A Shroud for Aquarius by Max Allan Collins Page A

Jill had been in the cable TV business for five or six years, going into communities like ours and putting things in motion for a year or so, then moving on. Perhaps it was a coincidence that one of her myriad jobs had been Port City, her old home town. Or maybe not. That was one of the things I planned to ask her.
    So far all I’d asked her, on the phone, was if she remembered me, and if she might entertain an invitation for lunch. In a pleasant but businesslike manner, she’d said yes to both.
    Now here I was at Cablevision, going in the side studio entrance as she’d instructed me, wondering what to say to the shy girl in Junior Miss dresses I’d dated in high school who had become a lady executive in outfits by Kamali. I, by the way, was not going the Bilko and camouflage route today—as at the funeral, I wore a black polo shirt and gray slacks, the same slacks I’d worn to the reunion. The day was warm, and I’d rather worn shorts, but I needed to make a better impression than that on Jill, or anyway I wanted to.
    The air conditioning inside Cablevision was welcome. A modest studio with a modest glassed-in booth was at my right as I walked down a narrow hall to a door with JILL FOREST, STATION MANAGER on it; that her job was temporary was indicated by her name and rank being on a sliding piece of plastic that fit in steel grooves on the door.
    I knocked.
    “Yes,” her voice said, noncommittally.
    I spoke to the door. “It’s Mal.”
    “Come in,” her voice said, just as noncommittally.
    Not that it was an unpleasant voice; it was a warm mid-range voice that had to work at sounding all business. But she managed it.
    Feeling a little intimidated and not really knowing why, I went in.
    It wasn’t a big office; thinking of her as an executive was an exaggeration. And she wasn’t wearing Kamali or any other designer clothes. Just a simple white blouse with a black dress (she stood as I came in) with a geometric copper necklace the only new-wave fashion touch of the day. Her short black hair still had a vaguely punk look to it, and her lipstick was redder than Dracula’s wildest dreams. Her eye makeup was subdued compared to at the reunion, though; with those cornflower blue eyes, who needed it?
    And she had a great tan.
    “You have a great tan,” I said.
    I couldn’t help myself.
    She sat back down. “Is that what you wanted to talk about, Mal, after all this time? My tan?” Her tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly. It wasn’t exactly friendly, either.
    “That was dumb,” I said, sitting down myself. “I don’t know why I said it.”
    She shrugged, her expression revealing nothing. “I don’t have that much of a tan. I’ve always been on the dark side. Don’t you remember?”
    That was the problem: I didn’t remember. I’d gone out with her back in school, yes; more than once—and then called it off. I didn’t remember her looking even remotely this good. I was thirty-four and unmarried and here was one of the firstof many prize catches I’d foolishly let get away over the years. Feel free to kick me.
    “Sure I remember,” I said.
    Now she smiled, just a little. “You don’t, do you? I didn’t make much of an impression on you when we were kids.”
    “That’s not true! We used to go out, and have a lot of fun.”
    “We went out two times, and probably said ten words to each other, total. We did not have a lot of fun. We didn’t even have a little fun.”
    I sighed. “We didn’t, did we?”
    She shrugged again, looking at a desk piled with neatly stacked work. “I was quiet, then. Like they say in the old movies: too quiet.”
    “Your parents kept you on a pretty short leash.”
    Something flickered in her eyes, but she kept her face impassive. “Maybe that’s because I was a ‘dog,’ hmm?”
    “I didn’t mean it like that. You were a cute kid; I never thought of you like that, ever. But your parents were the have-her-home-by-ten-on-weekend-nights types. Uh, how are your folks,