Free Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) Page A

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    In a few seconds I turned away
again, remembering the conversation I'd had with Hank on Saturday, when
he'd described his paranoid feeling that someone might have been
lurking around outside All Souls. "Nerves," I'd said. "Typical urban
ailment," he'd said. Right on both counts. Quickly I went to the door
of the upstairs flat and rang the bell.
    Anne-Marie and Hank are one of
those couples who, once married, discovered they couldn't live
together. She's fastidious, he's just plain messy. She values a
routine, he thrives on chaos. In the end they solved the problem by
occupying separate flats in the same building—far enough apart, but
never out of reach.
    The
buzzer
sounded, and
I pushed the door open and climbed the narrow flight of stairs. The air
was redolent of chili—an aroma that in the past would have made me
cringe, because Hank's secret recipe was one he should have carried
untried to the grave. But the previous winter Anne-Marie had critiqued
it in a fit of anger, I had backed up her damning judgment, and since
then Hank had made a concerted and moderately successful effort to
improve it. Not that it mattered: nobody went to Hank's for the food.
We went for the good talk and company.
    I hung my coat and bag on the
hall tree and walked to the rear of the flat. Hank had reversed the
typical order of the rooms, turning the front parlor into his bedroom
and merging the remaining ones into a big space for entertaining that
opened off the kitchen. It was back there that I found him and his
three remaining dinner guests, scattered on the sectional sofa, coffee
or wine to hand.
    Anne-Marie sat closest to the
door. I went over and plunked the fuchsia and card on her lap. "Happy
birthday."
    "Thank you! I'm glad you could
make it." She examined the
plant, then ripped open the envelope. Since I'd last seen her, she'd
cut her long blond hair, and the pert new style enhanced the delicacy
of her elegant nose and sculpted cheekbones. The haircut was the latest
in a series of changes in her life, the most startling of which was
taking an extended leave of absence from All Souls to act as consulting
attorney to a large coalition of environmentalists. I wondered what had
prompted the move, but so far had not found the right opportunity to
ask. Anne-Marie laughed at the card—which likened our lives to the fast
lane at the
supermarket checkout—and passed it to Hank. He nodded in agreement and
handed it to Rae, who sat on the other section of the sofa. Willie
Whelan, dressed in his usual leather vest and western wear, sprawled
next to her, his head lolling against her shoulder. I noticed there was
something wrong with his face—it looked puffy. He raised a listless
hand to me, then let it drop back onto the couch.
    Before I could ask what his
problem was, Hank stood, insisting I come to the kitchen for some
chili. I followed him out there, where a big pot of the stuff still
simmered on the stove. While he dished it up I went to the cupboard for
a wineglass and looked in the fridge, sighing when I found a mediocre
brand of wine-in-a-box that Hank favors because of the convenience
factor. As I pressed the rubber spigot and waited for my glass to fill,
I said, "I need to discuss the Hilderly case with you."
    "Now?" 
    "Tomorrow morning will do."
    "I'll be in court until noon."
    "Then I'll catch you afterward—"
I broke off as Rae entered the room.
    Looking at my assistant tonight,
I had to admit that this new liaison with Willie was doing her wonders.
Her round, freckled face glowed and her manner was relaxed and easy.
When she'd come to work for me the previous year, she'd been a bundle
of insecurities; shedding an immature and demanding husband, some
therapy, and a new romantic relationship had made her blossom. She'd
even begun dressing better—although her everyday wardrobe still ran to
thrift-shop jeans and ratty sweaters. Tonight she had on a pair of
corduroy slacks whose color exactly matched her auburn hair, and