I love a juicy murder mystery as much as any reporter does, but the fun quickly goes out of the hunt when innocent persons start turning up dead. Maybe it’s because I want to believe Janet’s all right that I’m more receptive to the possibility that her brother’s drowning was accidental; that Jay Burns’s death was unconnected, the randomly squalid result of booze, dope and bad company; and that the concealment of the hard drive aboard the Rio Rio doesn’t prove anything except that Jimmy Stoma, like many musicians, was obsessed with keeping his project safe from studio rats and pirates. God only knows where Prince hides his masters.
Over breakfast I run this scenario past Emma, who says, “But what about all the lies?”
She’s perched at the dinette, buttering a piece of wheat toast. Her breakfast attire is a T-shirt with a parrotfish silk-screened on the front—my only souvenir, besides the credit card receipts, from the Nassau trip. The nape of Emma’s neck is still damp from the bath.
“Whenever you were pushing for this story,” she says, “you’d remind me how the wife gave out different details about the diving accident. And how she said her husband was producing her new record when his own sister said it wasn’t true. And don’t forget Burns. You said he lied to you about the recording sessions in the Bahamas.”
“He surely did.”
It was just Jimmy by himself, the keyboardist had told me; Jimmy picking away on an old Gibson. No side players or singers, he’d said.
“Jack, people don’t lie unless they’re covering something up.” Emma announces this with a world-weary somberness I find endearing.
“Doesn’t mean it’s a murder,” I say. “Doesn’t even mean it’s a newspaper story.” Over the whine of the electric juicer I tell her that people lie to reporters every day for all types of reasons—spite, envy, guilt, self-promotion.
“Even sport, Emma. Some people think lying is fun.”
“Yes, I’ve known a few.”
A comment like that should be stepped around as carefully as a dozing viper. I turn my attention to straining the seeds and pulp out of Emma’s orange juice.
“Jack, have you ever been married?”
“Nope.”
“But you’ve thought about it.”
“Only when the moon is full.”
Emma has put on her wire-rimmed reading glasses to better appraise my responses. She says, “I was married once.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“College sweetheart. It lasted two years, two weeks, two days and two hours. And I was twenty-two at the time. Not that I believe in numerology, but it makes you wonder. What happened was so strange. One night I woke up shaky and drenched in sweat, and suddenly I knew I had to leave. So I kissed him goodbye, grabbed Debbie and took off.” Debbie is her cat.
Now I’m sitting next to Emma at the table, so close that our arms are touching.
“He was a nice guy,” she says. “Smart, good-looking. Great family, too. His name was Paul.” She smiles. “I’ve got a theory. I think Paul and I peaked too soon.”
“That’s a good one,” I say. “It’s much better than ‘growing apart,’ which is my usual excuse. You ever miss him?”
“No, but sometimes I wish I did.”
I know what she means.
“Just to feel something,” she says.
“Exactly.” I figure now is as good a moment as any. “What about last night?”
“You first,” Emma says.
“I thought it was wonderful.”
“The sex or the cuddling?”
“Both.” Her directness has set me back on my heels.
Emma says, “For me, too.”
“I was worried, you got so quiet.”
“I was busy.”
“Yes, you were. So, now what?”
“We tidy ourselves up and go to the office,” she says, “and act like nothing ever happened… ”
“Gotcha,” I say glumly.
“… until next time.”
Then Emma takes my face in her hands and kisses me a long time. Her lips slowly widen into a smile, and soon I’m smiling, too. By the end of this kiss we’re giggling uncontrollably into each other’s mouths, which leads to rambunctious entwining on the kitchen floor. I end up on my back, being scooted in ardent bursts across the cool linoleum. The sledding ends when the crown of my skull thumps the door of the refrigerator, Emma wilting against my chest. Ten minutes later, when we’ve caught our breath, she lifts her chin and observes that she’s late for work. I’m amused to see that she’s still wearing her glasses, though they teeter askew on the tip of her nose.