Free Whispers and Lies by Joy Fielding Page B

Alison punch a series of numbers into her cell phone. Alison had no need to steal money from strangers. I watched her whisper something into the receiver, then laugh. Suddenly she spun around, almost as if she’d known I was watching her. I flattened myself against the wall and didn’t move again until I heard the cottage door open and close.
    Fifteen minutes later, I was at her door, wearing a calf-length, pale yellow, sleeveless dress with a pronounced décolletage that I’d bought a year ago, but had never had the nerve to wear. “Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t get my hair to sit right.”
    “You look fabulous.” Alison regarded me with the practiced eye of women who are used to looking in mirrors. “You just need a little trim,” she announced after a pause. “I could do it for you. Don’t forget I worked for a few months in a hairdressing salon.”
    “You were a receptionist,” I reminded her.
    She laughed. “Yeah, but I watched and I learned, and I’m really pretty good. You want me to give it a try after dinner?”
    I thought of the improvised bob I’d given Myra Wylie earlier in the week. Was I as brave as she was? “Where are you taking me?”
    “It’s this new place right across from the Lorelli Gallery. I already called them and said we’d be a bit late.”
    The restaurant was called Barrington’s, and like manyrestaurants in South Florida, it was much bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street. The main room was decorated like a French bistro, lots of Tiffany lamps and leaded-glass windows, along with Toulouse-Lautrec posters of dancers from the Moulin Rouge suspended from pale yellow walls that were an exact—and unfortunate—match with my dress. Were it not for my ample cleavage, I might have vanished altogether.
    The waiter brought over a basket of bread, the wine list, and two large menus, before reciting by heart the list of the night’s specials. His eyes moved back and forth between Alison’s face and my chest. Together, I remember thinking, we could rule the world.
    “Dolphin!” Alison wailed in horror at one of the waiter’s suggestions.
    “Not Flipper,” I explained quickly. “This dolphin’s a fish, not a mammal. It’s sometimes called mahi mahi.”
    “I like the sound of that much better.”
    “How’s the salmon?” I asked.
    “Tasty,” the waiter said, looking at Alison. “But kind of boring,” he said, looking at me.
    “What about the swordfish?” Alison asked.
    “Wonderful,” the waiter enthused. “They grill it in a light Dijon mustard sauce. And it comes with sautéed vegetables and little red potatoes.”
    “Sounds great. I’ll have that.”
    “I’ll have the salmon,” I offered, risking the young man’s scorn, daring to be dull.
    “Some wine?”
    Alison motioned to me with her hand, as if giving me the floor. “Some wine?” she repeated.
    “I think I’ll skip the wine tonight.”
    “You can’t skip the wine. This is a celebration. We have to have wine.”
    “Remember what happened last time,” I cautioned.
    She looked confused, as if she’d forgotten all about her recent migraine. “We’ll have white wine, not red,” she pronounced upon reflection. “That should be all right.”
    The waiter pointed out the choice of wines, and Alison followed his recommendation. Something from Chile, I believe. It was good, and it was cold, and it quickly gave me a pleasant buzz. Service was slow, and I’d already finished my glass by the time the food arrived. Alison poured me another, and I didn’t object, although I noticed she’d only taken a few sips of her own drink. “Ooh, this is yummy delicious,” she enthused, biting into the swordfish. “How’s yours?”
    “Yummy.” I laughed at the sound.
    “So, did you see your friend this week?” Alison asked suddenly.
    “My friend?”
    “Josh Wylie.” Alison stole a look around the crowded restaurant, as if he might be there, as if she might recognize him if he were.
    The