Golden Orange by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

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    â€œI don’t scare you, huh? That figures. I don’t scare anybody.”
    â€œBut I scare you ?”
    â€œI’m starting to get used to it,” Winnie said, and his hand inched toward her bare shoulder. His little finger lightly touched the flesh. She felt cool even with the fireplace heating up the room. “It still don’t exactly add up.”
    â€œStop acting like a cop,” Tess said, moving her shoulder so that three of his fingers were touching her. “If you must have a motive, try this one: From the first moment I saw your photo in the newspaper, I was intrigued. You appear so vulnerable and yet look what you’ve done. I wanted to find out more.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know. A time of life. Divorced for the third time. Facing middle age. Almost broke. Yeah, don’t let this house fool you, it’s mortgaged to the hilt. All alone, with my father dead less than a year. A father who left his property to someone else. Well, I saw your photo, when you were walking out of jail with your lawyer, and I thought: That man, I’ve got to meet him.”
    â€œWhat? Pity?”
    â€œ Self -pity, maybe. You’d acted ! You did something, though I’m sure you regret it now. Still, through frustration or rage or whatever, you did something and it made people notice you. Me, I’m afraid to do anything to change my life. With you I somehow feel that anything’s possible. There, is that enough of a motive for you, Officer? And please don’t say I’m trying to make a father figure out of an ex-cop. Believe me, old son, you are nothing whatsoever like my father, Conrad P. Binder.”
    â€œHow come you use your maiden name?”
    â€œMy last husband took everything else so I thought he should get back his name. Never liked it anyway. Anything else you’d like to know? About motives or clues or evidence or whatever else a cop looks for every time he meets a woman who likes him?”
    She was smiling when she said it, but she turned away and dabbed at one eye and removed her glasses.
    â€œHey!” Winnie said, propping himself up on one elbow. “Hey.”
    She turned back to him, and once again her eyes were opaque and unfathomable and absolutely dry. “Hey, what?” she said.
    â€œHey, lady,” Winnie said softly. “Hey, lady, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
    She leaned over and kissed him. Then she took his hand and held it to her face. Then she turned and kissed the palm of that hand, and then every fingertip. “You wouldn’t mind walking me upstairs, would you?” she whispered.
    â€œI’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree,” Winnie Farlowe said.
    He followed Tess Binder through the living room to that sweeping staircase. She led him by the hand, but stopped for a second when he had to grab the rosewood banister.
    â€œI’m okay,” he lied.
    Tess led him through a set of double doors and switched on a lamp. The master bedroom was the biggest Winnie had ever seen outside a movie. It was done pretty much like the living room with statuary and paintings in gilt frames. The carpet was white but seemed heavier and whiter than the one downstairs. Tess pulled back the ivory silk bedspread. He’d never slept on peach-colored sheets. He’d never seen peach-colored sheets.
    Tess said, “Hop in there and warm the linen. I’ll be right back.”
    She was gone for nearly five minutes. Winnie got undressed, wondering if it was okay to leave his clothes on the black leather chaise, a high-tech job that looked like a stealth bomber in flight. It was the only object in the entire house that Tess had picked out herself, and it clashed outrageously with the costly kitsch her husband had collected.
    Winnie decided what the hell, stripped, tossing his things onto the black leather chaise, and jumped into bed. He was glad she hadn’t seen his ragged boxer