Free Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel by John Verdon Page A

do then, wait for pictures?
C HIEF L UNTZ:
Jesus fucking Christ, Carol …
C AROL L UNTZ:
Burt, that’s blasphemy. I told you, Burt, don’t talk that way.
C HIEF L UNTZ:
Got it. No blasphemy. Listen—here’s the point. You heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody—
C AROL L UNTZ:
All right, Burt, we can do without the sarcasm!
    They fell silent. After a minute or so, the chief tried to get one of the canapés resting on his left hand into his mouth, finally succeeding by employing the base of his glass like a tiny shovel. His wife made a face, looked away, drained her drink, began tapping her foot to the rhythms emanating from the mini-Parthenon. Her expression became festive, bordering on manic, and her gaze darted around the crowd as though searching for a promised celebrity. When one of the servers approached with a tray of drinks, she traded in her empty glass for a full one. The chief was now observing her with lips compressed into a hard line.
C HIEF L UNTZ:
You might want to slow down a bit.
C AROL L UNTZ:
I beg your pardon?
C HIEF L UNTZ:
You heard me.
C AROL L UNTZ:
Someone’s got to tell the truth.
C HIEF L UNTZ:
What truth?
C AROL L UNTZ:
The truth about Scott’s slimy Mexican.
C HIEF L UNTZ:
The truth? Or is it just a rotten little rumor embellished by one of your idiot friends—total, slanderous, actionable bullcrap!
    While the tempers of the Luntzes flared, Ashton and Jillian were visible in the left background of the scene, their distance from the fixed camera position putting their conversation out of audio range. It ended with Jillian turning and walking in the direction of the cottage, which was set with its rear against the bordering woodland on the opposite side of the lawn, and Ashton heading back toward the Luntzes with a troubled frown.
    When Carol Luntz saw Ashton approaching, she downed her margarita in a couple of fast swallows. Her husband reacted to this with an inaudible word hissed through clenched teeth. (Gurney glanced down at the audio transcript, but it offered no interpretation.)
    Switching expressions as Ashton rejoined them, the chief asked, “So, Scott, everything okay? Everything fine?”
    “I hope so,” said Ashton. “I mean, I wish Jillian would just …” He shook his head, his voice trailing off.
    “Oh, God,” exclaimed Carol Luntz, rather too hopefully, “there’s nothing wrong, is there?”
    Ashton shook his head. “Jillian wants Hector to join us for the wedding toast. He told us earlier he doesn’t want to, and … well, that’s about it.” He smiled awkwardly, gazing down at the grass.
    “What’s his problem, anyway?” asked Carol, leaning in toward Ashton.
    Hardwick pushed “pause,” freezing Carol in a conspiratorial pose. He turned to Gurney with the fire of a man sharing a revelation. “This bitch is one of those bitches that gets off on trouble, wants to savor every detail, pretends she’s bursting with empathy. Cries for your pain and hopes you die so she can cry harder and show the world how much she cares.”
    Gurney sensed truth in the diagnosis but found Hardwick’s excess hard to take. “What’s next?” he asked, turning impatiently toward the screen.
    “Relax. It gets better.” Hardwick pushed “play,” reanimating the exchange between Carol Luntz and Scott Ashton.
    Ashton was saying, “It’s all rather silly; I don’t want to bore you with it.”
    “But what’s
wrong
with that man?” Carol persisted, turning
wrong
into a wail.
    Ashton shrugged, looked too exhausted to keep the matter private any longer. “Hector has a negative attitude toward Jillian. Jillian, on the other hand, is determined to solve whatever undefined issue has come between them. For that reason she insisted that I invite him to our reception, which I attempted to do on two occasions—a week ago and again this morning. On both occasions he declined. Just a moment ago Jillian called me over to