Free Deal to Die For by Les Standiford

bilingual community, that was the extent of his language studies.
    “
Cuando mi esposa es eya
…,” he tried. Deal had a reasonable vocabulary, but tenses, conditions, all the subtleties remained beyond him. And it was only worse trying to speak on the phone, with none of his trusty sign language to help him out.
    “
Sí, sí, sí
” Mrs. Suarez cried enthusiastically. “You wife was here. Ten minutes when you leave.”
    Deal felt dread sweep over him even before he had fully registered the words. It was what he’d feared, the very thing he’d thought of the moment he’d seen the phone, ordered Driscoll to stop.
    Mrs. Suarez meant Janice had turned up ten minutes after he and Driscoll had left for the clinic. As if she’d been sitting somewhere, watching, waiting…
    “She was there?
Mi esposa
?”
    “Yes. You wife,” Mrs. Suarez said, enthused. “So happy.
Su niña. Juegó con la niña
…”
    “She played with Isabel?”
    “
Con mucha gusta
…very happy,” Mrs. Suarez said.
    “Let me talk to her,” Deal said, practically shouting now.
    “
Su esposa
?” Mrs. Suarez said, surprise in her voice. “Is not here. She go.”
    “Isabel?” Deal said, and he was shouting now. “Where is Isabel?”
    “
Con su esposa
,” Mrs. Suarez said.
Gone. With your wife
. And the way she said it made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

Chapter 8
    “I’ve had some bad news, Rhonda,” Paige said softly. She was sitting in a floral print wing chair, a twin to the one in which Rhonda sat a few feet across from her.
    Rhonda said nothing, of course. She sat gripping the arms of her chair in the posture of someone expecting an airplane takeoff. But her eyes were the tipoff. The eyes.
You’ve got to get the eyes
, Paige thought automatically. The cinematographer’s commandment, the reason why close-ups had been invented. Rhonda’s eyes were as opaque and lifeless as any glass beads in a taxidermist’s mount.
    They were in a small study, a cozy place off what had been the Mahlers’ bedroom until recently. Paige had caught a glance in there, through the open doorway, as the nurse left them. She glimpsed a motorized bed, a hospital tray on rollers, some strange exercise equipment she supposed was used to keep Rhonda’s unused musculature from atrophying. But no sign of Marvin’s presence—not these days—in what looked more and more like a hospital ward.
    The day had turned chilly and a gas fire hissed in the study’s fireplace. This had always seemed a cheery spot to Paige. The walls were covered with pictures: young Rhonda in pith helmet with John Ford, somewhere in Africa; bosomy Rhonda in a sundress, shrieking with laughter as Frank Sinatra labored to sweep her up in his arms; an older Rhonda cutting the ribbon of some public place, a phalanx of men in suits and a youngster in a wheelchair looking on. Nothing of Marvin on the walls though, at his own insistence. It had always been that way.
    Rhonda’s head was bobbing slightly, as if to some ghostly music only she could hear. Or, Paige thought, it could just as well be permission to go on, to talk about distress, of which there seemed plenty in the room already.
    “My mother,” she said, drawing a breath. “She’s in the hospital back in Florida. She’s dying.” Paige thought she saw a flicker in Rhonda’s eyes, but passed it off as some reflection of the flames.
    “My sister had the decency to call, at least,” she continued. She had no idea why she was going on like this, she thought, as a phone rang somewhere in the distance.
    Rhonda had known for years how strained things had been between Paige and her family. She’d been a mainstay, always counseling patience, understanding, endlessly going more than halfway to stay connected. “Your family, they’re all you have, sweetness. Stay in this town long enough, you’ll see.” That was Rhonda’s constant refrain, no matter how many rebuffs had come Paige’s way. “Do your best. Do