four-foot square lights flush with the ceiling and arranged in an eight-foot square pattern controlled by a dimmer switch. They provided the room with a soft, almost shadowless illumination. The wood flooring was laid in a brick pattern, a sharp contrast to the rest of the room as was a black baby grand piano in the corner beside what was the bedroom door.
The aroma of good strong coffee enhanced the space.
She watched his eyes quickly roam the surroundings, taking in every detail, before settling on hers.
“Raymond’s dead, isn’t he?” she said without a moment’s hesitation, her gaze never wavering from his nor his from hers.
He always remembered the words of qiwn at times like this. Listen with your eyes. They are the doorway to the truth. “Yes. And it wasn’t an accident,” he said just as abruptly and with an edge.
Her breath withdrew compulsively. She had guessed the answer but it was still a shock. Tears filled her eyes. She put the fingers of both hands over her mouth and the word “oh!” squeezed out between them.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he said quietly, the flint gone from his tone. He had learned a lot in the brief exchange.
She shook her head sharply, her hair flipping back and forth across her face.
“No,” she said weakly. “I think…I think I need some coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He followed her into the small but adequate kitchen, all stainless steel with pots hanging from a rack over a light wooden carving table in the middle of the room. The coffee maker both ground the beans and blended the coffee. She took two mugs from a built-in closet and put them on the counter.
“How do you like it? This is pretty strong stuff. I order it from a place in Key West. It’s called Colombian Hammerhead. I take it with a little sugar.”
“I’ll go with that.”
“Sugar’s really not good for you,” she said as she sprinkled it in both cups and stirred them. “But a pinch or two won’t kill you.”
They went in the living room. She sat in a chair adjoining one of the sofas and nodded to it. When he sat down their knees almost touched.
“Mind if I tape the conversation?” Cody asked. “I’m not very good at shorthand.”
She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, and then said, “No, it’s alright.” She took a sip of coffee and then abruptly burst into a monologue, talking so fast he just sat bemused and listened.
“ My name is Amelie Cluett. My mother’s French. My father’s Japanese, in the diplomatic service, and they met in Paris. They never married. I was born in Japan. They started me on piano when I was just learning to walk but I hated it. I preferred gym and soccer and stuff like that. I learned neechika, which is a form of massage, from an old Japanese master. I loved Japan but we moved back here to New York and I went to Juilliard and I was pretty good at the piano but not good enough. I was going to a gym on Madison called The Body Machine which is a stupid name but it’s a good gym and the owner, Jerry Kerry—I told him once he ought to change his name to Harry, like hari kari —and he thought that was a hoot and when he found out I knew neechika he offered me a job and I was pretty popular and I started getting clients—I call them clients because customers sounds like a hooker—who wanted me to go to their homes and we made a deal where I work four hours a day at the Machine and do home massages the rest of the time. That was about two, no two-and-a-half years ago. I get one-and-a-half at the gym and two-and-a-half for home massages. Anyhow, that’s where I met Raymond.”
She stopped to take a breath and sip some coffee. She had looked him in the eyes during the entire speech.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars for home massages?” he repeated.
“What do you think, two dollars and fifty cents? What century were you born in? And, actually, with tips it rounds out to about three.”
“An hour? No wonder you gave up
The aroma of good strong coffee enhanced the space.
She watched his eyes quickly roam the surroundings, taking in every detail, before settling on hers.
“Raymond’s dead, isn’t he?” she said without a moment’s hesitation, her gaze never wavering from his nor his from hers.
He always remembered the words of qiwn at times like this. Listen with your eyes. They are the doorway to the truth. “Yes. And it wasn’t an accident,” he said just as abruptly and with an edge.
Her breath withdrew compulsively. She had guessed the answer but it was still a shock. Tears filled her eyes. She put the fingers of both hands over her mouth and the word “oh!” squeezed out between them.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he said quietly, the flint gone from his tone. He had learned a lot in the brief exchange.
She shook her head sharply, her hair flipping back and forth across her face.
“No,” she said weakly. “I think…I think I need some coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He followed her into the small but adequate kitchen, all stainless steel with pots hanging from a rack over a light wooden carving table in the middle of the room. The coffee maker both ground the beans and blended the coffee. She took two mugs from a built-in closet and put them on the counter.
“How do you like it? This is pretty strong stuff. I order it from a place in Key West. It’s called Colombian Hammerhead. I take it with a little sugar.”
“I’ll go with that.”
“Sugar’s really not good for you,” she said as she sprinkled it in both cups and stirred them. “But a pinch or two won’t kill you.”
They went in the living room. She sat in a chair adjoining one of the sofas and nodded to it. When he sat down their knees almost touched.
“Mind if I tape the conversation?” Cody asked. “I’m not very good at shorthand.”
She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, and then said, “No, it’s alright.” She took a sip of coffee and then abruptly burst into a monologue, talking so fast he just sat bemused and listened.
“ My name is Amelie Cluett. My mother’s French. My father’s Japanese, in the diplomatic service, and they met in Paris. They never married. I was born in Japan. They started me on piano when I was just learning to walk but I hated it. I preferred gym and soccer and stuff like that. I learned neechika, which is a form of massage, from an old Japanese master. I loved Japan but we moved back here to New York and I went to Juilliard and I was pretty good at the piano but not good enough. I was going to a gym on Madison called The Body Machine which is a stupid name but it’s a good gym and the owner, Jerry Kerry—I told him once he ought to change his name to Harry, like hari kari —and he thought that was a hoot and when he found out I knew neechika he offered me a job and I was pretty popular and I started getting clients—I call them clients because customers sounds like a hooker—who wanted me to go to their homes and we made a deal where I work four hours a day at the Machine and do home massages the rest of the time. That was about two, no two-and-a-half years ago. I get one-and-a-half at the gym and two-and-a-half for home massages. Anyhow, that’s where I met Raymond.”
She stopped to take a breath and sip some coffee. She had looked him in the eyes during the entire speech.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars for home massages?” he repeated.
“What do you think, two dollars and fifty cents? What century were you born in? And, actually, with tips it rounds out to about three.”
“An hour? No wonder you gave up
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