Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [24]
Jack drew on his cigarette. He looked up into the night: the earlier clouds had cleared. It was a beautiful winter sky, fresh as a tarmac after rain.
‘So what did she say exactly?’
‘She said that Kasprowicz had sent her father a box full of ashes. His burnt books. The note implied there would be more to come. Maybe all of them.’
‘She’s lying. You don’t know her. It’s all about money.’
‘What money?’
‘The fucking money they didn’t get! The inheritance!’ A frown dug into her forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, they were lustreless, resigned. ‘It all went to my father. Celia’s never let it go. Never will.’ She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.
‘But why would she accuse —’
‘I don’t know! Why would I know?’
She chewed her bottom lip. Jack wished he could apply for the job. For some reason there was now only thirty centimetres between them. And closing? Maybe it was the alignment of the stars. He flicked his cigarette away behind him.
Annabelle looked up into his eyes. Tension slipped from her face. Her features softened. ‘You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through with this family,’ she said, her voice sounding sorry for her, if nobody else was. ‘No idea at all.’
‘Maybe you should tell me about it.’
‘Maybe I should.’
‘I’m a good listener.’
‘So why don’t you shut up.’
Two seconds later, Annabelle Kasprowicz had her arms around him. Jack watched her lips travel towards him in slow motion through time and space, slightly open, promising death by softness. He held her to him and obliged with an opposite and equal reaction. They kissed. Jack stopped thinking. All was well in the world.
Sometimes a minute can be a long time. You can even forget where you are in one good, long minute. Then a voice from the kitchen reminded Jack exactly where he was.
‘Hi Mum.’
Annabelle pushed herself away from Jack as though he had caught fire.
‘Louisa, what are you doing home?’ She stepped back into the kitchen. Her daughter stared at Jack. If there had been a cigarette in his mouth, her eyes would have lit it. His eyebrows might have gone up, too.
‘Nina got upset with her mother and took off.’
‘Who brought you over?’
‘I called Dad. He’s in the car. We’re going out for food.’
Annabelle glanced at Jack. ‘Louisa was at a wedding rehearsal. She’s a bridesmaid for her cousin.’
Jack nodded. He was imagining himself punching Durst through his car window. He walked back into the kitchen, closing the patio door behind him.
‘I remember you,’ said Louisa. She tilted her head to the right, the stern look was replaced with a smirk. ‘You’re the gas man.’
‘The best in the business.’
‘He’s cute, Mum. Nice shoulders.’
‘Don’t be smart.’
Louisa crossed her arms. ‘When are you going to introduce him to Dad?’
‘We’ve already met,’ said Jack. He was glad he was no longer a nineteen-year-old, hormones surging, confused, loud, fragile. Girls like Louisa had always eaten poor bastards like that for breakfast.
‘Oh, good. Then you can say hello.’ She smiled at Jack, then winked at her mother.
‘That’s enough, Louisa.’
‘I’ll just go get him.’ She walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.
‘You might have to set another place,’ said Jack, bristling.
‘This isn’t funny.’ Annabelle walked over and picked up her glass from the dining table and drank: but wine was the wrong drink. It was not for going down quickly. She coughed. ‘She won’t bring him in.’
‘Maybe he’s hungry.’
‘She won’t bring him in.’
The extraction fan whined. Jack strained his ears, listening for the front door, for footsteps down the hall. Annabelle was listening, too. A minute later, they both heard them.
Here he comes. Jack dropped his right hand to his side and flexed his fingers. His heart beat hard in his chest. He had never thumped a middle-aged metrosexual before.
9
HAMMOND KASPROWICZ WAS FAR FROM MARXIST, but he strode into the kitchen like a politburo minister of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His face was