by Sara Gran
That's the thing about being a private eye. The job will bleed you dry. No one ever says, Hey, maybe the PI needs a break. Hey, let's buy the PI a drink. No thank-you cards, no flowers, no singing telegrams, and half the time you don't even get paid.
59
A FEW DAYS BEFORE Constance died we stayed up late one night talking in her parlor, each of us on one of her long velvet sofas. Of course, I didn't know she was going to die soon. But I knew change was coming. I felt it in my blood, I saw it when I slept. That night she was in a rare mood. Usually she taught by example and metaphor, dream and command, but tonight we drank wine and talked and she answered a few of my questions directly. Her white hair was piled on her head and she wore black silk pajamas from Hong Kong. She smelled like violets always, and sometimes like a special shampoo she used from Paris, and the old-fashioned makeup she bought on Canal Street.
Not many good things had happened to me before I met Constance. But after I met her I knew how to recognize the good parts of life and stay with them for a minute or two before they flew away, joining the dead wherever the dead go. This was one of the good moments: her hair, her smell, her house, Mick sleeping in the spare room, all of us a family.
I loved New Orleans. I thought I was finally home. I loved the city so much, it hurt sometimes.
"The truth is a funny thing," Constance said. "Just when you think you've got a hold on it, it slips away."
"Then why do it?" I asked. "Why bother to solve mysteries? Don't they ever end?"
Constance laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "No. Mysteries never end. And I always thought maybe none of them really get solved, either. We only pretend we understand when we can't bear it anymore. We close the file and close the case, but that doesn't mean we've found the truth, Claire."
"Then what does it mean?" I asked.
"It only means that we've given up on this mystery," Constance explained. "And decided to look for the truth someplace else." She yawned. "That's enough for now, dear. You go on and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night," I said. I stood up and turned around. But then a strange feeling overcame me and I turned back around. Suddenly tears were streaming down my face.
"I..." I began.
"Yes?" Constance said. It was dark, and she couldn't see I was crying.
"I ... Thank you," I said. I realized I had never said it before. "For everything. Thank you."
Constance looked at me and smiled.
"You're welcome, my dear," she said. "You are very, very welcome."
I nodded. Then I turned and started toward the door. I would never see her alive again.
"And yes," Constance called out behind me. "I love you too, Claire."
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Dan Conaway, Andrea Schulz, Angus Cargill, Megan Abbott, Mark Levine, Suzanne Gran, Warren Gran, Dawn Asher, and Bobby Urh for their time, generosity, help, and kindness to this book—and to me—over the years it took to write it.
Table of Contents
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Acknowledgments
