“So I have to tell you what they sell there,” I said, making my tone conversational. “Pearl thongs.”
Grady’s smile returned-a lopsided sexy grin. “Thong underwear made of pearls?”
“Mostly.”
“What’s the rest made out of?”
“Lace.”
“Color?”
“Well, they make them in black…” I couldn’t help it, I said it like it was a two syllable word-Ba-lack-and I made the “k” at the end click. Because I knew it would turn him on.
And apparently it did, because he was staring at my lips as I said the word, and then his lids dropped a little; his mouth opened a little; his bottom lip jutted almost imperceptibly.
I knew that look. I’d seen it six months ago right before he kissed me for the first time. I noticed the look only in retrospect when I was piecing together the night-trying to hold and grasp all those little bits that occurred around the large part-the hours of intense making out in a jazz bar. In remembering, I could see that moment before all that when I watched the person I knew as Grady, my buddy, go through a shift in the way he saw me-suddenly no longer just a buddy but someone sexual, someone he wanted very much to kiss.
Now, at the Ale House, I saw it again.
Our eyes synced up, and we held our gaze, neither of us saying anything. “But they also make a silver-gray color.”
“Are you going to get a pair and let me have a look?”
But before I could say anything, Grady leaned in close and kissed me. He started with my bottom lip, kissing there, taking the lip lightly between his teeth, then kissing my whole mouth. He really was a delicious kisser.
I pulled back for a second. “We’re in public,” I said in a mock-disapproving voice. What I was really thinking was that I didn’t need to add another man to my roster for the weekend. I had already surprised myself enough with Theo and Sam.
“We’re in the Ale House.” Grady said. “We can do anything in here. And don’t forget you made out with me for a whole night at Jilly’s once.”
I laughed. “I’ve just been sitting here remembering that.”
This passage was originally at the beginning of the book. Some of the wording made it into the final novel, but most was cut.
I knew, rationally, that I didn’t have it too bad. My fiancé was back, for example, even though we hadn’t figured out what to do about us. And I wasn’t facing foreclosure of my condo…yet. But fear was starting to nibble my insides and creep its way into my brain so that I seemed to buzz with apprehension, always nervous that the end of me was very, very near. So it didn’t matter that I had still had it good compared to other people, because the thing about life is that it’s all in the attitude. And my attitude had been decidedly flagging lately. Just this past week, the sight of my bank statement had forced me to violate one of the most basic tenets of womanhood-Never cut your own bangs. My orange-red hair, which hangs in long curls to the middle of my back, had seemed to be hanging straight into my eyes that day. I kept pushing it away, tucking it behind an ear, but it kept coming back to flop across my forehead and obscure my vision of the reality that I was poor. Soon to be much poorer.
With a burst, I knew I had to do something-something different-and that thought had propelled me to the bathroom with a pair of large scissors I normally used for cutting open packages. Saying a silent apology to my stylist, I gathered a hunk of the offending hair in my hands. And I sliced.
I regretted immediately. You always do. Now, I feared what other irrational acts I’d attempt to tamp my nervousness.
In the first draft of the book, Izzy wasn’t questioned as extensively immediately following Jane’s murder, and originally, I hadn’t intended on bringing back the detective from Red Hot Lies. This passage was the first indication Izzy had that the police were looking at her as something more than a witness.
My cell phone rang. I stared at the display. It was a 773 number that I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Isabel McNeil?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sergeant Thompson from CPD.” Chicago Police Department.
“Yes?” I swallowed a lick of fear that swept up my throat and filled my nostrils so that it seemed I couldn’t air inside my body. When Sam was missing, I’d started fearing calls from the authorities. That fear had not gone away.
“We’re calling about Jane Augustine,” the sergeant said. “I work with Detective Light. We’d like you to come in for additional questioning.”
My heart rate soared toward the sky, a little airplane. Then I remembered that I had a best girlfriend who was a criminal defense lawyer.
“Am I charged with anything?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t. Maggie always said that the Chicago Police generally didn’t give a head’s up before an arrest. Besides, what did I have to fear?
Sergeant Thompson said nothing at first. “We’d need to talk to you some more. We’d like you to come to the station.” He rattled off the Belmont police station address and handy instructions on how to get there from the station. Apparently, he knew exactly where I was.
I heard Maggie in my head-Don’t speak to the cops. Never talk to them unless they arrest you.
But I wasn’t that great at listening to instructions. “I’d be happy to talk to you by phone.” I threw in, “I’m a lawyer.” It felt false, funny. I didn’t practice law anymore, and I didn’t know much about the criminal arena.
Sergeant Thompson paused. “We understand you were with Jane this past weekend? Before you found her.”
“Yes, I saw Jane a few times. We went out to Nomi on Friday night. I saw her coffee the next morning, and also that night.”
“You two normally spend that much time together?” The question sounded slightly accusatory.
“No. But on Friday, Jane had asked me to work with her at Trial TV.”
“And did you plan on attending the Trial TV bash on Monday night?” He spoke the word bash with disdain, as if he were discussing an orgy.
“Yes. I was supposed to meet Jane there.”
“Seems like you saw her more than anyone in those days before she died.” Now there was no denying it, there was some kind of accusation there.
I could hear Maggie’s voice-It doesn’t matter if you’re innocent! They’ll make it look like you’re not. Maggie would tell me not to talk to them at all, but there was no way I could stay silent, no way I couldn’t help somehow with the investigation into Jane’s death.
“Is there any reason I should have a lawyer?”
“Course not.” He answered quickly this time. “We’re just talking.
Laura Caldwell
Laura Caldwell is a Chicago-based lawyer turned novelist. Her first book, Burning the Map, was selected by Barnes & Noble.com as one of The Best of 2002. Following that, A Clean Slate received a starred review from Booklist. The release of The Year of Living Famously and The Night I Got Lucky prompted Booklist to declare, “ Caldwell is one of the most talented and inventive…writers around.”
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Red Blooded Murder Page 39
