The Hellfire Club

drifted… away from each other. And it's changed a lot since then. Several times. You'd have to say it changed completely, several times.'

'Your agent wasn't very helpful.'

Daisy's cheeks widened in a brief, cheerless smile. 'I forgave him when he died. It was the least both of us could do.' She finished off her drink, dragged on the cigarette, and blew out a thin shaft of smoke that bounced like a traveling cloud off the vase.

'And since then?'

Daisy tilted her head. 'Are you asking to read my manuscript, Nora? Excuse me. I should say, are you offering to read it?'

'I just thought…' Nora did her best to look placating. Her mother-in-law continued to examine her out of eyes that seemed to have become half their normal size. 'I just wondered if… if a reader might be helpful to you. I'm hardly a critic.'

'I hardly want a critic.' Daisy leaned forward over her stomach and stubbed out the cigarette. 'It might be interesting. Fresh pair of eyes and all that. I'll think about it.'

A rap sounded at the door, and Maria came in with two tall drinks on a tray. She removed Daisy's empty glass and placed Nora's second beside her nearly untouched first. 'I give you extra jar mayonnaise to take home, Mrs Nora.'

Nora thanked her.

'Are the boys doing all right down there, Maria?'

'Doing beautiful.'

'No shouts? No threats?' Nora had rarely seen this side of Daisy.

Maria smiled and shook her head.

'Are they talking about anything interesting?'

Maria's smile went rigid.

'Oh, I see. Well, if they ask, which they won't, you can tell them that everything we're talking about is interesting.'

It struck Nora that the closest relationship Daisy had was with Maria.

Daisy surprised her again by winking at her. 'Isn't that right, dear?' This bright, lively Daisy had appeared immediately after Nora had suggested looking at her manuscript.

Nora said yes, it was interesting, and Maria beamed at her before leaving.

'What do you think they're talking about downstairs?'

'Want to make a publisher's heart go trip trap, trip trap, like the baby goat walking over the bridge? Show him a nice, juicy crime, what he would call a 'true crime.' Daisy smiled another mirthless smile and took a swallow of the fresh drink. 'Don't you love that term? I think I'll commit a true crime. Right after I commit a nonfiction novel. Trip trap, trip trap, trip trap.' She opened her mouth, rolled up her eyes, and patted her heart in mock ecstasy. 'I know, I'll commit a true crime by writing a nonfiction novel about Hugo Driver!' Daisy giggled. 'Maybe that's what I've been doing all these years! Maybe Alden will give me a million dollars and I'll go away to Tahiti!'

'Maybe I'll come with you,' Nora said. It would be fun going to Tahiti with this Daisy Chancel.

Daisy wagged a fat forefinger. 'No, you won't. No, you won't. You can't go away and leave Davey all alone.'

'I suppose not,' Nora said.

'No, no, no,' Daisy said. 'Nope.'

'Of course not,' Nora said. 'Are you really writing a non-fiction novel?'

The older woman was nearly gloating, as if she knew secrets so outlandish that she could hint eternally without ever divulging them. Nora took in her shining, slightly filmy eyes and understood that Daisy was going to let her read her manuscript.8

'Sure, every woman in Westerholm is frightened,' Alden said. They're supposed to be.'

'What do you mean, supposed to be?' Nora asked.

'You think I'm defending murder.'

'No, I just want to know what you meant.'

He surveyed the table. 'When Nora looks at me, she sees the devil.'

'A nonfiction devil,' said Daisy.

'Dad, I don't think I understand, either.'

'Alden wants people to think he's the nonfiction… true crime… devil.' Daisy had reached the stage of speaking with exaggerated care.

'The devil does, too,' Nora said, irritated.

'Exactly,' Alden said. 'Wherever this fellow goes, he's hot stuff. He gets his weekly copy of the Westerholm News, and he's on the front page.'

He helped himself to another portion of lobster salad and signaled Jeffrey, generally referred to as 'the Italian girl's nephew,' to pour more wine. Jeffrey took the bottle from the ice bucket, wiped it on a white towel, and went to the end of the table to refill Daisy's glass. He moved up the table, and Nora put her hand over the top of her glass. Jeffrey gave her a comic scowl before he went to the head of the table.

Nora had never known what to make of Jeffrey. Tall, of an age somewhere between forty-five and fifty five, his speech without accent, his fair brown hair thinning evenly across his crown, Jeffrey was an unlikely relative of Maria. Nora gathered that she had produced him some ten years before when Alden had begun to talk about hiring someone to answer phones, open doors, run errands. Jeffrey had clever eyes and a graceful, guarded manner that did not preclude playfulness. Some days he looked like a thug. Nora watched him offer the wine to Davey, turn away to twist the bottle into the ice, and return to his post at the edge of the terrace. In a close-fitting dark suit and black shirt, Jeffrey was having one of his good days. Daisy reminded her of her private theory about Jeffrey by saying, 'You're usually more… original… than that,' and tapping her fork on the table in rhythm with her words.

Jeffrey had been hired to cover for Daisy.

'I'm not finished, my dear.'

'Then please, please enlighten us.'

Alden smiled universally at the table. His perfect teeth gleamed, his white hair shone, a flush darkened the smoothly tanned broad face. In a blazer and snowy shirt, the top button opened over a paisley ascot, with bright, expressionless eyes and deep indentations like divots around his mouth, Alden looked just like the kind of person who hired someone like Jeffrey. Nora realized how much she disliked him.

'Think of how many Copies the Westerholm News is selling. People who never looked at it in their lives are buying it now. And this isn't true just of our rinky-dink little paper. The tabloids in New York jump up and salute every time another lady is slaughtered in her bed. And do you think the security system business in Fairfield County is having the usual August lull? What about the handgun business? Not to mention fencing, yard lights, and locksmiths? How about television reporters, the photographers from People?'

'Don't forget publishers,' Nora said.

'Absolutely. What's your best guess on how many books are being written about Westerholm at this minute? Four? Five? Think of the paper that will go into those books. The ink, the foil for the covers. Think of the computer disks, the laptops, the notebooks the fax machines. The fax paper. The pencils.'

'It's an industry,' Davey said. 'Okay.'

'A darn bloody industry, if you ask me,' said Daisy. Nora silently applauded.

'So was World War Two,' said Alden. 'And so was Vietnam, Nora, if you'll forgive me.'

Nora didn't think she would.

'Ah, if looks could kill - but did or did not unit commanders have a certain amount of shells they were supposed to fire on a daily basis - not officially, I mean, but pretty specific anyhow? Didn't we use up a tremendous amount of uniforms and vehicles over there, didn't we build bases and sell beer and buy tons of food? Wasn't somebody manufacturing body bags? Nora, I know I'm flirting with danger, but I love it when your eyes flash.'

He was flirting with her, not danger. She looked across the table at her husband and found him gazing at the