Free Philly Stakes by Gillian Roberts Page A

amused Leary. “Alma?” Kevin Leary asked. “She’s Zack’s wife, not mine. Who’s this?”
    “Amanda Pepper, and I’m trying to reach—”
    “Amanda. Amanda. Slips my mind where we met.”
    “Actually, you—” My finger ran down the list of Learys until it found Zachary.
    “But how could you confuse us? Zack’s hair is much thinner, didn’t you notice?” He chuckled again. “After all,” he said, with the pacing of a man fondling a favorite threadbare joke, “I’m the baby. Zack’s three minutes older, and it shows.”
    My turn to laugh politely. I wasn’t sure how many other twin jokes he had in waiting. I spoke quickly, confirming the number I saw in the directory, thanked him profusely and sincerely, because getting to the Z’s on my own would have meant another hour and lots more snarls.
    Alma Leary sounded both protective and suspicious when she told me that Laura was out, taking one of her walks. “You’re her teacher?” she said. It provoked a rush of words in the background, a “just a second,” from Alma and the transfer of the receiver.
    “Miss Pepper?” She was out of breath. “This is Alice Clausen. Laura said she—I guess she told you where we were—she isn’t here now. Is there a problem?”
    Her husband was dead. Her daughter was convinced she herself had done him in. Alice and her daughter were homeless.
    Was there a problem?
    Before I could respond, she heard the echo of her own words. “I mean,” she said, still sounding like someone who’d just finished a marathon, “besides the…the problem.”
    “I wanted to offer condolences and to see how you and Laura are doing. This is such a terrible time for you both.” I was afraid to say much, unsure whether Alice Clausen knew of her daughter’s homicidal claims.
    “Yes,” she agreed, panting. Either she was jogging in place or dangerously anxious. “I’m sorry she isn’t…I…” She left an auditory parenthesis that needed filling.
    “Mrs. Clausen, is there anything I could—”
    “Alice,” she said.
    I wasn’t interested in the nuances of social address at the moment. However, I started over. “Alice, I’m concerned. Can I be of any—”
    “Would it be out of line—could I possibly…”
    “Ummmm?”
    “Could we—could we talk? In person? Would it be too much of a—you were so kind Parents’ Night, at school.” All that I remembered of her visit were her repeated apologies for her husband’s being out of town. “Is that—would that be—am I being—”
    “That’d be fine. Is today good for you?”
    We settled not only on today, but immediately. She was five blocks away.
    I pushed cans back into cabinets and the sofa back against the wall, flicking dust rags and racing in circles with the vacuum, making fun of myself all the while. Alice Clausen was not arriving with white gloves to inspect the premises. She was not a woman who saw clearly half the time, anyway. Still and all, I tidied and made nice. My mother would be proud.
    My mother! I had to return her call. But as I remembered that, my own caller arrived.
    Alice Clausen was so glazed, my furniture could have been upside down and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. I was surprised she’d found the house. I helped her in, took her mink coat, scarf, hat and gloves, one by one as she remembered and located them, led her to the sofa, poured coffee for both of us and settled across from her in the suede chair. She had classic good looks—fine, quiet features, a delicate frame and straight pale blond hair. Still, as she sat facing me, she looked like a life-sized sculpture. Almost human. Almost alive.
    I put on a tape of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons because I believe that baroque music induces sanity.
    I cleared my throat. Recrossed my legs. Asked if she wanted another cup of coffee, then realized she hadn’t touched the one in front of her.
    “How about a fire?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Nonetheless, they