“He’s not hungry,” Eve said. “Nadine got him designer dog food and four kinds of biscuits.”
“Yes, but Steve?”
“Nadine and Ethan and Burton were watching Fargo again, and she decided he looks like Steve Buscemi.”
Tilda broke a chunk off the bar and squinted at the dog. “Not much.” She bit into the chocolate, felt the waxy sweetness rush her mouth, and twenty years fell away, and she and Eve were back in bed, whispering over torn brown wrappers with silver letters. The bars had definitely been bigger. And she definitely felt better. “Who the hell is Burton?”
“Nadine’s latest. Very pretty. No sense of humor. Has a band. She’s singing.”
“He won’t last if he doesn’t laugh.” Tilda sat down at the head of the bed, and the dog moved up beside her.
“I hope he doesn’t. He’s a pill.” Eve made kissing noises at the dog. “C’mere, Steve.” The dog crawled slowly across the bed to her, and she stretched out and propped her head up on one hand, scratching the dog behind the ears with the other.
“So,” Eve said, looking innocent. “Tell me everything, Bundle of Lust.”
Chapter 4
TILDA CHOKED ON HER CHOCOLATE. “Nothing to tell,” she said when she’d gotten her breath back. “What’s up with you and Andrew?” She picked up the quilt and shook it out until it settled over Eve and the dog, its pattern of appliquéd leaves looking like a forest floor across the bed.
Eve looked up at her and smiled. “Come on, Vilma...”
Tilda broke off another piece of chocolate. “Really, what’s Andrew upset about?”
“Louise,” Eve said. “There was this guy at the bar and he looked like fun and I was done for the night so I had a drink. Well, Louise had a drink. I don’t think I’d be his type. I never am.” She shrugged that off. “Andrew’s just overprotective.”
“He’s overpossessive,” Tilda said. “He wants you home being safe little Eve.”
“Then he shouldn’t be paying me to be dangerous Louise,” Eve said, rolling onto her back. “I hate it when he makes me feel guilty. He was never jealous of you and Scott.”
“He’s never jealous of me at all,” Tilda said, wiggling her fingers at the dog.
“He knew Scott was all wrong for you. He knew it wouldn’t last.” Eve held out her hand. “Give me the chocolate.”
Tilda tossed the bar down to her. “Scott was perfect.” She patted the quilt. “Come here, Steve.”
The dog romped down the length of the bed to her, landing in her lap with a clumsy splat, and she laughed because he liked her so much.
“See, his name is Steve,” Eve said. “And I don’t think you want a perfect guy. I think you’ve got some Louise in you. I think you want a burglar in the night.”
Tilda petted the dog. “I am so not Louise.”
“Like Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve,” Eve went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “She says she wants a guy to take her by surprise like a burglar.” Eve rolled up on her elbow, chocolate on her mouth, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “So tell me about your burglar. Was he hot?”
“So Andrew’s mad at you,” Tilda said, gathering the dog up in her arms.
“That good, huh?” Eve broke off another piece of chocolate. “Was he perfect?”
“No.” Tilda thought about his kiss in the closet and shivered. “Not even close.”
“Oooh,” Eve said, grinning at her. “Perfect.”
“See, this is why I should never talk to you about boys,” Tilda said. “You encourage me to be bad, and I get into trouble.”
“You bet,” Eve said.
“Give me the damn chocolate,” Tilda said, letting Steve settle back onto the bed, and Eve tossed it to her.
“So why did he steal the painting for you?”
“I think he felt sorry for me.” Tilda broke off another piece.
“And the Bundle of Lust part?” Eve said. “Come on. Give it up.”
“There’s nothing,” Tilda said primly, but she started to grin in spite of herself.
“Til-da’s got a se-cret” Eve sang, her perfect voice making even that sound good, and Steve pricked up his ears.
“And you’re how old?” Tilda said, trying to sound mature.
“Thirty-five, but I’m not meeting burglars and doing God knows what.”
“Kissing,” Tilda said and then laughed when Eve shrieked in delight and Steve jerked back.
“More,” Eve said.
“There’s not much to tell,” Tilda said, trying to sound offhand. “I opened a closet door, and he jumped me and gave me an asthma attack, so I bit him. Then he criticized my clothes and told me he was no gentleman and kissed me.”
“Ooh, ooh,” Eve said. “How was it?”
“Pretty damn hot,” Tilda said, feeling safe enough in the basement with Eve to tell the truth. “I frenched him.”
“Yes,” Eve said, and Tilda laughed again.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Tilda said, breaking off another piece of chocolate. “I was scared and he was standing between me and disaster.”
“For which you say, ‘Thank you very much,’ not ‘Let me lick your tonsils.’”
“It was the adrenaline. It had to go somewhere and it ended up in my mouth. Plus I knew I was never going to see him again, and we were in a dark closet, so it was like it wasn’t me.” Tilda felt cheered by how reasonable it all sounded.
“That was the last you saw of him?” Eve said, disappointed.
Tilda nodded. “Except for about twenty minutes in the diner when he threatened me, told me I have bug eyes, and stuck me with the check.”
“Edgy,” Eve said. “Iconoclastic. Not your mother’s Oldsmobile.”
“Right,” Tilda said, deciding they’d talked enough about her sins. “So does Gwennie seem a little odd to you lately?”
“Gwennie always seems odd to me,” Eve said, sitting up, “which is one of the many reasons I love her. Did I tell you she went to the Eddie Bauer outlet and came back with five sweaters, one for you, one for her, one for Na-dine, one for me, and one for Louise? I said, ‘Gwennie, that’s two for me,’ and she said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear, you’d never wear black.’”
“Which is true,” Tilda said. “Although I never thought of Louise as an Eddie Bauer girl.”
“Which is why you need this guy and not Scott,” Eve said. “You need a burglar in the night, not a lawyer in the day. The Louise in you needs him like the Louise in me needs a black sweater.”
“There is no Louise in me.” Tilda felt a little depressed about that. She stood up, handed Eve the last piece of chocolate, and put Steve on the floor.
“There’s a little Louise in every woman.” Eve leaned down the bed and straightened the painting where it rested against the headboard. “Just because yours is nicknamed Vilma doesn’t mean it isn’t really Louise.”
“And I do not need a burglar in the night.” Tilda thought back to her disgraceful behavior, asking him to rescue her. “That guy brings out the worst in me.”
“That’s your inner Louise,” Eve said, approval in her voice. “Set her free. Really, I don’t know what I’d do without Louise. Just about the time I think I’m going to start screaming, it’s Wednesday night and there she is, blowing off all my steam.”
“Right,” Tilda said. “I don’t teach elementary school, I paint murals. It’s very peaceful. I have no steam to blow.”
“Just remember the three rules,” Eve said as if Tilda hadn’t spoken. “She only comes out four nights a week, she never has sex at home, and she never tells anybody she’s you.”
“It’s not too late to get therapy,” Tilda said. “I’m sure your school insurance covers it.”
“Why?” Eve stood up and straightened her pajamas. “I’m happy. And I got two sweaters.”
“Good for you,” Tilda said. “Look, the guy in the closet was not that hot, I was exaggerating.”
“You know,” Eve said. “You keep talking yourself out of all
the good stuff, you’re never going to get any.”
“I got some,” Tilda said, annoyed. “Scott and I had great sex. I came every time.” Steve put his paws on her leg and she picked him up. “They should put that man’s name in lights.”
“He was too calm,” Eve said. “Did you ever feel ravished? Did you ever feel as though if you didn’t have him, you’d die?”
“For the last time, I have no inner Louise.” Tilda looked back at the bed. “I don’t even have an inner Scarlet anymore.” She handed the dog to Eve and flipped the dustcover back over the bed, hiding the headboard, the quilt, and the painting. “I have responsibilities. I have to be smart. I have to steal a painting.” She felt a little sick at the thought, but that might have been the chocolate.
“Which is another reason why you shouldn’t have let the burglar go,” Eve said.
“I didn’t let him go. He let go of me.” She forced a smile. “And thank God for that.”
“Yeah,” Eve said. “Because all that good kissing would have gotten old eventually. I think there’s more chocolate upstairs, Vilma.”
Tilda sighed. “Lead me to it, Louise.”
AT NINE the next morning, Gwen poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up a nice Bacharach medley on the jukebox, pulled a pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag Andrew had dropped off on his way to jog, and then went out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic. To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and a loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air. Behind her, Jackie DeShannon sang “Come and Get Me,” and Gwen thought, Fat chance. I’m stuck here forever.
The clue for G was “once a popular make of automobile”; that was always “Nash.” Why they never varied that clue was beyond Gwen. It wasn’t as if there weren’t other formerly popular automobiles. That gave her two of four letters for the word in the quote —R, blank, N, blank— which could be “rang,” or “rank,” or “rant,” or “rend,” or “ring,” or “rung,” or “runs”... Kill me now, Gwen thought.
Okay, H. “Nineteen fifty-four Ray Milland movie.” Fourteen spaces. “Damn.”
“Language, Grandma,” Nadine said from behind her, and Gwen turned. Nadine was sporting a black leather jacket, spiky black hair, mime-white makeup with raccoon eyes, Steve in her arms, and her boyfriend du jour, Burton, looking his usual, sullen Goth self, at her side.
“It’s June,” Gwen said to Nadine, deciding to ignore Burton since her day was already irritating. “Maybe not the leather jacket.”
Burton made one of those all-purpose cut-me-a-break sounds, and Gwen ignored him some more. He’d have been such a good-looking boy if it hadn’t been for the sneer.
Ethan came out of the office, eating a muffin, not looking pretty. “I snagged one, Mrs. Goodnight,” he said, his bony face cheerful under his bright red hair. “What do I owe you?”
Gwen’s mood improved slightly. “I’ll spot you the muffin if you can tell me a 1954 Ray Milland movie, fourteen spaces.”
“The Lost Weekend,” Ethan bit into the muffin.
“You’re a good boy, Ethan,” Gwen said and filled in the space.
“That’s what the ‘damn’ was for?” Nadine put the dog down and took a corner from Ethan’s muffin as the gallery door opened. “A 1954 movie? You know you’d have gotten that eventually.”
“Ray Milland makes it harder.” Gwen turned to face whoever was lost enough to come into the gallery and thought, Uh-oh. Six feet, dark hair, horn-rimmed glasses, dusty jacket, and dustier duffel bag, and even with all of that, you paid attention. “Loser,” Burton said under his breath, and Gwen looked into the newcomer’s sharp, dark eyes and thought, No, but trouble just the same.
“Ray Milland, 1954?” he said.
“Yes,” Gwen said, as Steve barked once, a low tremolo that slid up the scale at the end.
“Steve,” Nadine said, delighted. “You’re musical!”
“Dial M for Murder” The newcomer stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Davy Dempsey.”
Gwen frowned at him and shook his hand and thought, He’s charming. That can’t be good. She squinted at her book. Dial M for Murder made the word in the fourth line “never” instead of “nevew.”
“That’s a help.”
“Sorry,” Ethan said. “Should I give the muffin back?”
“No,” Gwen said. “You’re sixteen and you came up with a Ray Milland movie. You get muffins for life.”
“So, you want to buy a painting?” Nadine said to Davy, openly appraising him.
He studied the closest Finster, a pale oil of three depressed and evil fishermen closing in on a dyspeptic tuna. “ ‘A foul and depraved-looking lot, Bailiff.’”
“ ‘Those are just the spectators, Your Honor,’” Ethan said, and the two of them grinned at each other.
“What?” Gwen said, not reassured. That smile, that confidence, that glint in his eye. Who does this guy remind me of?
“Movie quotes,” Nadine said, affection in her voice. “Ethan just found another film geek to play with.”
“Losers,” Burton said under his breath.
“So what are you here for?” Nadine said to the stranger, focused as always.
“You have a room to rent?” He nodded toward the sign in the window as Steve crept closer and sniffed his shoes. “I’ll take anything, even the attic.”
“Aunt Tilda has the attic,” Nadine said. “She’s not good with the sharing.”
“Efficiency apartment,” Gwen said. “Furnished, clean, neat, eight hundred dollars, two months’ rent in advance. Don’t worry about the dog. He doesn’t bite.” We hope.
“You going to stay for two months?” Nadine said, eyeing his duffel with suspicion.
“Probably not,” Davy said, grinning at her. “Basically, I’m on my way to Australia.”
“Support Your Local Sheriff,” Ethan said.
“I don’t know that one,” Nadine said, shoving her hand at Davy. “I’m Nadine and this is my grandmother, Gwennie.” She nodded over her shoulder. “That’s Burton and that’s Ethan, and that’s Steve, sniffing your foot.”
“Hey,” Ethan said, waving his muffin. Burton glowered. Steve sat down and scratched behind his ear.
“Can we go now?” Burton said.
“No,” Nadine said, and Burton shut up.
“Can you give me references?” Gwen said to Davy.
“Not from here,” Davy said. “I can give you several in Florida. Miami.”
Florida, Gwen thought. Sparkling blue water. Cool white beaches. Alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas. She’d kill to be in Florida, even if it was June.
“We gotta go now,” Burton said, slinging his arm around Nadine’s shoulders. Nadine looked annoyed while Ethan munched his muffin, ignoring Burton completely.
“The jacket,” Gwen said to Nadine. “It’s Louise’s. If you sweat in it, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You’re right.” Nadine shrugged off the jacket and Burton’s arm at the same time. “Take the hair, too,” she said, and pulled off the black wig, freeing the damp blonde curls matted around her face. “June is not a Goth month.”
Burton was disgusted, but then, he always was, Gwen thought. Clearly Nadine had inherited the Goodnight women’s legendary taste for impossible men. She looked back at Davy again. Perhaps Louise should not meet this one.
“See you later, Australia,” Nadine said, and went out the door, Burton’s arm around her once again. Ethan ambled behind them both, finishing off his muffin.
Davy leaned on the counter and watched them go. “She does know she’s with the wrong guy?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Nadine is a very deep child.”
Back in the office, the jukebox started to play “Wishin’ and Hopin’.”
“Dusty,” Davy said, lifting his chin to listen. “Good omen. Am I renting?”
Sixteen hundred dollars. “Yes,” Gwen said.
He nodded. “Now, there’s just one problem.”
I knew it.
“I got my pocket picked in a bar last night,” he was saying. “Dumb of me. I’ve got money coming in later, but I had to cancel all my credit cards, so for right now all I have is a hundred bucks.”
He smiled at her again and her lips quirked automatically. A hundred bucks was a start, and it wasn’t as if there was anything in the apartment worth stealing.
She let her eyes slide sideways to Dorcas’s beautifully painted but depraved fishermen.
Or in the gallery.
“But I can have a friend wire me the rest by tomorrow. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes,” Gwen said, giving up.
He said, “You are a good person,” and handed her five twenties.
Gwen took them. “The room’s on the fourth floor. I’ll get the key and take you up.”
She backed into the office and fished in the desk for the key to 4B, across the hall from Dorcas in 4A. She could have put him in 2B, but that would have put him across from her apartment. Dorcas was always expecting the worst anyway. If he turned out to be an ax murderer, he could reinforce her theory of life. She took the keys out to him.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the key ring. “You won’t regret this.” Then he must have seen something in her eyes because he stopped and added, “Really. It’s okay,” and for a moment she felt that it was, that whatever he was, it would be fine.
Then she realized who he reminded her of. Tony. Right down to the “You won’t regret this,” when he’d proposed and she’d accepted, not knowing much about him except he appeared to be crazy about her and she was starting to appear to be pregnant with Eve.
“Hello?” he said, and she realized she’d been staring at him.
“Right this way,” she said, and steered him out of the gallery before he turned into Tony and sold her a Finster.
DAVY WASN’T SURE what he’d said to make Gwen Goodnight stare at him as if he were the Angel of Death, but she seemed to be dealing with it as she led him up the three flights of stairs to the apartment. The hall could have used some paint, but it was clean and well lit, which was more than Davy could have said for a lot of the places he’d lived in. His landlady didn’t have much money, he deduced, but she was hardworking. Or at least somebody was hardworking. Probably not Nadine.
Faking It Page 6
