Free Intrusion: A Novel by Mary McCluskey Page A

Scott.
    “You’d prefer something more modern, Scott?”
    He nodded.
    “Yep. Maybe.”
    “There’s a shower room through this door, just for you.”
    Sarah opened the door of what looked like a closet and revealed a modern tiled steam shower, pristine, with clear glass doors.
    “Perfect,” he said.
    “See you in about an hour,” Sarah said. “For cocktails.”
    When the door closed behind her, Scott turned to Kat.
    “It’s not going to be so bad, sweetheart. At least we’ll be comfortable.”
    “Comfortable indeed,” said Kat. She had pulled her dress out of the suitcase and was shaking it to remove the wrinkles when someone tapped on the door. Scott moved to open it.
    “Steam and press available for evening clothes,” said a young woman in a starched apron. “Please give me.”
    Kat stood, puzzled. Scott took the dress out of her hands, pulled his own suit from the case, and handed them to the maid.
    “Thank you.”
    He turned to Kat as the young woman left.
    “Hey, and laundry service, too,” he said. Kat, noting his smile, felt a surge of irritation.
    “So?” she said.
    Scott turned to her again.
    “What?”
    “Oh, nothing. You’re just so happy because you have a maid and a fancy shower.”
    His eyes had lost their warmth as he regarded her.
    “I am not so happy, Kat. And you know that.”
    She shrugged, turned away.
    “I know, I know. Sorry.”
    It was said ungraciously, and Scott did not acknowledge it. Instead, he put his clothes away, then minutes later stepped through the door that led to the shower. Kat heard the rush of water as the shower gushed. She stood, balling her nightgown tightly in her fists, aware that she was being unreasonable. She remembered the first few days after Chris’s death when Scott would answer the phone and say simple things such as Oh, hello. How are you? Things one says by rote, automatically, not thinking. And it would incense her because he sounded quite willing to chat. She had never told him about those surges of unwarranted rage. She was glad now that she hadn’t. The only time she reacted was when she overheard his conversation with the coroner’s office about moving Chris’s body to the funeral home. Scott had said, And you will transfer—the deceased, and she ran crying into the room.
    “Don’t say that! Don’t say the deceased . He’s Chris. Chris! ”
    And Scott had looked at her, lost, his eyes so sad, and said, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know the language for this.”
    God, she had been out of control then. She was losing control again. She took a few long, deep breaths, telling herself that she had only to get through one evening, one night and a morning. That was all. It seemed like an eternity.

    “Sarah, you have excellent taste,” Mrs. Miyamoto said in her tiny, tinkling voice. “I think the English know how to do things.”
    “Not all of them,” said Sarah. “We’ve been in homes, haven’t we, Kat, that one would not describe as tasteful?”
    Kat was not sure whether Sarah was making some reference to her family’s home or just pulling her into the conversation. They sat around the elegant lounge after a dinner of poached salmon and duck. They had studied the model of the country club that was set up in the wood-paneled den, and they had inspected the grounds. Kat knew that she had said little throughout the evening.
    “Taste is so individual, though, isn’t it?” she said with an effort. “Scott and I don’t agree on a thing when it comes to furnishings.”
    “Oh, that’s not true,” said Scott indulgently.
    “We should defer to the women in these matters,” said Miyamoto. “Right, Phannie?”
    His wife gave a shy nod.
    “Your aunt’s house was like this?” she asked Sarah.
    “Yes. Aunt Helen had a home in Sussex. Lansdowne. Beautiful old house.”
    “And you lived with her?”
    “From age twelve on. She was the only one who would take me in. The other aunts couldn’t handle me.”
    “Why