Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

“Can I get you something to drink?” she said, moving away from the

picture wall. “There’s iced tea in the fridge.”

“Sure, thanks.”

I followed her through a generously dimensioned living room lined on

three sides with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and furnished

with oxblood leather couches and club chairs that looked new. The

shelves were full of hardcovers. A brown afghan was draped over one of

the chairs. The fourth wall had two curtained windows and was papered

in a black-and-green plaid that darkened the r00m further and gave it a

clubby look, unmistakably masculine.

Chip’s dominance? Or indifference to interior decorating on her

part?

I trailed slightly behind her, watching her bare feet sink into brown

plush carpet. A grass stain spotted one buttock of her shorts.

She had a stiff stride and held her arms pressed to her sides.

A dining room papered in a brown mini-print led to a white-tile and oak

kitchen large enough to accommodate a distressed pine table and four

chairs. The appliances were chrome-fronted and spotless.

Glassed cabinets revealed neatly stacked crockery and size-ordered

glassware. The dish drainer was empty; the counters, bare.

The window above the sink was a greenhouse affair filled with painted

clay pots stuffed with summer flowers and herbs. A larger window to

the left afforded a view of the backyard. Flagstone patIo, rectangular

pool covered with blue plastic and fenced with wrought iron. Then a

long, perfect strip of grass, interrupted only by a wooden play-set,

that ended at a hedge of orange trees espaliered against a six-foot

cinder-block wall. Beyond the wall the ubiquitous mountains hung like

drapery. Maybe miles away, maybe yards. I tried to get some

perspective, couldn’t. The grass began looking like a runway to

eternity.

She said, “Please, have a seat.”

Setting a place mat before me, she put a tall glass of iced tea upon

it. “Just a mix-hope that’s all right.” Before I could answer, she

returned to the refrigerator and touched the door.

I drank and said, “It’s fine.”

She picked up a washcloth and ran it over clean counter tiles, avoiding

my eyes.

I sipped a bit, waited till we finally made contact, and tried another

smile.

Her return smile was quick and tight and I thought I saw some color in

her cheeks. She tugged her shirt down, kept her legs pressed together

as she wiped the counter some more, washed the cloth, rung it out,

folded it. Held it in both hands as if unsure what to do with it.

“So,” she said.

I looked out at the mountains. “Beautiful day.”

She nodded, snapped her face to the side, cast a downward glance, and

placed the washcloth over the faucet spout. She ripped a square of

paper towel from a wooden roller and began wiping the spigot. Her

hands were wet. A Lady Macheth thing or Just her way of dealing with

the tension?

I watched her clean some more. Then she gave another downward look and

I followed it. To her chest. Nipples poking sharply through the thin

black cotton of her shirt, small but erect.

When she looked up, my eyes were elsewhere.

“She should be up soon,” she said. “She usually sleeps from about one

to two.”

“Sorry for coming so early.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.”

She dried the spigot and stowed the paper towel in a wastebasket

beneath the sink.

“While we wait,” I said, “do you have any questions about Cassie’s

development? Or anything else?”

“Um. . . not really.” She bit her lip, polished the faucet. “I just

wish I.”. . someone could tell me what’s going on-not that I expect you

to.

I gave a nod, but she was looking out the greenhouse window and didn’t

notice It.

Suddenly she leaned over the sink on tiptoe and adjusted one of the

potted plants. Her back was to me and I saw her shirt ride up,

revealing a couple of inches of tight waist and spine-knob. As she

puttered, her long hair swayed like a horsetail. The stretch made her

calves ride up and her thighs tighten. She straightened the pot, then

another, stretched farther, and fumbled. One of the planters fell,

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