Norman said.
As Seth fetched a new bottle of Chablis that was chilling in my refrigerator, I asked Jo Jo Masarowski about video art. That prompted a bits-and-bytes monologue that quickly lost me in its technical jargon. Although I’d recently abandoned my trusty old Remington manual typewriter for a word processor, my knowledge of how it worked was limited to turning it on, and following the simple set of instructions that allowed me to write, store what I’d written on a little disk, and print it out.
Norman had launched into a discussion of wine with Michael O’Neill. They both seemed knowledgeable on the subject. Wine, like computers, was another area of vast mystery to me. I find the ritual of sniffing corks, inhaling fumes, and sipping before sending a bottle back because it “lacks body,” or “its bouquet is too timid,” to define pretentiousness. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.
“Could I have a private word with you?” The question was asked me by Susan Dalton, the blond mystery writer who’d taken up residence at the Worrell Institute.
“Certainly,” I said.
We both stood and were about to head for the kitchen when Amanda O’Neill suddenly appeared in the doorway between the dining and living rooms. “Michael,” she said sternly.
Michael looked up, returned his attention to the table, and took another hurried fork of chestnut stuffing.
“Michael!” Her voice was louder this time, and more demanding. She disappeared from view.
All attention now focused on him. He sighed, rolled his eyes—the gesture seemed to be directed at Barbara McCoy—stood, stretched, and said, “Excuse me.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” I said to Susan Dalton.
Although the conversation between the O’Neills was muffled, the tone of their voices clearly indicated that they were having an angry confrontation. Michael returned to the dining room, came to my side, crouched, and whispered in my ear, “I think we’d better be going. Amanda isn’t feeling well.”
He wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving. I followed him from the room, intending to say goodbye to his wife. But she’d already found her coat and had left the house without a word.
“Thanks for a lovely day, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “We must do it again. My house next time.”
Unlikely.
I looked through the living room drapes after he left. Amanda was sitting in their car’s passenger seat, her arms in a death squeeze around her body, her face a mask of anger. He spun his wheels as he backed from my driveway, and roared up the street.
“What a witch,” Barbara McCoy said as I rejoined my guests. Mort and Seth announced they were heading for the den “just to check on bowl game scores.” Translation: It was time to watch football. Jason and Jo Jo, who seemed to have taken a liking to each other, went to the kitchen to talk, and to start the cleanup despite my protestations. I was surprised to see that Jason had demonstrated to Jo Jo a knowledge of computers, at least to the extent that he seemed to understand what Jo Jo was talking about. That left me at the table with Susan Dalton, Barbara McCoy, and Norm Huffaker.
Although the two young women seemed friendly enough during dinner, I sensed a certain—call it unease—between them. Nothing overt, just a pulse that I felt, like a low-voltage electrical current.
“It’s marvelous that you’re enjoying yourself so much at Worrell, and getting so much out of it,” I said to Barbara.
“It’s a wonderful place,” she said eagerly. “Everyone on the staff is outstanding, and I’ve met so many other interesting artists. It’s very inspiring.”
“And you, Susan? How is it going for you and the murder mystery you’re writing?”
“Better every day.”
Barbara announced that she had to return to the institute. “I promised myself I’d have a section of my score completed by morning,” she said. “That’s one of the things I’ve learned there. Make a commitment to
As Seth fetched a new bottle of Chablis that was chilling in my refrigerator, I asked Jo Jo Masarowski about video art. That prompted a bits-and-bytes monologue that quickly lost me in its technical jargon. Although I’d recently abandoned my trusty old Remington manual typewriter for a word processor, my knowledge of how it worked was limited to turning it on, and following the simple set of instructions that allowed me to write, store what I’d written on a little disk, and print it out.
Norman had launched into a discussion of wine with Michael O’Neill. They both seemed knowledgeable on the subject. Wine, like computers, was another area of vast mystery to me. I find the ritual of sniffing corks, inhaling fumes, and sipping before sending a bottle back because it “lacks body,” or “its bouquet is too timid,” to define pretentiousness. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.
“Could I have a private word with you?” The question was asked me by Susan Dalton, the blond mystery writer who’d taken up residence at the Worrell Institute.
“Certainly,” I said.
We both stood and were about to head for the kitchen when Amanda O’Neill suddenly appeared in the doorway between the dining and living rooms. “Michael,” she said sternly.
Michael looked up, returned his attention to the table, and took another hurried fork of chestnut stuffing.
“Michael!” Her voice was louder this time, and more demanding. She disappeared from view.
All attention now focused on him. He sighed, rolled his eyes—the gesture seemed to be directed at Barbara McCoy—stood, stretched, and said, “Excuse me.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” I said to Susan Dalton.
Although the conversation between the O’Neills was muffled, the tone of their voices clearly indicated that they were having an angry confrontation. Michael returned to the dining room, came to my side, crouched, and whispered in my ear, “I think we’d better be going. Amanda isn’t feeling well.”
He wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving. I followed him from the room, intending to say goodbye to his wife. But she’d already found her coat and had left the house without a word.
“Thanks for a lovely day, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “We must do it again. My house next time.”
Unlikely.
I looked through the living room drapes after he left. Amanda was sitting in their car’s passenger seat, her arms in a death squeeze around her body, her face a mask of anger. He spun his wheels as he backed from my driveway, and roared up the street.
“What a witch,” Barbara McCoy said as I rejoined my guests. Mort and Seth announced they were heading for the den “just to check on bowl game scores.” Translation: It was time to watch football. Jason and Jo Jo, who seemed to have taken a liking to each other, went to the kitchen to talk, and to start the cleanup despite my protestations. I was surprised to see that Jason had demonstrated to Jo Jo a knowledge of computers, at least to the extent that he seemed to understand what Jo Jo was talking about. That left me at the table with Susan Dalton, Barbara McCoy, and Norm Huffaker.
Although the two young women seemed friendly enough during dinner, I sensed a certain—call it unease—between them. Nothing overt, just a pulse that I felt, like a low-voltage electrical current.
“It’s marvelous that you’re enjoying yourself so much at Worrell, and getting so much out of it,” I said to Barbara.
“It’s a wonderful place,” she said eagerly. “Everyone on the staff is outstanding, and I’ve met so many other interesting artists. It’s very inspiring.”
“And you, Susan? How is it going for you and the murder mystery you’re writing?”
“Better every day.”
Barbara announced that she had to return to the institute. “I promised myself I’d have a section of my score completed by morning,” she said. “That’s one of the things I’ve learned there. Make a commitment to
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