Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

The doorbell rang.

Great.

She took off her apron, but left her hair uncovered. It was only Marge. She opened the door and tried to keep the smile on her face. At Marge’s side was Scott Oliver.

“He followed me home,” Marge said. “Think you can throw him a bone?”

“I think we can actually feed him,” Rina answered. “Come on in. Both of you. Delighted to see you, Detective.”

“Hello, Mrs. Decker.” Oliver held out a bouquet of spring flowers. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”

Rina took the flowers. “Well, thank you.”

Marge handed her a bottle of wine. “I hope this kind is okay. It’s got that Circle O-U on it.”

Rina looked at the bottle. “This is fine.” A two-year-old Cabernet Savignon. “I’m going to age this one. I’ve got an older bottle in storage that Peter’ll pop open. Come sit down. Peter’s just changing his shirt. I’ll go get him.”

She disappeared into the other room.

Oliver took a deep whiff, smiled, then rubbed his hands together. “Laissez les bonstemps rouler. You know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten home cooking?”

“She’s a great cook.”

“Man, she’s a great everything. I’d cut off a nut for a chance to do her.”

Marge glared at him. “You are so…”

“Rude? Crude? Tasteless? Disgusting? Horny? Pick a card, any card.” He sat down on one of the buckskin chairs. “I know you did it out of pity. But thanks for asking me to come.”

“No problem.”

“I must have sounded really pathetic over the phone.”

Marge sat on the leather couch opposite the chair. “Just a little lonely.”

Oliver said, “It’s these Sundays. Used to be family day. Sometimes, I miss the noise.” He exhaled. “Anyway, it was nice of you to ask me along. Nice of the missus to be so welcoming.” He looked up, saw Decker. “Ah, the host with the most.”

Decker shook hands with Oliver, kissed Marge’s cheek. “What’s up, Scotty?”

“She felt sorry for me.” Oliver jerked a thumb in Marge’s direction. “Hope it’s not a problem.”

“Not at all,” Decker said. “Sit down. Get either of you something to drink?”

“Beer’s fine,” Marge said.

“Ditto.”

“I heard it,” Rina called out. “I’ll get it.”

Decker sat on the couch, smiled. But it lacked warmth. “So…”

“So how ’bout them Dodgers?” Marge said.

Oliver leaned forward. “You know, I’ve been running this whole thing over in my mind and-”

“What thing?” Marge asked.

“What thing?” Oliver threw up his hands. “Decameron’s murder scene! I’ve got a real good fix-”

“Scott, this is a social visit,” Marge chided.

Oliver drew his head back. “You can’t be serious.”

“She’s right,” Decker said. “This is a social dinner. No shop talk. I promised Rina.” He flashed a smile of ice. “And I keep my promises.”

Marge looked at Decker. What was wrong with him? They sat in silence. A moment later, Rina came back into the room, balancing a tray of drinks. She had covered her hair. “Did I interrupt anything?”

“Not a thing,” Oliver said. “Thank you, Mrs. Decker.”

“It’s Rina.” She handed him a drink. “How’s life, Detective?”

“It’s Scott.” Oliver took a swig of his beer. “Life is fine…well, passable. Thank you for having me.”

“It’s really no problem. Like Peter said, I cooked enough for an army.” She handed a glass of beer to Marge, then to Peter.

Decker took it, nodded. He knew he was exuding tension. Rina, on the other hand, was acting perfect hostess. Galled the heck out of him.

“Sit down, Rina,” Marge said.

“Yeah, sit down,” Oliver echoed.

Rina looked at Peter’s stony face. “In a minute. I have some goodies in the oven. I’ll be right back.”

She scurried out of the room.

To Decker, Marge said, “Is this a bad time, Pete?”

Decker glared at Marge. “No, it is not a bad time.”

Oliver said, “You’re pissed at her. You might try hiding it a little better. You’re embarrassing her.”

Decker said, “Who invited you?”

Oliver sat back. “Sorry.”

“What’s going on, Pete?” Marge said.

Oliver said, “They got into a tiff-”

“She eavesdropped on me!” Decker said, “Worse than that, she invited him over to the house, for chrissakes!”

“Who?” Marge said.

Decker lowered his voice. “Bram Sparks, can you believe that? She invited Bram Sparks-a murder suspect in one of the city’s biggest cases-over to my house.” He downed his beer. “I swear I don’t know what goes through that woman’s mind.”

“Did you ask her?” Marge said. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“I don’t care about her reasons-”

Oliver said, “What did she and Bram talk about?”

“How do I know?” Decker was annoyed.

“You didn’t ask her?”

“No, I didn’t ask her.”

“Loo, if she’s good enough friends with this guy to invite him into the house, she may have learned something germane. You gotta pump her-”

“Scott-” Marge interrupted.

Oliver said, “Don’t Scott me, Marge. Rina could be sitting on the entrance to a gold mine. We’ve got a murder to solve here.”

“Rina should be locked up with a zipper on her mouth,” Decker said.

Marge regarded him, said nothing.

Rina returned with a salver of hors d’oeuvres. She started with Marge. “I had mini-hot dogs. Before I turned around, they had been consumed by marauding teenaged boys.”

Marge said, “Where are the boys?”

Rina served Oliver. “In their room, I think.” She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t go in when the door’s closed. Don’t want to get my head bitten off.”

“And the baby?” Marge asked.

“The baby, Baruch Hashem, is sleeping.”

“How’s she doing?” Oliver asked.

“She’s a great kid. Very, very active. I’m always running after her. I’m too old for her.”

“You’re too old?” Decker said.

Rina brought the tray over to Decker. She kissed the top of his ginger head. “You’re only as old as you feel.”

“Then I must be rivaling Methuselah.”

“Have a cracker, Peter.”

He took a smoked salmon with an olive on top and glared at her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She put the tray down on the coffee table. The phone rang. Decker stood, but Rina motioned him down. “It’s probably my mother. I’ll get it in the kitchen.”

Decker watched the sway of her rear as she disappeared behind the kitchen door. He remained standing, ate his smoked salmon. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

He followed her into the kitchen.

Marge blew out air. “I didn’t know I was walking into Virginia Woolf. He’s overreacting to this Bram thing.”

“Nah, he’s being a guy,” Oliver said. “See, he tells us his wife spoke to Bram because he’s a friend, we get excited. Maybe she knows something that’ll help out the case. But all Deck’s thinking about is whether or not she ever fucked the guy.”

Marge didn’t answer.

Oliver lowered his voice. “I don’t know too much about women. But I know enough to never, ever ask a woman about her past. You force it out of her, she tells you, you go crazy. What does it matter anyway?”

Marge nodded.

Oliver twiddled his thumbs. “At some point, we need to know if Bram said anything important.”

“Maybe Pete doesn’t want to pry.”

“Oh believe me, Deck wants to pry. But into the personal stuff. That’s a dead end.” Oliver leaned over. “Suppose Bram had a past with her. And suppose he came to her, looking for help? Couldn’t you picture it, Margie? He’s in the shits and a looker like Rina is there, giving him all her tea and sympathy. Hell, it’s enough to make even a priest slip up. Tell her things. Deck’s gotta pump her.”