Free The Best of Sisters in Crime by Marilyn Wallace Page B

song-and-dance routine,
anyway. He followed her to the parking lot, grinning.
    I am in hog
heaven , he thought. Hog heaven.
    The ride was a
timeless blur. Harry was awash, drowning in the mixed perfumes of the car’s
leather, the spring evening, the woman beside him, and the anticipation of the
hours ahead. When Leigh spoke, her voice, rich and sensuous, floated around
him. He had to force himself to listen to the words instead of letting them
tickle his pores and ruffle his hair.
    “Almost there,
Harry,” she was saying. “Don’t you love this area? Open country. Free. Natural.
I love the farmhouses, the space . . .”
    Almost there.
Free. Natural. Wonderful words.
    Leigh, eyes
still on the road, voice talking about the wonders of the countryside, placed a
manicured hand on his thigh.
    God? he said
silently, needing the Deity for the first time in years. God, let this really
be happening.
    After dinner she
sent Harry into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she insisted, “while
I clean up. I’ll bring in coffee.” No number about sharing the work. He couldn’t
believe his luck.
    The tape
stopped, and he picked out a mellow one. Make-out music, they called it a
century or two ago when he was young. Why did that seem so funny? He stifled a
giggle. He turned the volume to a soft, inviting level, then settled into the
rich velvet sofa. He felt a little weird. Almost like a teenager again, that
racing high, that thrumming excitement.
    What a woman! He
couldn’t believe his luck. He stretched and enjoyed the memory of the meal. Her
own recipe, her own invention. Spicy, delicious, exotic. Like Leigh herself,
like the charged talk that had hovered around the table, like the possibilities
of a long night in the remote countryside.
    “Here you are,”
she announced, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, creamer, sugar bowl, and cups.
She bent close and his giddy lightheadedness, the speeding double-time rush of
blood through his veins, intensified.
    She poured the
coffee, then stepped back and spread her arms as if to embrace the room. “Do
you like my place?” she asked. “The people at work think I’m crazy to be this
isolated, this far from everything. But I love my privacy. Or maybe I like
animals better than people.” She laughed. “Present company excluded, of course.”
    Bubbles of
excitement popped in Harry’s veins. “Have a seat,” he suggested, patting the
sofa next to him. He wiggled his lips. They felt thick, a little foreign and
tingly. Stupid to have eaten so much. And all that wine, too. Now he was
bloated, sluggish.
    Leigh, on the
other hand, seemed wired. “This is a working farm,” she said. “Cows, pigs,
horses. There’s a caretaker, of course.” She stopped her pacing. “But don’t
worry—he won’t bother us. He’s all the way on the other side of the property,
and anyway, he’s away for the night.”
    “Leigh—” he
began. He sounded whiny and stopped himself. But all the same, why couldn’t
they start enjoying this nice private place before her stupid roosters crowed?
He was reminded of his teens, of dates with nervous girls chattering furiously
to keep his attention—and hands—off their bodies. It had annoyed him even then.
He decided to see if actions would speak louder than words, and smacked at the
sofa’s velvet.
    It worked. She
finally sat down. But just out of easy reach.
    He considered
strategy. He felt planted in the soft cushions. He took a moment to evaluate
the pros and cons of uprooting himself.
    “Do you know
which is the most intelligent barnyard animal?” she asked.
    Who cared?
Frankly, even a brainless chicken was beginning to seem brighter than this woman.
Didn’t she remember why they were here?
    She refilled his
coffee cup. He sipped at it while he tried to figure a way to change the
subject.
    “Pigs,” she
said. “It’s almost a curse on them, being that smart. They know when they’re
going to slaughter. They scream and fight and try