P is for Peril

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Her response time was ever so faintly slow. "About what?"

"Clint. We happen to be members of the same fitness gym."

"What do you want?"

I shook my head. "Someone saw your car here and thought you might show up again."

She closed her eyes and then opened them again. "Fiona."

I didn't cop to it outright, but I didn't see much reason to deny it, either. What was the point? She knew I'd been working for Fiona and who else, really, would be dogging her steps. "You should probably be aware she talked to Detective Paglia."

"Fuck. She just can't leave anything alone. What's she going to do, monitor my actions for the rest of my life? Have me followed around so she can point a finger at me? What I do with my time is none of her damn business."

"Hey, babe. It wasn't my idea. If you're pissed off, take it up with her."

"Oh, right." She paused while she struggled to get a grip on herself. When she spoke again, her tone was more resigned than angry. "Let's get out of the rain. It's ridiculous to stand here getting soaked."

I followed her through the gate. We went up the front steps and took shelter on the porch. I lowered my umbrella, pausing to shake off the water.

"I guess there's no point pretending you didn't see me today."

"I don't like it any more than you do."

"You know, the entire time I was married to Dow, she did everything she could to make life miserable for me. How much more shit am I supposed to take?"

"She's not the only one who heard the rumor about Clint."

"Who'd she get that from? Dana Glazer, no doubt. What an evil bitch she is."

"People talk about these things. Sooner or later, it was bound to come out."

"Oh, for pity's sake. You know what? There's no law that says I can't visit a friend, so why don't you go back and tell her to get fucked." She gestured dismissively, annoyed with herself. "Ship that," she said.

"Why add fuel to the fire? Clint was my trainer. We did weights. End of sentence. There was never anything sexual between us. Ask him if you doubt me. I'll be happy to wait out here."

"What would that prove? I'm sure he's too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell."

"Don't you have any male friends? Does everything between a man and a woman have to be sexual?"

"I didn't say you were guilty of anything. I'm telling you how it looks. Tongues have been wagging. Fiona saw your car here yesterday and here you are again today."

She stared at me briefly and then seemed to make a decision. "Why don't you come in and I'll introduce you properly."

"Why would I do that?"

"Why not? As long as you've come this far. By the way, I found Dow's passport when I was going through his clothes. It was still in the breast pocket of the overcoat he wore when we went to Europe last fall."

"Well, that's one question down. Are those his?" I said, pointing to the shirts.

"Someone might as well get some use out of them." She unlocked the front door, using a key, I noticed, from her own key chain. She pushed open the door and stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of her and into the house. I don't know why I should have felt embarrassed, but I did.

The front room was done up as an old-fashioned parlor with a camelback sofa, occasional tables, and assorted Queen Anne chairs. Every item of furniture sported a hand-crocheted doily designed as protection from dirt and grease stains. There was a grandfather clock and lots of knickknacks; milk glass, cranberry glass, Steuben glass, Lladro, framed photographs of family members long since deceased. Crystal scarcely gave the room a glance as she proceeded down the hallway and through the kitchen to a glassed-in porch. Clint was seated in a La-Z-Boy looking out toward the yard. She put the stack of shirts on a small wooden table next to him. Crystal gave him a brief kiss on the top of his head. "I brought you some shirts and I also brought a friend. You remember Kinsey? She's a member of your gym."

At first, I thought: not Clint, mistake, has to be someone else. But it was him. Whatever his disability, he was considerably diminished. He was suffering contractures of his hands and a muscle weakness so pronounced that he could hardly move his head. He'd lost an enormous amount of weight. His eye sockets were puffy, a reddish-purple color, as though he'd been punched out. I could see skin lesions on his forehead and his arms. I tuned the rest of it out. Through the window, I could see a burly old guy working in the yard, tying up some vines; probably Clint's father, the man who answered the phone.