Shut Your Eyes Tight

investigation if they seem warranted.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Peggy. “Is it a case that’s been in the news?”

He hesitated a moment before answering, “Yes, a few months ago. The tabloids referred to it as the case of the butchered bride.”

“No! Why, that’s incredible! You’re investigating that horrible murder? The young woman who was killed in her wedding dress? What exactly-”

Madeleine broke in, her voice’s volume a little high for the proximity of the company. “What can I get you folks to drink?”

Peggy kept her eyes on Gurney.

Madeleine went on, loud and cheery. “We have a California pinot grigio, an Italian Barolo, and a Finger Lakes something-or-other with a cute name.”

“Barolo for me,” said George.

“I want to hear the inside story of this murder,” declared Peggy, adding as an afterthought, “Any wine is fine for me. Except the cute one.”

“I’ll have a Barolo like George,” said Gurney.

“Could you clear the table now?” asked Madeleine.

“Absolutely,” said Gurney. He turned to the task and began consolidating the many piles of papers into a few. “I should have done it this morning. Can’t remember a damn thing anymore.”

Madeleine smiled dangerously, got a couple of bottles from the pantry, and went about the business of extracting corks.

“So…?” said Peggy, still staring expectantly at Gurney.

“How much do you remember from the news stories?” he asked.

“Gorgeous young woman, murdered by a crazy Mexican gardener about ten minutes after marrying none other than Scott Ashton.”

“Sounds like you know who he is.”

“Know who he is? Jeez, everybody in the world-Wait, let me take that back. Everybody in the world of social sciences knows Scott Ashton-or at least his reputation, his books, his journal articles. He’s the hottest sexual-abuse therapist out there.”

“Hottest?” said Madeleine, approaching with two glasses of red wine.

George guffawed, an oddly hearty sound from his sticklike frame.

Peggy winced. “Poor word choice. Should have said most famous. Lots of cutting- edge therapies. I’m sure Dave can tell us a heck of a lot more than that.” She accepted the glass Madeleine offered her, took a small sip, and smiled. “Lovely. Thanks.”

“So tomorrow’s the big day, right?” said Madeleine.

Peggy blinked confusedly at the change of subject.

“Big day,” echoed George.

“Not every day your son goes off to Harvard,” said Madeleine. “And didn’t you tell us he was going to major in biology?”

“That’s the plan,” said George, ever the cautious scientist.

Neither parent showed much appetite for the subject, perhaps because this was the third of their sons to take this path and everything that could be said had been said.

“Are you still teaching?” Peggy addressed the question to Gurney.

“You mean at the academy?”

“Guest lecturer, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I do it from time to time. A special seminar on undercover work.”

“He teaches a course in lying,” said Madeleine.

The Meekers laughed uneasily. George polished off his Barolo.

“I teach the good guys how to lie to the bad guys so the bad guys tell the good guys what we need to know.”

“That’s a way of putting it,” said Madeleine.

“You must have some great stories,” said Peggy.

“George,” said Madeleine, stepping between Peggy and Gurney, “let me refill your glass.” He handed it to her, and she retreated to the sink island. “It must be a very nice feeling to have your sons following in your footsteps.”

“Well… not entirely in my footsteps. Biology, yes, in a general way, but so far no interest expressed by any of them in entomology, much less my own specialty of arachnology. On the contrary-”

“Now, if I remember rightly,” Peggy interrupted, “you folks have a son?”

“David has a son,” said Madeleine, stepping back to the sink island, pouring herself a pinot grigio.

“Ah. Yes. His name’s on the tip of my tongue-something with an L, or was it a K?”

“Kyle,” said Gurney, as though it were a word he rarely pronounced.

“He’s on Wall Street, right?”

“Was on Wall Street. Now he’s in law school.”

“Casualty of the bursting bubble?” asked George.

“More or less.”

“Classic disaster,” intoned George with intellectual disdain. “House of cards. Million-dollar mortgages being handed out like lollipops to three-year-olds. Moguls and bigwigs leaping from the towers of high finance. Bloody big bankers dug their own graves. Only bad thing is that our government in its infinite wisdom decided to resurrect the idiot bastards-bring them back to life with our tax money. Should have let the scum-of-the-earth CEOs rot in hell!”

“Bravo, George!” said Madeleine, raising her glass.

Peggy shot him an icy glance. “I’m sure he’s not including your son among the evildoers.”

Madeleine smiled at George. “You were starting to say something about your sons’ careers in biology?”

“Oh, yes. Well, no, actually, I was about to say that the oldest not only has no interest in arachnology, he claims to suffer from arachnophobia.” He said this as though it were the equivalent of apple pie-phobia. “And that’s not all, he even-”

“For Godsake, don’t get George talking about spiders,” said Peggy, interrupting him for the second time. “I realize that they’re the most fascinating creatures on earth, endlessly beneficial, and so forth and so on. But right now I would much rather hear about Dave’s murder case than the Peruvian orb weaver.”

“My lonely little vote would be for the orb weaver. But I guess that can wait,” said Madeleine, taking a long sip of her wine. “Why don’t you folks all sit by the fireplace and exhaust the subject of beheadings while I put a few finishing touches on dinner. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Can I help?” Peggy asked. She looked liked she was trying to assess Madeleine’s tone.

“No, everything is just about ready. Thanks, anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

After another querying look, she retreated with the two men to three overstuffed chairs at the other end of the room. “Okay,” she said to Gurney as soon as they were settled, “tell us the story.”

By the time Madeleine called them to the table for dinner, it was getting close to six o’clock and Gurney had related a reasonably complete history of the case to date, including its twists and open ends. His narrative had been dramatic without being gory, suggestive of possible sexual entanglements without implying that they were the essence of the case, and as coherent as the facts permitted. The Meekers had been attentive, listening with care and saying nothing.

At the table-halfway into the spinach, walnut, and Stilton salad-the comments and questions started coming, mostly from Peggy.

“So if Flores was gay, the motive for killing the bride would be jealousy. But the method sounds psychotic. Is it believable that one of the top psychiatrists in the world wouldn’t have noticed that the man living on his property was stark raving mad-capable of chopping someone’s head off?”

“And if Flores was straight,” said Gurney, “the jealousy motive would disappear, but we’d still have the ‘stark