Free Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini Page A

“Well,” she said as she sat down, “how long have you been here?”
    “Only a few minutes. I finished my errands early.”
    “What kind of wine is that?”
    “Chardonnay. Dry Creek. I would’ve ordered a glass for you, but I wasn’t sure about the traffic and the parking. . . .”
    “Just as well you waited.”
    Cybil cleared her throat. She was making eye contact, but not without effort. “You look tired, dear.”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    “You work such long hours. Why don’t you cut back?”
    “I happen to like what I do. You ought to be able to understand that, if anybody does.”
    “Yes, but if it exhausts you and makes you snappish—”
    “I’m not exhausted. I wasn’t being snappish.”
    “Have it your way then.”
    She found herself looking at Cybil’s glass of wine. It was all she could do to keep herself from reaching for it.Where in God’s name was the waitress? “Let’s not talk about me. How are you?”
    “Oh, well, you know . . . getting along.”
    “How’s the new book coming?”
    “Slowly. Very slowly. At my age it’s difficult to concentrate.”
    “You’ve never had trouble concentrating before.”
    “Yes, well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
    Finally one of the waitresses appeared. She left menus, went away with Kerry’s order for a glass of Dry Creek Chardonnay. Cybil opened her menu immediately and gave it her full attention. Kerry didn’t touch hers.
    I hate this, she thought. God, I hate this!
    They sat like strangers for a length of time that seemed to stretch and expand. The restaurant was crowded; dining noises ebbed and flowed around them. She could feel the tension building, a headache beginning to pulse behind her eyes. Get with it, she thought. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.
    Yes, all right, but not until the waitress comes back with the wine.
    “I think I’ll have the Moroccan salad,” Cybil said.
    “That sounds good.”
    “Everything here is good. You haven’t even looked at your menu.”
    “I’ve been here before, too, remember?”
    Cybil sighed and sipped Chardonnay between pursed lips.
    The waitress again, and none too soon. Cybil gave her order. Kerry said, “The same,” and reached for her glass.She had to resist the impulse to gulp half of the wine, settled for a large sip.
    “Good, isn’t it?”
    “Fine,” she said, and all of a sudden her mind seemed to go blank.
    All morning she’d been framing and discarding ways to broach the subject to Cybil, eventually decided the direct approach was best. Not blunt, not emotional, just quietly reasonable. She’d worked out a nice little opening speech, silently rehearsed it a number of times—and now she couldn’t remember a word of it. She felt her face start to flush. The wine again, a larger swallow, but all that did was increase the heat until she was sure she was a bright moist red.
    Cybil was watching her. “Go ahead and say it,” she said.
    “Say what?”
    “What you came to say. The reason for this lunch.”
    Open door, unlocked by Cybil herself. But all Kerry could think of to say was, “Why do I have to have a reason to take you to lunch?”
    “Kerry, I may be old, but I’m in full possession of my faculties. Something is bothering you—I could hear it in your voice when you called with the invitation. Something you feel more comfortable discussing in public. In order, I suppose, to avoid an emotional scene.”
    “Yes, something’s bothering me. And you know what it is.”
    “Why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie?”
    “Because I can’t. Not anymore.”
    “Why not? Why is it so important to you?”
    “For God’s sake, don’t you think I have a right to know?”
    “If the circumstances were different, yes.”
    “That’s an evasion,” Kerry said. “I won’t be put off this time—I mean it. If I can’t get the truth out of Bill, I’m going to get it from you. Right here and now.”
    “You believe I’d confide in your husband but