Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [59]
Bess threw back her head and downed the champagne, then headed after Thom, slipping her arm through Megan’s on the way, pulling her gently along past the law students cuddling, almost cowering in their armchair.
“We’ll help,” she said brightly, irrelevantly, since Anise and Carrie were still lost in their cocoon of grief, guilt, relief—a girl was dead but it wasn’t Carrie. Gorgeous, glamourous Carrie, full of life and hope, momentarily shattered by the proximity of death, but soon to rally. She was too full of gusto to mourn too long. Joie de vivre. That’s what Carrie had, Megan thought. Joie de vivre. Funny that the perfect phrase to describe her should be French.
Megan squeezed her friend’s arm as they followed Thom to the kitchen. The last silent policeman was leaving with an armload of notebooks and evidence bags. A good start to his new year. Justice had triumphed on New Year’s Day.
Of course, Meg knew that justice had not triumphed. Justice had not triumphed at all.
Bess stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. Thom had already pulled on his chef’s apron and they could see him rummaging in the refrigerator for the casserole of eggs and cheese and ham that had been resting overnight and just needed to be slipped into the oven. Bess touched Megan’s face and met her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she told Meg quietly. “I’ll keep your secret.”
“My secret?” Meg was startled.
Bess looked closely at her. “It wasn’t you?”
Meg shook her head. “I thought it was you.”
Bess stared at her and shook her head.
“Then who?” Meg asked.
Megan and Bess stood and stared at each other as they both silently thought through the suspects. Thom. Anise. Carrie, herself. Michelle, even. Any of the Daggers. Meg was suddenly, strangely proud to have been suspected.
“But I saw you coming out of the den,” Meg blurted out. “You looked so angry.”
Bess just stared at her.
“You looked like you could kill someone. I thought you must have confronted Lulu over poor Celia’s boyfriend.”
“Confronted her?” Bess laughed mordantly. “I wish. No, she wasn’t there. I was angry with her. Very angry. I was talking to Anise. I told Anise.”
“Anise?”
Bess and Megan were standing there outside the kitchen, staring at each other, and they both jumped a little when Anise came up behind them.
“Anise,” Bess murmured.
“Anise,” Meg echoed. And for a moment, Meg flashed back to the old hag on her steps, telling her she wouldn’t be the youngest one. Nor the prettiest. True, but she was one of them, the Daggers. That’s what counted.
Anise hugged them both. Anise, who could never have mistaken another girl for her beloved daughter. Anise, who could never have mistaken the feel of an angora dress for a silk one as she held the dead girl in her arms. The mythology was all wrong. It wasn’t the Pietà at all. It was Penelope among the dead, unwelcome suitors, her knitting all unravelled.
“My sisters,” Anise whispered, hugging them hard, then breaking free to look from one to the other.
“Sisters,” Bess said.
“Sisters,” Meg said firmly.
Anise released them and they entered the kitchen.
“Tell you what, let’s empty the dishwasher and fill it up again. Give Thom some room to work.”
“I’ll do the glasses by hand,” Meg offered.
Thom shot them a smile.
Anise kissed Megan lightly on the cheek. Then she pulled an apron down from the hooks near the door and tied it on, and passed another to Bess, laughing as Bess rummaged through an army of bottles, all empty.
“I’ll open more champagne,” Bess declared, heading for the refrigerator. “We can’t work without champagne.”
They bent to their tasks. Meg looked forward to breakfast on a sunny New Year’s Day morning in a sparkling clean kitchen on Philadelphia’s Main Line. She belonged here. She had arrived. She was home.
YOUR BROTHER,
WHO LOVES YOU
BY JIM ZERVANOS
Fairmount
Friday night, and Nicky Krios is getting dolled up for Nostradamus of all places. These biker boots are made for ass-kicking, he thinks, and tries