her wagon. Since none of them drove yet and all lived up the hill on her way home, she asked if they wanted a ride and all of them piled in, John in the front where, when she leaned forward to put in the key, he couldn't help but see that the top button on her blouse had come undone. She glanced and caught him looking, gave him a playful, open smile, then buttoned up.
When the last of them but John got out, Mrs. Lerner asked him if he'd mind stopping by her place first-just a few blocks farther up the street-and helping her unload the groceries. Her daughters were both gone on a weekend camping trip with the Girl Scouts and her husband was traveling again and wouldn't be back until midweek. So she was all alone.
He carried the bags inside. It took him four or five trips, and the button came undone again, and then the one under it. Finally, by the time he put the last bag on the counter and turned to face her, only one button remained.
'Thanks, John. Can I offer you something? A glass of water?'
He was mesmerized by the fall of her blouse, but stammered out a no. He had to be getting home.
She took a step toward him. 'Are you sure? You can stay a few minutes. Anything?'
He swallowed-his mouth had gone dry-then he looked at her face, which wore a mysterious smile now, an expression unlike any he'd seen before. She closed the gap between them even more; they were so close he smelled the wonderful scent of her-almonds and… and something else. She cocked her head up at him. 'What?' she asked playfully. 'Tell me.'
Following his gaze, she looked down. 'Oh, these darn buttons.' But slowly, slowly, her eyes never leaving his, her hand went not to any of the open buttons, but to the closed one under them all, which was suddenly open, too. 'Oops,' she said, laughter in her throat. She took his hands and brought them up to the little snap in the front of her bra, which she helped him open with a practiced ease.
'What a charming story of young love,' Hardy said. 'She was how old?'
'Thirty-five. Forty. Somewhere in there.'
'So if you were fifteen, she raped you.'
'Diz, please, rape has such ugly connotations. I infinitely prefer the word seduced. And I promise it did not scar me for life. In fact'-a slow grin lifted Holiday's corn-silk mustache-'I've been known to drop by in the recent past from time to time. And you know what? She is still hot.'
'I'm happy for you both. Maybe not so much for the husband.'
'Long gone, I'm afraid. I believe his prostate gave out.' Holiday kept his grin on, knowing he was pushing Hardy's buttons. They were both sitting on folding chairs in sunshine just outside the propped-open front door of the Ark. Holiday was drinking a Bud Lite from the bottle and had his brown denim workshirt unbuttoned halfway. He was supposed to be bartending, but he owned the place and there weren't any customers.
'Well, fascinated though I am with all this history, it's not why I came down. You talk to any cops yet?'
'I haven't had that pleasure.'
'They didn't come by your house?'
'They might have.' Holiday tipped up some beer, the sloe-gin eyes twinkling. 'I don't believe I slept there last night, so I can't be sure. But I did stop by here and Clint told me what was up, which was when I called you.'
'And I'm so happy you did.' Hardy squinted up at the bright sky. He moved his chair back into the shade of the doorway. 'So what do you think? '
'I think I didn't shoot Sam Silverman or anybody else.'
'You pretty sure?'
A nod. 'Reasonably. It's the kind of thing I'd remember.'
'You got an alibi for when it happened?'
Suddenly, all trace of the grin was gone. 'This is starting to remind me of when you were my lawyer last time.'
'That didn't turn out so bad. Look at you now. They don't let you drink in prison. Bud Lite or anything else.'
'You chumming for business?'
'Hey, you called me. The last thing I want in the world is a murder case. And here's a hint-you don't want one either. If Frannie wasn't working, I'd be having lunch with her right now instead of checking up on your sorry ass. But as you appeared to be seeking advice and counsel-lo, I appear.'
'All right.' Holiday leaned forward in the folding chair, his elbows on his knees. He had his index ringer in the neck of his beer bottle and spun it in little circles near his feet. 'So where were we?'
'On your alibi.'
Holiday gave an impression of thought. 'What night again?'
Hardy came forward and spoke with some sharpness. 'Don't give me that, John. It was the night after your poker game, which makes it Thursday. This is Saturday. I'm thinking even you, two days and who knows how many drinks ago, you might remember.'
'Okay, between you and me, I had a date,' Holiday said. 'Dinner and a movie.'
Hardy sat back, spread his hands in victory. 'There you go. Was that so hard?' But Holiday's expression was far from relaxed. 'What?' Hardy asked.
'Well. Couple of things.'
Hardy waited a minute, finally spoke. 'Do I guess or are you going to tell me?'
'No. I'm going to tell you.' He pulled the bottle off his finger and took another pull at it. 'First, the lady in question is married, so she's not going to want to be involved.'
'Why am I not surprised? Maybe she's not going to have a choice. So who is she?'
'I can't say. Not even to you. Her husband would…' He let it drop.
'Well. There's a ray of good news. Her husband, then, is still alive, I take it.'
'Oh yeah. You'd know him.'
'I'd know him? How's that?'
'I mean he's well known, a public figure. She can't come out.'
'Great. Swell. You're seeing the wife of a famous guy. Do I dare ask if this is a long-term relationship? Between you and her, I mean, not her and her husband.'
'We went out a couple of months, but it looks like it's over now anyway.' Holiday shrugged. 'It ended Thursday, in fact. Before the movie. Before dinner, if you want to get technical.'
'Technical's good. Let's go that way.' Hardy barked half a laugh. 'So you didn't go out with this unnamed married woman for dinner and a movie after all? And hence you don't have an alibi for the time of the murder? Is that what you're saying? And might I add parenthetically, do you have any idea how much fun I'd be having with you already if you were on the stand in court?'
'But I was with her till at least six-thirty, is what I'm telling you, Diz. By which time Silverman was dead.'
Hardy was shaking his head, not sure if he was near despair or enjoying himself. There was no question but that he believed Holiday-who else would go to these lengths to make up something so Byzantine and absurd?-but his predicament vis-a-vis the authorities might become very real if these vital facts couldn't be managed. 'I think I could use something to drink, John. You carry any nonalcoholic mixers? Club soda? Cranberry juice?'
While Holiday went searching behind the bar, Hardy brought in the folding chairs, then sat at one of the bolted-down stools. 'Just out of curiosity, where do you take the wife of a well-known public person out to dinner for a couple of months and never get recognized?'
Holiday shot club soda from the gun over some ice, squeezed in a lime wedge. 'Chinatown,' he said. 'We all look the same to them. Hey, it's true. It's the next best thing to invisible.' He handed the drink across. 'Anyway, the point is, Silverman was dead by the time we got to dinner, am I right?'
'I don't know. I haven't got the timetable on it. I gathered from Glitsky it was the end of the day, but five- thirty, six-thirty, I don't know. You want to just tell me privately who the woman was?'
'I could tell you, but so what? She'd just deny it. Especially now. She always had a cover story for her husband anyway, where she was. Look, maybe we won't even need it, okay? Weren't there three guys?'
Again, Hardy had no previous connection to the case and he didn't know.
