Empty Ever After by Reed Farrel Coleman Page B

that Evelyn Roth was attractive. It was more in the way the woman before me was put together. The thick, unflattering glasses were gone in favor of blue contacts. Her hair fell a few inches over her shoulders and was now a sort of dark blond with expertly blended highlights. The longish, lighter hair was a nice compliment to the new shape of her face. Nancy had lost at least thirty pounds, but more than diet had gone into resculpting her face. There were cheekbones, high ones, an angular jawline, fuller lips and a pert, provocative nose. Her makeup was flawless and her tennis outfit showed off a tanned, well-muscled body. The tight red polo shirt accented the shape of her new, gravity-defying breasts. Nancy crossed one leg in front of the other, tapping the floor impatiently with the tip her court shoe.
    “Can I help you?”
    “Moe Prager. We met back in the late ’70s.”
    She squinted, as if she hoped squeezing her eyes together might help her see into the past. Apparently, squinting was no help with time travel.
    “Sorry,” she said, “I got nothing.”
    “Patrick Maloney.”
    That did the trick. She screwed up her new face as if she’d just caught a whiff of steaming hot dog shit. I didn’t blame her. It hadn’t exactly been a storybook romance between Patrick and Nancy. In a desperate attempt to deny his homosexuality and cope with his burgeoning OCD, Patrick engaged in a series of doomed relationships with women. With Nancy Lustig, the inevitable bad ending was particularly ugly. There was a visit to a sex club, an aborted pregnancy, and violence. He dislocated her shoulder and might’ve done much worse had other students not pulled him off her.

    “The detective. Yes, I remember.” She didn’t ask me in.
    “That’s right. How have you been?”
    “Look, what’s this about, Mr. Prager?”
    “Moe, please.”
    “Let’s stay on point. What’s this about?”
    “Patrick.”
    “Sorry, not interested,” she said. “What, he woke up from a coma and wants to apologize or something? He develop a conscience after twenty years?”
    “Nothing like that. Patrick’s dead.”
    “Did he remember me in his will?”
    “It happens that he was murdered shortly after he disappeared.”
    If I thought that would shake her up, I thought wrong. She yawned. I might have told her I stepped on an ant.
    “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Prager, but I’m leaving to play tennis in a little while, so if there’s nothing—”
    “You sure have changed,” I said, trying a new tack.
    She wasn’t sure how to take that. “Thank you…I think.”
    “Oh, no, I meant it as a compliment,” I lied. “You’re quite lovely.”
    “Thank you,” she said, flashing a satisfied smile. “It was a lot of hard work to bury dumpy old Nancy.”
    “I don’t know, there were parts of her I kinda admired.”
    Nancy scowled at me like Father Blaney. I looked for clouds to move in overhead.
    “Admired! What did you admire, my desperation? My willingness to take crumbs and castoffs? My—”
    “Your honesty.”
    “Oh, that. Honesty’s easy when it’s all you have.”
    “I’m not sure it’s ever easy.”
    “Why admire someone for something when they have nothing else? It’s like admiring an amputee for still having the other leg. These,” she said, running her hands over her now exquisite breasts, “are something to admire. On the whole, Mr. Prager, you can keep honesty. I’ll take these. No one desires you for your honesty.” She dropped her hands back to her sides.
    “Why is it one or the other?”
    Just then, as if on cue, a Land Rover pulled into the long driveway and beeped its horn.
    “I prefer tennis to questions of metaphysics. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
    “Sorry to have bothered you,” I said, and walked back to my car. I rolled out of the driveway onto Route 107 and parked. A few minutes later, the
green Land Rover pulled onto the road and disappeared, heading north. I had to go north too, but I needed