Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Mike grinned and casually draped one leg over the side of the chair. ‘‘How about this. We come for a game of bridge and instead we’re going to find out what the future holds.’’ His tone was genial, but his glance at Meg was amused.

Meg smoothed back a lock of dark hair and bent forward in curiosity.

Madeleine frowned at the card she turned faceup, spoke in a low hoarse voice. ‘‘There may be trouble ahead. Some barrier. Something will go wrong.’’ She took a deep breath, hesitantly began to turn over the cards, her voice deeper and deeper. ‘‘Disaster is ahead. The cards are dark, dark. Spades and clubs. A relationship may be ended.’’

Mike’s smile slipped away. He frowned.

Meg’s eyes narrowed. Her hands closed into claws.

Madeleine gave a moan. ‘‘There’s a warning of danger and deceit. The nine of diamonds is light but it is the symbol for a coffin. I see a letter. I can’t quite make it out. Oh yes. It’s an M. M as in money? No, it’s a name. Some name begins with M. Death will touch an M. The jack of spades means someone here- No, surely not. Here’s a figure of authority. A judge? The police? The death is supposed to be an accident but it isn’t. The police will find out. Oh, here’s the four of clubs. It isn’t too late for everything to change. Oh.’’ A gasp. ‘‘The ace of spades.’’ Abruptly, she swept the cards together. She was breathing hard, her face shiny with sweat. ‘‘I’ll get us a snack. I don’t know what to think…’’ Her words trailed off as she struggled up from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen.

She stopped out of sight, but she could hear.

Mike’s voice was uncertain. ‘‘Do you think she’s all right? She looked sick.’’

Meg spoke lightly. ‘‘More silly than sick. Superstition’s absurd. Oh Lord, how long do you suppose we’ll have to stay tonight?’’

The doorbell sounded.

Madeleine bustled to answer, welcoming Mia. Within minutes, the bridge began. It might have been any Wednesday evening. Madeleine wished her head didn’t hurt. She didn’t win a single hand.

Mike looked over his shoulder, punched in Cindy’s phone number. He was a third assistant to the executive assistant in a start-up development company. His boss snarled like a junkyard dog if you made personal calls on company time. Mike was relieved when Cindy picked it up on the first ring. He had to convince her… ‘‘Cindy-’’

The soft voice interrupted. ‘‘I rewrote the scene last night. You’re right, Mike. We have to get rid of Kelly’s wife to increase the pressure on him. Now he’s backed into a corner…’’

The tight muscles in the back of Mike’s neck eased. Cindy was a swell writing partner. They’d met in his script class at UCLA and been going like gangbusters ever since. He wished he didn’t have to sneak around to meet her, but Meg would flip if she found out. Cindy didn’t like things not being aboveboard but she understood when he explained that Meg wanted to co-write everything. He’d tried for a while, but he’d soon realized that Meg didn’t have the magic. He thought he did, especially with Cindy. A tiny thought darted in the back of his mind. Meg always acted like she knew so much about the business. He’d been excited when she assured him he was going to make it big someday. That’s why he’d married her. Even though she could be fun and exciting, sometimes he wondered if he’d done the right thing. But he’d made his choice. He’d thought she had more contacts than she really had. Still, she knew some people. Maybe when this script was finished, if she didn’t get mad, she’d help him sell it. Could he ever tell her about Cindy? Well, he’d worry about that later.

‘‘Great. Listen, we’re almost there. In the last scene…’’

Meg was good at computers. She’d easily broken into Mike’s. The new script was almost finished. God, it was good. It should have been hers too. She’d teach him to double-cross her. That was the only reason she’d married him, a long-haired kid with about as much attraction for her as a missionary. But he could write, that was for sure. This script could hit it big, really big. She knew an A-list producer who’d kill for a script like this.

Just like she would.

She clicked off Mike’s computer, rose and paced to the kitchen. She poured a drink, leaned against the counter. She’d had it all planned. As soon as the script was done, they’d go sailing. A crack with the tiller and off he’d go. The script would be hers and her fortune would be made.

How did the old bitch upstairs know? How could she possibly know? Meg had a dim memory of her ancient aunt Ida, hunched over a table, reading cards and saying a death was coming-and the next day Meg’s mother was hit by a car as she crossed La Brea.

Meg felt cold as ice. How could cards know anything? But Madeleine knew. Those cards and that shaky voice… Now if Mike died in an accident, Madeleine would run to the police.

Meg looked up toward the floor above. Madeleine saw the letter M and somebody dead.

Meg said it aloud. ‘‘M. M for Madeleine.’’

Meg waited until the front door slammed, Mike hustling out for his morning run. What a Boy Scout.

Meg slipped out of bed and glanced in the mirror. The red silk shorty nightgown emphasized her long slender legs. She was proud of her legs. She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans over the nightgown. It would take only a minute to return to the apartment, strip them off. She’d tell the police she heard a scream. She’d be distraught. She smiled in anticipation. The old bitch always went down and got her paper first thing in the morning. Out of those boring sterile nights of bridge, Madeleine had droned on and on about her breakfast, that hideous cat, the wonderful paperboy always coming early, the cost of milk, and on and on and on. More, Meg thought sourly, than she’d ever wanted to know, but now it was paying off.

Meg hurried to the cupboard above the broom closet. She pulled on plastic gloves and picked up a small paper sack.

Outside the door, she slipped in the shadows to the stairway, nice steep steps with a metal-edged tread. Birds twittered as the first hint of dawn added a rosy glow to the horizon. She started up the steps, moving fast.

In the third-floor apartment, Madeleine hummed as she poured a cup of green tea and spread cream cheese on a bagel. Certainly Mike looked uneasy last night. Perhaps she’d send an anonymous letter too. That should be enough to keep Meg safe.

The sound of shredding cloth brought her to her feet. Oh dear. Dandelion was a love, but she was ruining the sofa. Why didn’t she meow?

Madeleine rushed to the front door, aware she’d forgotten to let Dandelion out. This was her safe time to roam, before the street was busy with traffic.

Madeleine opened the door, cautioned, ‘‘You be careful now. Stay out of the street.’’

The cat slipped out into the grayness of dawn. The door shut behind her.

Meg froze on the steps, the hammer tight in one hand, a slender strip of wire in the other. The head of a nail protruded five inches from the wall to her left.

Dandelion, amber eyes glowing, trotted toward the steps.

Meg’s heart thudded. She flung the hammer toward the cat.

Dandelion slipped sideways. Her tail puffed. She hissed, launched herself forward, claws extended.

Meg recoiled. She flailed away, twisting, turning, trying to evade the cat, the sharp-edged steps forgotten. Her balance gone, she arched backward, scream rising. She plummeted down, her head smacking against the risers. She crashed onto the landing to lie in a bloodied crumpled heap.

When the police arrived, they found the strip of wire still clutched in a plastic-gloved hand, the hammer on the upper landing, and the protruding nail.