A Field Guide to Deception by Jill Malone Page A

he’s an ass,” Bailey whispered. “And it was on fire.”
    â€œYou put a brown paper bag in the oven on purpose?”
    â€œKeeps the pie moist.”
    â€œAnd extra flammable.”
    Liv grabbed the trash and tossed the mess in. Water and ashes had pooled at the bottom of the oven. “It’ll be fine once it cools. Self-cleaning and all.”
    â€œStupid ass ruined my pie.”
    â€œSo we’ll just have seven desserts rather than eight.”
    â€œDon’t try to cheer me up.”
    â€œOK,” Liv said. “Who the fuck are these people?”

    â€œAssociates of mine.”
    â€œFrom the baking underworld?”
    â€œBring the wine, smartass.”
    They gathered around the table—beautifully laid with china and place cards—as Bailey introduced each to the rest, and most particularly to Claire, their guest of honor. Claire sat on Bailey’s right, and Liv had been placed on the other end, next to Sophia, Bailey’s housemate. In the middle were Marjorie and many others like Marjorie in proclivity for vacuous exchange.
    But the food merited such a party: pork tenderloin with porcini mushrooms; whipped parsnip potatoes; goat-cheese stuffed chicken breasts; roasted baby red potatoes; cranberry marmalade and balsamico; seared ahi, crusted with fennel, coriander, and pepper; sun-dried tomatoes and fruit compote; grilled asparagus and corn on the cob; Caesar salad and Hazelnut greens.
    â€œThe woman can cook,” Liv murmured to Sophia.
    Sophia nodded, her mouth full, another bite ready to be launched. On Liv’s right, sat Paul, the ass.
    â€œWhat do you do, Paul?”
    â€œI’m a drafter for architects and intellectual property attorneys.”
    â€œInteresting work?”
    â€œNot remotely. What about you?”
    â€œI’m a builder.”
    â€œNow that sounds interesting. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever built?”
    Liv wondered if he’d consider a harness weird. “I built a mock-up of my childhood home for my folks when they sold the place. It freaked me out how accurate the little rooms were. I wanted to be small enough to sleep on the tiny couch in the family room, or sneak out my bedroom window.”
    â€œLike those mice in that story. They ransack the dolls’ house.”
    â€œYeah, like that. I’d built the place and it was so accurate and so wrong all at once.”
    Paul handed her the basket of bread. Sophia paused eating long enough to ask for more potatoes. They started in on movies seen, and
rendered opinions. Down the other end, Claire swallowed her wine and winked at Liv.
    â€œDo you know Claire?” Paul asked.
    â€œI work for her actually.”
    â€œOh,” Paul looked up at Liv, clearly impressed. “And she’s a well-known artist, is that right?”
    â€œIn her field she’s quite famous.”
    â€œWhat’s her field?”
    â€œMycology.”
    â€œOh, right,” he said and looked down the table at Claire. “Impressive.”

    Claire had been writing her field guide all evening. A roadmap to Liv, as she’d come to think of it. Begin with intrigue and a proposition; a woman who adores your child; leaves on mysterious excursions; is wholly unpredictable. Ensure that this woman works for you. Keep her vulnerable.
    At this last, Claire looked down the table and winked at Liv. She wanted to tell Bailey about her field guide. They could write up a synopsis and sell it at the Mercury Café to all the dejected twenty-two-year-old girls propped against the jukebox or pool table. Claire drank more wine to keep from laughing. This party was worse than a farce.
    Knickknacks crowded every surface of the place; they lived like old ladies. Even the elaborate dinner party felt bygone and overstuffed. Bailey talked on and on to everyone around her, who talked on and on in turn. Parakeets, Claire thought. Her neighbor filled her wine glass