Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [51]
In that bazaar of a living room, Amelia is lying on the couch in her bra and panties, smoking a cigarette. Tom looks down at her.
“Did you do it?” asks Tom.
“Do what?” she says.
“Kill him. Fuck him then kill him.”
“No I didn’t kill him. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Amelia stands up and starts collecting her clothes. She touches one ear, feels her earring, and then touches the other and finds a bare lobe.
“Wrong with me?” Tom yells, “Nothing’s wrong with me! How am I supposed to know what you’re capable of?”
“Listen to me,” Amelia says in a tone that indicates that actually, she is capable of a lot. “Seth killed himself. He went to you for help and you didn’t help him. Why the hell else do you think he ended up in your pool, of all places? He wanted you to know you failed him.” Amelia sits down on the sofa, looking at her dress crumpled in her lap. “You know,” she turns to look at Tom, “people always say that this sort of thing isn’t anyone’s fault. But you and I both know the truth. It’s always someone’s fault. Every single time.” At this, Amelia straightens. “Get out of my house.”
Tom is standing over her. He looks at her face, expecting to find either vengeance or guilt, but she is expressionless. He has never known her to lie.
He turns to leave, and in the foyer by the door he sees Amelia’s other turquoise earring lodged in the carpet. He picks it up, slips it in his pocket, and slams the door behind him.
The following day, Detective Hendricks tells the Middletons they’re going to drain the pool. Detective Hendricks comes to supervise a crew of crime scene investigators dressed in navy-blue jumpsuits and latex gloves. It takes half a day for the water to drain, siphoned out onto the street and running down the hill into the gutter. Tom and Jackie watch from the deck as the men sweep the cement and unclog the filter. The last remnants of summer combed together with the early signs of fall give the yard the look of an unvisited cemetery, the diving board marking the head of its only grave. Tom squeezes Jackie’s hand, knowing that after today he will have to deny almost everything, and knowing, too, that she will believe him. Satisfied, Tom watches a young man, not much older than Seth, reach his hand into the drain at the bottom of the pool and pull out a piece of jewelry that catches the light, ever so slightly, through its scummy exterior.
PART III
THE FAKER CITY
FISHTOWN ODYSSEY
BY MEREDITH ANTHONY
Fishtown
Megan stepped out of her fashionable red door in the trendiest part of Fishtown, drinking in the cold, clear afternoon air. She stood on the stoop, locked the door behind her, and turned, putting her keys in her handbag, juggling her Kenneth Cole overnight bag. She walked down the first of the three steps that led to the sidewalk and stepped on a woman’s hand.
Megan shrieked. The woman shrieked. Megan stumbled and, for a moment, thought she might fall.
“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” she said, apologizing reflexively as she righted herself. Luckily, she was wearing snow boots instead of her strappy high heels or she would certainly have fallen. And why she should apologize she didn’t know, since the woman, old and dirty, had no business lounging on Megan’s well-kept steps. She shrugged to settle the Michael Kors cashmere coat on her shoulders, pulling it together against the cold.
“That dress is too young for you. You’re not that young,” snarled the old woman malevolently, rubbing her injured hand, having caught a glimpse beneath the coat of the bronze metallic sheath that Megan had bought for an extravagant price the week before.
“Excuse me,” Meg muttered, losing all sympathy with the old crone. “I’m in a hurry.” She went down the rest of the steps, giving the woman a wide berth.
“You won’t be the prettiest one there. Or the youngest,” the old woman called after her.
“Jesus,” Meg breathed. “What a bitch.” But she shook off her irritation. Nothing was going to spoil her mood. Today was the high point of her year.