Rita was cooking something. The aroma, richly inviting, caught her up when she opened the door.
She’d prowled around restlessly all afternoon. First a movie at a mall theater, where she kept changing her seat. That was easy enough, the theater was weekday-afternoon empty, but she couldn’t find a seat that wasn’t too near or too far from the screen, couldn’t let herself get into the story, and finally couldn’t remain in the theater for longer than forty minutes.
She stalked out, then roamed the mall, walking in and out of stores and up and down aisles. She didn’t need anything, didn’t want to buy anything, but she tried on a pair of jeans in one boutique and flirted with a cell-phone salesman in the Radio Shack. It occurred to her to take him in back, to an office or rest room, and scratch the itch that Graham Weider had inflicted. Blow him, fuck him, whatever. And then kill him, but with what? There might be something in the back, a pair of heavy-duty scissors, a letter opener, a heavy glass ashtray to hit him with. No, not an ashtray, because smoking wouldn’t be allowed, but maybe a desk lamp, maybe a paperweight.
Could you count on finding something? No, of course you couldn’t. And the guy was a doofus anyway, built full in the hips, and he waddled like a penguin, and she didn’t really want to do him in the first place. She wanted to do Graham Weider, and she couldn’t, the bastard had turned her down, and the way her luck was running today she’d get the same reception from the penguin, and she wasn’t sure she could take it.
She got out of there. And found another store to walk into, and walk out of.
And now she was back home, and Rita was telling her that she hoped Kim hadn’t eaten, because the only way the beef bourguignon recipe worked was if you cooked enough for four, so—
“It smells terrific,” she said, “and no, I haven’t eaten. In fact I didn’t have much of a lunch. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, how’s that?”
She hopped on her bike and rode to a liquor store she’d noted earlier. What did you drink with beef bourguignon? The clerk, who couldn’t keep his eyes off her tits, recommended a Nuits-Saint-Georges or a Chateauneuf du Pape. The Nuits-Saint-Georges was two dollars cheaper, and that made the decision for her.
Pull the clerk into the back room? The look on his face suggested he wouldn’t put up much of a struggle, and afterward the wine bottle would serve as a handy blunt instrument. He was all alone in the store, so she could go through the register on her way out, and very likely pocket a few hundred bucks for her trouble. And then she could take the murder weapon home and share its contents with her landlady, and that had a certain undeniable appeal.
The wine made quite an impression on Rita. “Oh, I bought wine,” she said, “but nothing anywhere near this good. I picked up a halfgallon of California red and used half of it in the stew, thinking we’d drink the rest with the meal. But we have to have yours, it’s a Burgundy, it should be perfect with beef bourguignon.”
As indeed it was. The meal was simple, just the main course and a salad, and she hadn’t eaten since she stormed out of the Italian place in the middle of lunch, and Rita had prepared a superb meal. She had the radio tuned to an Easy Listening station, and the conversation stayed comfortably superficial until they were about halfway through the bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges.
Then, complimenting the meal again, she said that this was turning out to be an acceptable day after all.
“You had a bad day, Kim?”
Could she talk about it? She’d have to drop the central element, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk around it a little.
“I’ve been running around like a bitch in heat,” she said. “I’ve been so damned horny all day I could scream. I probably shouldn’t be talking like that—”
“Oh, I’ve heard worse.” Rita raised her wine glass. “And had days like that myself. A lot of them, actually.”
“Maybe it’s the bike,” she said. “All that low-grade stimulation in that general area.”
“The vibration and all.”
She reached for the wine bottle, filled Rita’s glass, then her own. “Here’s to vibration,” she said.
“You said it.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “
“A vibrator?”
“Uh-huh. The one I had gave up the ghost after years of loyal service. God, will you listen to me? This wine must be having an effect.”
“It’s the company,” Rita said. “I have the feeling you and I can say things to each other that neither of us could say to anybody else.”
That had to be the wine talking, she thought. On the other hand, wasn’t there supposed to be truth in wine?
“Not that I absolutely have to have a vibrator,” she found herself saying. She raised her hand, wiggled her fingers. “I come prepared. And, as far as that goes, I’m prepared to come.”
“Kim, you’re a riot!”
“Well, why pretend the evening’s going to end with prayer and meditation? When the wine’s gone I’m going to hole up in my bedroom and treat myself to an orgasm that’ll make the walls shake. And I might as well tell you about it, Rita, because you’ll probably hear me. I tend to make a little noise when I get off.”
“Oh? Did you hear me the night before last?”
“No.”
“It’s probably just as well.”
“Oh?”
“Can I tell you? I probably shouldn’t. But—”
“Oh, come on, Rita. Don’t be a tease.”
“Maybe if I have another glass of wine. Oh, the bottle’s empty. Do you think we could switch to the jug wine? It’ll be a disappointment after the Nooee — I don’t know how to pronounce it.”
“The French stuff.”
“That’s it, the French stuff.”
“And at this point it’ll taste fine, Rita. We’re past the point of being able to tell the difference.”
“I think you’re right. Well, here’s to the French, and the wonderful things they come up with.”
“God, I’ll drink to that.” She did, and said, “This tastes fine to me. And now you can tell me about the night before last.”
“Oh God. Well, okay. I was on the phone.”
“With—?”
“Someone I met on the Internet, except I didn’t ever actually meet him. I got his number, and I call him, and we give each other phone sex.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, you know.”
“Rita—”
“We talk dirty.”
“Like ‘I want to eat your pussy, I want to suck your cock’? Like that?”
“Some of that. More like telling stories.”
“Things you did.”
“Except they’re partly made up. Mine are, anyway, and I’m pretty sure his are, too. Not over the top, like pornography, because it’s more exciting if it’s realistic enough so that you can believe it.”
“And he’ll tell you a story while you—”
“Pleasure myself. Pretty pathetic, huh?”
“It sounds hot.”
“You think?”
“I’m getting hot thinking about it,” she said. “You’ve got his voice in your ear and your fingers in your pussy. You bet it’s hot.”
Rita giggled. “One problem,” she said. “Can you guess?”
