instead of having them deliver,” she said. “That way we don’t have to worry about a deliveryman seeing you, and I can stop at a pay phone and call Matthew. Then he can call Peter and let him know you’re safe.” She giggled. “We’ll have to figure out a code. Like ‘the eagle has landed’ or ‘full moon over Tulsa’ or something like that. Rachel, is there any special message you want to get to him?”
I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Asking Emma to tell Matthew to tell Peter I was sorry could hardly undo the damage I’d wrought. As apologies went, that would be setting a whole new standard for lame.
“Rachel?”
“We’re sort of in a fight,” I confessed sheepishly.
“Excuse me?” asked Jane.
“What could you possibly fight about with Mr. Too-Good-To-Be-True?” asked Hilary.
“You’re being ridiculous about something, aren’t you?” asked Luisa.
“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s pretty much all my fault.”
And everything that had happened that morning came spilling out.
“So,” summarized Hilary when I’d finished,“You’re never home, but you have plenty of time to flounce around with some guy from work. And meanwhile, Peter’s moved three thousand miles to do nothing but be supportive and sweet and cook for you and hack e-mail accounts for you and bring you Diet Coke in bed, and you pick a fight and accuse him of espionage?”
I would be the first to say my behavior had been deplorable, but it all sounded even worse when she put it like that.
“Why are you trying to drive him away?” asked Jane.
“Because you were right. I’m scared.”
“Of what?” asked Emma.
“I don’t know, exactly. I mean, there are all the usual clichéd answers: I’m scared of losing my independence, and I’m scared of things not working out. But none of that excuses taking it out on Peter. Is it even fair to ask him to forgive me? Wouldn’t he be better off getting rid of me and finding some nice emotionally stable person to marry?”
“You’re completely insane,” said Hilary.
“That’s exactly my point,” I said.
My friends were eager to settle in for a long session of psychoanalysis with me as their subject, but I insisted that we focus on more immediate problems instead. Emma left to pick up the food and call Matthew, but the rest of us gathered around the antique wooden farm table that loosely defined the dining area in the large open-plan space. Hilary refilled wineglasses while Jane pulled an easel over from the corner of the room that served as Emma’s studio. She tacked a large piece of drawing paper onto it, and then turned to us, marker in hand.
“Why don’t we make a list of all the possible suspects?” she suggested brightly. “Then we’ll divide them up and investigate.” Jane taught math at a private school in Cambridge, and I suddenly had a vivid sense of what it would be like to be in her class.
Hilary groaned. “Good Lord, Jane. We’re not your students, and this isn’t Scooby-Doo. ”
“But if it were, I’m not Velma,” I said.
“I have the feeling it’s going to be a very long night,” said Luisa. She had crossed over to a window at the far end of the room, opened it wide, and lit a cigarette. I watched as she exhaled a stream of smoke out into the night.
“Come back, Luisa. How are you going to see the chart from way over there?”
“I’m trying to protect your unborn child from secondhand smoke,” she pointed out.
“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” Jane turned back to the easel. “Now, where were we? The suspects. Or should we start with the victims? What do you think, Rach?”
“Here’s the way I see it,” I said. “Gallagher was the primary target, but Dahlia knew something, or somebody thought she knew something, and that’s what got her into trouble.”
“Knew what?” asked Jane, scribbling on the easel.
“I don’t know. But that brings us back to why anybody would want to kill Gallagher in the first
I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Asking Emma to tell Matthew to tell Peter I was sorry could hardly undo the damage I’d wrought. As apologies went, that would be setting a whole new standard for lame.
“Rachel?”
“We’re sort of in a fight,” I confessed sheepishly.
“Excuse me?” asked Jane.
“What could you possibly fight about with Mr. Too-Good-To-Be-True?” asked Hilary.
“You’re being ridiculous about something, aren’t you?” asked Luisa.
“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s pretty much all my fault.”
And everything that had happened that morning came spilling out.
“So,” summarized Hilary when I’d finished,“You’re never home, but you have plenty of time to flounce around with some guy from work. And meanwhile, Peter’s moved three thousand miles to do nothing but be supportive and sweet and cook for you and hack e-mail accounts for you and bring you Diet Coke in bed, and you pick a fight and accuse him of espionage?”
I would be the first to say my behavior had been deplorable, but it all sounded even worse when she put it like that.
“Why are you trying to drive him away?” asked Jane.
“Because you were right. I’m scared.”
“Of what?” asked Emma.
“I don’t know, exactly. I mean, there are all the usual clichéd answers: I’m scared of losing my independence, and I’m scared of things not working out. But none of that excuses taking it out on Peter. Is it even fair to ask him to forgive me? Wouldn’t he be better off getting rid of me and finding some nice emotionally stable person to marry?”
“You’re completely insane,” said Hilary.
“That’s exactly my point,” I said.
My friends were eager to settle in for a long session of psychoanalysis with me as their subject, but I insisted that we focus on more immediate problems instead. Emma left to pick up the food and call Matthew, but the rest of us gathered around the antique wooden farm table that loosely defined the dining area in the large open-plan space. Hilary refilled wineglasses while Jane pulled an easel over from the corner of the room that served as Emma’s studio. She tacked a large piece of drawing paper onto it, and then turned to us, marker in hand.
“Why don’t we make a list of all the possible suspects?” she suggested brightly. “Then we’ll divide them up and investigate.” Jane taught math at a private school in Cambridge, and I suddenly had a vivid sense of what it would be like to be in her class.
Hilary groaned. “Good Lord, Jane. We’re not your students, and this isn’t Scooby-Doo. ”
“But if it were, I’m not Velma,” I said.
“I have the feeling it’s going to be a very long night,” said Luisa. She had crossed over to a window at the far end of the room, opened it wide, and lit a cigarette. I watched as she exhaled a stream of smoke out into the night.
“Come back, Luisa. How are you going to see the chart from way over there?”
“I’m trying to protect your unborn child from secondhand smoke,” she pointed out.
“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” Jane turned back to the easel. “Now, where were we? The suspects. Or should we start with the victims? What do you think, Rach?”
“Here’s the way I see it,” I said. “Gallagher was the primary target, but Dahlia knew something, or somebody thought she knew something, and that’s what got her into trouble.”
“Knew what?” asked Jane, scribbling on the easel.
“I don’t know. But that brings us back to why anybody would want to kill Gallagher in the first
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