the rap for it. Even though I’d been sitting next to her on her blue chenille bedspread when we heard the crash. Even though I’d told her parents that. Even though she’d been grounded for a month, and God only knows what emotional havoc was heaped on her by her loony mother. Even though.
Robin had kept a pale-faced silence throughout, never once protesting her innocence. Never once pointing her finger at the real culprit, a seven-year-old vision of blonde hair and blue eyes and sweet smiles.
And Brooke, of course, had never confessed.
By rights Robin should have been jealous of the much younger little brat who got all the attention, but she never was. Always supported, always defended. Since I was the little brat in my own family, there wasn’t a lot I could say about it to Robin. Brooke was another story.
“You’ve had your First Communion, Brooke,” I’d made a point of saying at the time. “So I guess you realize that you’ll burn in hell for this. This is a double mortal sin and your soul doesn’t have even one little tiny patch of white left on it.”
Deep down I’d suspected that Brooke wasn’t worried one bit about God and his helpers. She knew she could wrap them around her little finger.
“Leave her alone,” Robin had told me, her eyes still red-rimmed from her mother’s last verbal blast. “She’s just a little kid.”
“Old enough to fry.”
Brooke had started to cry at that point. She had an amazing trick of crying while still looking beautiful. No blotches, no red eyes. Just little rivulets of tears and a trembling pink lower lip.
“Better go home now,” Robin had told me, as she reached down to comfort her poor, trembling little sister. “See you tomorrow at school.”
“Sizzle, sizzle,” I mouthed at Brooke as I left, making sure that Robin didn’t see me.
The memory of that encounter was crisp and vivid, even though it was nearly twenty years old. And two things I knew: Brooke hadn’t changed a bit. And neither had Robin.
* * *
Even the soothing tones of the Harmony couldn’t quite dispel my miserable mood. The ambience in The Tranquillity Room should have been enough, given the string quartet and all. The poached Atlantic salmon helped a lot, and so did the chocolate pâté and raspberry coulis. Still, I was on edge. As we sipped our cappuccino, Richard Sandes leaned across the white linen tablecloth and gave my hand a squeeze. Warm and protective. Like a father.
“Maybe she’s right,” he said.
I gazed into his deep-brown eyes and said, “Don’t be silly.”
Ruining the mood.
He gave me one of his sad smiles, but I thought I saw a flicker of concern cross his face as he beckoned for the waiter.
The waiter practically vaulted over the serving table to get to us. He managed to maintain his dignity, although I couldn’t help noticing his toupee was a bit askew.
“Armagnac?” Richard asked.
“Better not. I’ve got my car.”
Naturally. I’m the only person I know who would take her own car on what was turning out to be a very romantic evening of investigation.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get you home. Your car will be fine in our parking lot overnight. Armagnac for two, Gilles,” he told the waiter.
“Yes, Mr. Sandes.”
Richard and I exchanged grins as the waiter hurried off to get our drinks. He paused before one of the tall mirrors to straighten his hair. It couldn’t be easy, I thought, serving dinner to the General Manager.
I returned to the subject du soir.
“You don’t know her, Richard. She’s always been levelheaded and calm. She’s had plenty of time to recover her emotional balance since finding the body.”
I couldn’t figure out what there was about this man, but here I was blabbering on about Robin and my fears. Maybe there’s something about seeing a corpse together that helps to break down conversational barriers in later encounters.
He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. It was so gruesome.
Robin had kept a pale-faced silence throughout, never once protesting her innocence. Never once pointing her finger at the real culprit, a seven-year-old vision of blonde hair and blue eyes and sweet smiles.
And Brooke, of course, had never confessed.
By rights Robin should have been jealous of the much younger little brat who got all the attention, but she never was. Always supported, always defended. Since I was the little brat in my own family, there wasn’t a lot I could say about it to Robin. Brooke was another story.
“You’ve had your First Communion, Brooke,” I’d made a point of saying at the time. “So I guess you realize that you’ll burn in hell for this. This is a double mortal sin and your soul doesn’t have even one little tiny patch of white left on it.”
Deep down I’d suspected that Brooke wasn’t worried one bit about God and his helpers. She knew she could wrap them around her little finger.
“Leave her alone,” Robin had told me, her eyes still red-rimmed from her mother’s last verbal blast. “She’s just a little kid.”
“Old enough to fry.”
Brooke had started to cry at that point. She had an amazing trick of crying while still looking beautiful. No blotches, no red eyes. Just little rivulets of tears and a trembling pink lower lip.
“Better go home now,” Robin had told me, as she reached down to comfort her poor, trembling little sister. “See you tomorrow at school.”
“Sizzle, sizzle,” I mouthed at Brooke as I left, making sure that Robin didn’t see me.
The memory of that encounter was crisp and vivid, even though it was nearly twenty years old. And two things I knew: Brooke hadn’t changed a bit. And neither had Robin.
* * *
Even the soothing tones of the Harmony couldn’t quite dispel my miserable mood. The ambience in The Tranquillity Room should have been enough, given the string quartet and all. The poached Atlantic salmon helped a lot, and so did the chocolate pâté and raspberry coulis. Still, I was on edge. As we sipped our cappuccino, Richard Sandes leaned across the white linen tablecloth and gave my hand a squeeze. Warm and protective. Like a father.
“Maybe she’s right,” he said.
I gazed into his deep-brown eyes and said, “Don’t be silly.”
Ruining the mood.
He gave me one of his sad smiles, but I thought I saw a flicker of concern cross his face as he beckoned for the waiter.
The waiter practically vaulted over the serving table to get to us. He managed to maintain his dignity, although I couldn’t help noticing his toupee was a bit askew.
“Armagnac?” Richard asked.
“Better not. I’ve got my car.”
Naturally. I’m the only person I know who would take her own car on what was turning out to be a very romantic evening of investigation.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get you home. Your car will be fine in our parking lot overnight. Armagnac for two, Gilles,” he told the waiter.
“Yes, Mr. Sandes.”
Richard and I exchanged grins as the waiter hurried off to get our drinks. He paused before one of the tall mirrors to straighten his hair. It couldn’t be easy, I thought, serving dinner to the General Manager.
I returned to the subject du soir.
“You don’t know her, Richard. She’s always been levelheaded and calm. She’s had plenty of time to recover her emotional balance since finding the body.”
I couldn’t figure out what there was about this man, but here I was blabbering on about Robin and my fears. Maybe there’s something about seeing a corpse together that helps to break down conversational barriers in later encounters.
He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. It was so gruesome.
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