt little man. He lived in cheap rooming houses, reeked of body odor and awful cigars. ‘Crime is my oyster,’ he used to say. It became mine, too, Des. I followed him around like a puppy. Drove the streets of New York City with him, night after night, listening in on police calls on his two-way radio, hightailing it to murder scenes. He kept a key to the darkroom at the New York Post, where he’d develop his pictures at two, three o’clock in the morning. Then he’d head right out to peddle them to editors around town. He tried repeatedly to get me to go to bed with him,” Ada remembered fondly. “As if he had a prayer-I was a gorgeous broad in those days. And yet, I was utterly fascinated by the man, Des, because he understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That we are all victims in the end. That’s why his work needs no captions. No critics to ‘explain’ it. It’s all
