Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘That would be hard to miss,’’ Katie said.

‘‘Last time she came back around eleven,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘She’d better come soon. My oldest won’t go to bed until I’m back.’’

‘‘Last time?’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Natalie, have you done this before?’’

‘‘I came once, thinking I’d talk to her, but I lost my nerve.’’

‘‘I hope she didn’t see you,’’ Katie said.

‘‘Nope. There could have been sixteen muggers in the bushes and she just went tripping past in wobbly little heels, paying no attention to anything. I’ll tell you, I could have-’’

‘‘Everybody duck,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘There’s a car coming.’’

Katie and I nearly knocked heads as we squinched down in the small backseat. If it was Tiffany, she must have been driving about one mile an hour. I had a crick in my neck by the time Sandy whispered, ‘‘It’s her. Now what do we do?’’

‘‘Natalie talks to her,’’ I said.

‘‘Natalie stays in the car. She knows Natalie,’’ Katie said. ‘‘The three of us will do the talking.’’

‘‘I thought I was going to talk to her,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Isn’t that why we came?’’

‘‘Mmm. But I’ve been thinking,’’ Katie said. ‘‘You’re in a divorce, you want to keep right on your side. You don’t want her getting a restraining order, claiming you’ve been stalking her, do you?’’

‘‘I never thought of that.’’

‘‘She’s getting out of the car,’’ Sandy hissed.

‘‘Then what are we waiting for?’’ I popped upright and grabbed my door handle. We were here and the facts hadn’t changed-this young woman was causing Natalie and her kids so much pain. We might as well do it.

Tiffany wore a short skirt, pink cashmere bolero over a lacy, low-cut camisole, and cute little pink high-heeled mules with black polka dots. The purse slung over her shoulder, big enough to house a small rhino, held a matching pink tennis racket. Her multicolored hair hung in an expensively nonchalant shag and her lips gleamed like pavement on a rainy night. She didn’t look much older than Cassie. It was tragic how when girls were young and naturally lovely, they slathered themselves with makeup.

‘‘Tiffany?’’ Sandy spoke in a ladylike, unthreatening voice.

The girl’s vaguely sullen ‘‘Yeah?’’ reminded me of my own teenagers. ‘‘Do I know you?’’

Sandy shook her head. ‘‘We wanted to speak with you about your affair, dear.’’

‘‘Affair?’’ Tiffany gave a little bark. ‘‘What affair?’’ She clutched the giant satchel closer to her side, dismissing us with a scornful look. ‘‘Not that it’s any of your business.’’

One of my mother’s clichés, ‘‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’’ pressed to get out. We probably didn’t look like much, three middle-aged women in baggy workout clothes and clean white gym shoes. But Katie was president of the local bar association. Sandy had won awards for her work with traumatized children. And I spent my life teaching parents and teens to communicate about issues of trust and honesty and taking responsibility for your choices about risky things like drugs, sex, alcohol, and speed. What I did saved lives.

‘‘Your affair with Sterling Burke,’’ I said. ‘‘Family relationships matter, Tiffany. When you disrupt a marriage and come between a father and his children, that’s not only selfish, it’s immoral. Did you ever consider that?’’

She tilted her head in an I-can’t-believe-this-is-really-happening gesture. ‘‘You’re joking, right?’’ she said. ‘‘I mean, seriously, you didn’t tootle in from the suburbs to talk to me about morality.’’ She gave a disdainful sniff, a fanny about the size of two softballs twitching under her abbreviated skirt. ‘‘Look, if some pathetic woman can’t hold on to her husband, that’s not my problem.’’

This little lightweight had a lot of nerve calling Natalie pathetic. It was hard to raise kids, run a house, hold a job, and sustain a marriage. I held on to my temper and tried to explain.

‘‘But sleeping with a married man is a problem, Tiffany. It interferes with important, established relationships. Sterling’s relationship with his wife. His relationship with his four children,’’ I said. ‘‘In some states, you know, alienation of affection and adultery are still crimes.’’

I studied the peaceful city street, the uneven brick sidewalks and budding trees. Such an unlikely place for me to be climbing onto a soapbox. ‘‘Before you started this affair, did you consider the pain you were inflicting on his family or whether you have the capacity and willingness to be a competent stepmother?’’

‘‘Stepmother? Oh, please…’’ She rolled her eyes. Brown eyes a lot like Natalie’s. ‘‘I am so not interested in children. I’m what? Twenty-five? Natalie can take care of them.’’ Her self-satisfied smile revealed unnaturally white teeth. ‘‘I’m taking care of him. Now why don’t you three witches fly back to the suburbs and stir your cauldrons or something? I’ve had a busy evening and I’m tired.’’

‘‘If this is about Natalie’s husband,’’ Sandy whispered to me, ‘‘why are you so angry?’’

Before I could answer, Katie said, ‘‘You stop right there, Tiffany. There’s more at stake here than just what you want. There are four kids who love their dad, who miss him. A woman who loves her husband…’’

‘‘And I don’t care.’’ Tiffany tossed her glossy hair. ‘‘If she didn’t want him straying, she should have been a better wife. She should have paid attention to his needs, instead of spending his money on fancy houses and bringing all those brats he didn’t want into the world.’’

The Subaru door slammed. We sensibly got out of the way as Natalie marched up to Tiffany, landed an open-handed slap on her ear, ran a foot down her shin, stomped on her foot and then, sweeping her feet out, dumped her onto the pavement. Tiffany’s purse landed with such a thud it might have held bowling balls.

She wore the surprised look of a baby who has suddenly fallen onto a diapered bottom. ‘‘You hurt me,’’ she said. ‘‘You had no right.’’

‘‘Having my husband leave hurt, too,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘And you had no right.’’

The girl pulled her bag toward her protectively. ‘‘You leave me alone,’’ she said. ‘‘What goes on between me and Sterlie is not your business.’’

‘‘Sterlie? Sterlie? Oh man… I cannot believe you. Since when is my husband not my business?’’ Natalie stood, hands on her hips, breathing like a runner in recovery. Then she straightened. ‘‘All right, I’ll go. Before I do, though, let’s be clear…’’

Tiffany had wrapped her arms around her purse, waiting for us to leave. Little white iPod wires ran from her ears and she tilted her head to unheard music. Natalie jerked on the wire, unplugging her in a gesture we all understood.

‘‘If you take my husband, you keep him,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s no sending him back when you realize what a big baby he is. And even if he says he didn’t want them, Sterling is the father of four because he insisted we have four. They need time with their dad, so you get the kids… all the kids… every other weekend, school vacations, and half the summer. No last-minute cancellations. No weaseling out. And the dog comes with the kids, so I hope you like dogs.’’

‘‘I hate dogs. I hate kids,’’ Tiffany said. ‘‘Sterlie and me are not into any of that.’’ She scrambled to her feet and was edging away.

‘‘Tough shit,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Hey, wait a minute. Is that my tennis racket?’’ Natalie snatched at the bag, pulling out the racket. She pointed at the name engraved on the handle. ‘‘You steal my racket and it’s none of my business? My property isn’t my business?’’