Cold Morning by Ed Ifkovic Page B

He beamed at her.
    â€œWere you expecting someone?” I asked disingenuously.
    Her eyes watched me closely. “No, why?”
    â€œWell, you seem dressed for an…engagement.”
    And she did. A powdered face, a trace of peach rouge on her cheeks, garish bright red lipstick on her full lips. She’d pulled her hair into a precise French twist, graced with an ivory clip. A chubby woman, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, with a round moon face and round hazel eyes exaggerated by a line of dark kohl, she’d squeezed herself into a dress designed for a smaller—and decidedly younger—woman, a cocktail dress sequined at the bodice, a glittery hemline, the kind I used to spot on the now-departed flappers dancing all-night marathons at Rose Land. Her plump upper arms pushed at the seams, threatened to break free. Dark-complexioned, a hint of the Mediterranean about her, close-cropped bobbed hair, out of fashion.
    She stammered, “I’m stepping out later.”
    â€œWell,” I said slowly, “we won’t keep you long.”
    She perched on the edge of her bed, her knees together, one hand under her other elbow. Nervous, she fidgeted and inhaled the cigarette, blew a circle of smoke over her head. Aleck, watching, waved his cigarette holder, sending his own cloud of smoke into the air. Giddily, he smiled at the woman. When she smiled back, I noticed a smear of lipstick on her front tooth.
    I smiled at no one.
    â€œWere you close to Annabel?” I asked.
    She answered by looking at Aleck. “No. Well, sort of. I mean, we didn’t know each other until we had to room together. In this dump . Space and all—because of the trial. Everybody charging an arm and a leg for any room they got in this town. The hotel put us together. I mean, we worked together—talked.”
    â€œYou liked her?”
    â€œNot at first.” She debated her answer. “She was noisy and interrupted everyone. A little showy. A young woman, you know, happy with herself. But, you know, being in this room with her, I got to know her.”
    â€œShe arrived from Chicago, right?”
    â€œSort of. England, somewhere, I guess.” A little grin. “That irritating accent those people got.” She looked into my face. “What’s this all about? I mean, they got the guy, no?”
    â€œI’m trying to satisfy a curiosity,” I told her.
    â€œThat makes no sense.”
    Aleck chortled. “Indulge the woman, my dear. It’s easier to answer her questions than to ignore her. She’ll eventually go away.”
    I ignored him. “Miss Crispen, I just want to get a clear picture of who Annabel was. After all, she was murdered. She had a life. She should have some justice, no?”
    Again, she answered by looking at Aleck. “Well, they got the guy.”
    â€œCody Lee Thomas,” I stated. “I met him. What did you think of him?”
    She took a long time answering, drawing in her cigarette, watching the red glow, and then extinguishing it abruptly in a clamshell ashtray.
    â€œA hick, that one. A rube.”
    â€œDid he come here? To these rooms?”
    She swung her head back and forth. “Never. Not allowed. But I seen him at the café. At first he’s stopping in to pick her up after her shift, all lovey dovey, cooing at each other, the two of them, but then she tells him to scram, and war breaks out. You heard about the arguments at the café?”
    I nodded. “I witnessed one unpleasant skirmish in the parking lot. There was no one around.”
    Except for that shadow, I thought. The flash of movement. A person there.
    â€œWell, then you know he was a pest. Mooning like a lovesick boy. Sort of embarrassing.”
    â€œIs that why you didn’t like him?”
    She giggled. “He’s a hick. Simple as that.”
    She glanced toward the door. I expected someone to knock. At one point she half-rose,