said.
“No, I just told you—”
“If you didn’t know anything about Lavelle,” Jack said, “you would’ve been surprised when I mentioned something as off-the-wall as voodoo. You would’ve asked me what the hell voodoo had to do with anything. But you weren’t surprised, which means you know about Lavelle.”
Shelly raised one hand to her mouth, put a fingernail between her teeth, almost began to chew on it, caught herself, decided the relief provided by biting them was not worth ruining a forty-dollar nail job.
She said, “All right, all right. I know about Lavelle.”
Jack winked at Rebecca. “See?”
“Not bad,” Rebecca admitted.
“Clever interrogational technique,” Jack said. “Imagination. ”
Shelly said, “Can I have more Scotch?”
“Wait till we’ve finished questioning you,” Rebecca said.
“I’m not drunk,” Shelly said.
“I didn’t say you were,” Rebecca told her.
“I never get potted,” Shelly said. “I’m not a lush.”
She got up from the sofa, went to the bar, picked up a Waterford decanter, and poured more Scotch for herself.
Rebecca looked at Jack, raised her eyebrows.
Shelly returned and sat down. She put the glass of Scotch on the coffee table without taking a sip of it, determined to prove that she had all the will power she needed.
Jack saw the look Shelly gave Rebecca, and he almost winced. She was like a cat with her back up, spoiling for a fight.
The antagonism in the air wasn’t really Rebecca’s fault this time. She hadn’t been as cold and sharp with Shelly as it was in her power to be. In fact, she had been almost pleasant until Shelly had started the “neese” stuff. Apparently, however, Shelly had been comparing herself with Rebecca and had begun to feel that she came off second-best. That was what had generated the antagonism.
Like Rebecca, Shelly Parker was a good-looking blonde. But there the resemblance ended. Rebecca’s exquisitely shaped and harmoniously related features bespoke sensitivity, refinement, breeding. Shelly, on the other hand, was a parody of seductiveness. Her hair had been elaborately cut and styled to achieve a carefree, abandoned look. She had flat, wide cheekbones, a short upper lip, a pouting mouth. She wore too much makeup. Her eyes were blue, although slightly muddy, dreamy; they were not as forthright as Rebecca’s eyes. Her figure was too well developed; she was rather like a wonderful French pastry made with far too much butter, too many eggs, mounds of whipped cream and sugar; too rich, soft. But in tight black slacks and a purple sweater, she was definitely an eye-catcher.
She was wearing a tot of jewelry: an expensive watch; two bracelets; two rings; two small pendants on gold chains, one with a diamond, the other with what seemed to be an emerald the size of a large pea. She was only twenty-two, and although she had not been gently used, it would be quite a few years before men stopped buying jewelry for her.
Jack thought he knew why she had taken an instant disliking to Rebecca. Shelly was the kind of woman a lot of men wanted, fantasized about. Rebecca, on the other hand, was the kind of woman men wanted, fantasized about, and married.
He could imagine spending a torrid week in the Bahamas with Shelly Parker; oh, yes. But only a week. At the end of a week, in spite of her sexual energy and undoubted sexual proficiency, he would most certainly be bored with her. At the end of a week, conversation with Shelly would probably be less rewarding than conversation with a stone wall. Rebecca, however, would never be boring; she was a woman of infinite layers and endless revelations. After twenty years of marriage, he would surely still find Rebecca intriguing.
Marriage? Twenty years?
God, just listen to me! he thought, astonished. Have I been bitten, or have I been bitten?
To Shelly, he said, “So what do you know about Baba Lavelle?”
She sighed. “I’m not telling you anything about the
“No, I just told you—”
“If you didn’t know anything about Lavelle,” Jack said, “you would’ve been surprised when I mentioned something as off-the-wall as voodoo. You would’ve asked me what the hell voodoo had to do with anything. But you weren’t surprised, which means you know about Lavelle.”
Shelly raised one hand to her mouth, put a fingernail between her teeth, almost began to chew on it, caught herself, decided the relief provided by biting them was not worth ruining a forty-dollar nail job.
She said, “All right, all right. I know about Lavelle.”
Jack winked at Rebecca. “See?”
“Not bad,” Rebecca admitted.
“Clever interrogational technique,” Jack said. “Imagination. ”
Shelly said, “Can I have more Scotch?”
“Wait till we’ve finished questioning you,” Rebecca said.
“I’m not drunk,” Shelly said.
“I didn’t say you were,” Rebecca told her.
“I never get potted,” Shelly said. “I’m not a lush.”
She got up from the sofa, went to the bar, picked up a Waterford decanter, and poured more Scotch for herself.
Rebecca looked at Jack, raised her eyebrows.
Shelly returned and sat down. She put the glass of Scotch on the coffee table without taking a sip of it, determined to prove that she had all the will power she needed.
Jack saw the look Shelly gave Rebecca, and he almost winced. She was like a cat with her back up, spoiling for a fight.
The antagonism in the air wasn’t really Rebecca’s fault this time. She hadn’t been as cold and sharp with Shelly as it was in her power to be. In fact, she had been almost pleasant until Shelly had started the “neese” stuff. Apparently, however, Shelly had been comparing herself with Rebecca and had begun to feel that she came off second-best. That was what had generated the antagonism.
Like Rebecca, Shelly Parker was a good-looking blonde. But there the resemblance ended. Rebecca’s exquisitely shaped and harmoniously related features bespoke sensitivity, refinement, breeding. Shelly, on the other hand, was a parody of seductiveness. Her hair had been elaborately cut and styled to achieve a carefree, abandoned look. She had flat, wide cheekbones, a short upper lip, a pouting mouth. She wore too much makeup. Her eyes were blue, although slightly muddy, dreamy; they were not as forthright as Rebecca’s eyes. Her figure was too well developed; she was rather like a wonderful French pastry made with far too much butter, too many eggs, mounds of whipped cream and sugar; too rich, soft. But in tight black slacks and a purple sweater, she was definitely an eye-catcher.
She was wearing a tot of jewelry: an expensive watch; two bracelets; two rings; two small pendants on gold chains, one with a diamond, the other with what seemed to be an emerald the size of a large pea. She was only twenty-two, and although she had not been gently used, it would be quite a few years before men stopped buying jewelry for her.
Jack thought he knew why she had taken an instant disliking to Rebecca. Shelly was the kind of woman a lot of men wanted, fantasized about. Rebecca, on the other hand, was the kind of woman men wanted, fantasized about, and married.
He could imagine spending a torrid week in the Bahamas with Shelly Parker; oh, yes. But only a week. At the end of a week, in spite of her sexual energy and undoubted sexual proficiency, he would most certainly be bored with her. At the end of a week, conversation with Shelly would probably be less rewarding than conversation with a stone wall. Rebecca, however, would never be boring; she was a woman of infinite layers and endless revelations. After twenty years of marriage, he would surely still find Rebecca intriguing.
Marriage? Twenty years?
God, just listen to me! he thought, astonished. Have I been bitten, or have I been bitten?
To Shelly, he said, “So what do you know about Baba Lavelle?”
She sighed. “I’m not telling you anything about the
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