The Edge

Chapter Nine

She didn't skip a beat, just said in a very nice, indifferent voice, "Not at all. I liked Jilly. She was always so gay, always singing. Would you like a beer?"

I stared down at her a moment, waiting her out, but she beat me in that staring contest. Finally, I nodded.

"Let's go to the kitchen. Cotter and I keep our stash hidden behind Father's mango supply. My mother hates mangoes so we have to hide the beer where she won't see it. She disapproves of beer, you know.

It's low-class."

I followed her through the crowd of at least fifty people, all different ages, dressed to the hilt, all of them seeming to be enjoying themselves, digging into an incredible array of food-from oysters Rockefeller to trays of chilled fish smothered in limes to heaping platters of pesto pasta dotted with sun-dried tomatoes-set out on a wide table at least twenty feet long.

The kitchen was the command center. Cal didn't slow, just wove her way through the caterers to a huge refrigerator, opened it, and leaned inside. She was in there awhile, scrounging around. She came out holding two Coors. "Cotter's already been here. This is the end. We've got another six-pack out in the garage if we really get thirsty."

"This is great," I said, popped the lid, toasted her without saying anything, and drank. I loved beer.

"How old is Cotter?"

"He's twenty-eight, two years older than me. I know, I only look like I'm eighteen, but I'm not. You're also wondering what we're both doing still living at home at our age."

"I did wonder. But I'm not rude enough to ask."

"You were rude enough to ask me if I was jealous of Jilly. Why'd you even think of such a thing?"

"I heard something, I guess. Why are you and Cotter still living at home?"

She laughed, drank more of her beer, and led the way from the noisy, chaotic kitchen to a small back room, a library from the look of it. It was empty, dark. Cal shut the door and turned on a small Tiffany desk light.

She set the beer down on a desktop, then turned to face me. "Well, Jilly was wrong. I'm not jealous of her. Actually, I want to paint her. She just keeps putting me off."

"Paul and Maggie said you were an artist. What do you paint?"

"I usually do landscapes, but people's faces fascinate me. Jilly has incredible bones. I want to paint them, and her eyes. Her eyes are the key to her. It's the same with you, Mac. You have beautiful eyes. Dark, stormy blue, romantic eyes."

"Don't make my beer go down the wrong way."

She stopped then, shook herself, and gave me a bright smile, a really fake smile. "How are you feeling?

You're looking stronger and more fit than you did yesterday."

"I feel fine."

"Cotter lives at home because Father wants him to. He wants Cotter to learn all about his business holdings. He did allow Cotter to leave the state to go to UCLA, even pushed him. Cotter got his undergraduate degree in business and then an MBA, all in four years. The thing is, though, I don't believe Father will ever think Cotter competent enough to take over. He'll just have to die before Cotter can get anywhere. Then, of course, it would be moot. But Cotter thinks our father will live forever."

"So Cotter wants out?"

"No, Cotter wants to run everything. I've told him he's too short. It would help if he'd wear elevator shoes. Tall men, like our father, like you, get all the respect. Cotter's too dark as well. He looks like a gangster."

"What did Cotter say to that?" I asked, fascinated.

"I believe he ordered some elevator shoes from a catalogue. He might wear them now for all I know. He still looks like a thug though. No way he can ever change that."

"You're very informative all of a sudden, Miss Tarcher. What's Cal stand for?"

"You don't want to know, trust me." She took two steps toward me and very slowly laid her open palms on my chest. "It stands for Calista. I like you, Mac."

I closed my hands over hers and lightly tugged them away. "Thank you. Actually, Calista isn't bad, but I like Cal better. It sounds more natural. I don't know what to think of you, Cal. I think that the picture you present to the world and how the world responds to that picture must amuse you tremendously."

She drew her hands free of mine and backed up until she was leaning against the desk.

"Don't bother to deny it. I saw the real you yesterday. You forgot to hide yourself for a moment there when I walked you to your car. I saw arrogance in you, certainty. I have this feeling that you're laughing at the whole town, that you think they're all fools. Maybe you are jealous of Jilly. Or maybe she's seen the real you and she's jealous of you. What do you think?"

"Is this the FBI speaking?" There was amusement in her voice and a smile on her mouth.

"Nope."

"You a profiler?"

"I'm in Counter-Terrorism. Jilly is very beautiful. Why would she be jealous of you?"

Cal just shook her head, the abrupt movement clearly telling me that she was tired of this game. Standing there in the shadows cast by the Tiffany lamp, she said suddenly, "Please don't move. I just want to sketch you. Is that okay?"

I was too startled to say anything. She dashed out of the room, leaving me there alone with two nearly empty Coors cans.

She came back into the room a couple of minutes later, holding a large sketch pad and a thick charcoal pencil in her hand. "Don't move, please," she said, walking quickly toward the desk.

I nodded. I looked at her as she flipped open the sketch pad, flipped through several pages, and propped the pad up on her thighs. Her face changed completely. There wasn't a hint of frump. I saw an intense woman who bristled with focus. This was a strong woman. I started to raise my hand, but she said, "No, Mac, don't move, please."

"I've never had anyone sketch me before. Can I at least talk?"

"Yes," she said, not really paying any attention to me, just drawing on the paper.

"Why do you dress like this?"

"Shut up."

"You said I could talk. The jeans you wore yesterday, they were huge, baggy. You were wearing a man's shirt. Why, Cal? Why were you hiding yourself?"

"I want men to desire me for my brain."

I laughed, I couldn't help myself. I tried to think of a less controversial question and said, "Do you think Maggie is sleeping with Rob Morrison?"

Her charcoal stopped cold in mid-stroke. She stared at me, her lips pursed. "He's so beautiful he could sleep with any woman he wanted. Why not Maggie?" She began sketching again, more quickly now, her strokes deep and fast, rather like really good sex, I thought.

She stopped suddenly, the charcoal pencil poised over the paper, and she stared at me. She was breathing hard. Her hands were shaking, her lips slightly parted.

"Done?" I asked, looking at her hands.

She didn't say anything, just set down the charcoal and the pad and flipped off the lamp.

"Mac," she said, in a voice low and harsh, and she jumped me.

I tried for about three and a half seconds to pull her off me, then a good wallop of lust changed my mind and I gave it up. She kissed me all over my face, ran her hands over my chest, then down, unzipping my slacks, and then her hands were inside my shorts. I nearly lost it when her fingers went around me. I felt a wildness in her, a frenzy, and in her fingers. Dear God, it had been too long and I was a mess. I pulled on her clothes, ripping her blouse, but she didn't seem to care. She pushed me down onto the carpet, climbed on top of me, and straightened over me. I could see her outline, her head thrown back, her throat white and smooth. I could hear her breathing-like someone running a race-hard and deep, jerking with effort.

"Cal," I said, trying to hold her still for just a moment. "Cal, listen to me. I don't have any condoms."

"Don't worry about it. I'm healthy. You're an FBI agent. I'm on the pill."

In the next instant, she'd pulled down her panties, kicked off her ballet slippers, and spread her legs. She straddled me, and brought me up and into her. I went in high and deep and I could feel her, every slick bit of her, and I groaned with the effort of not coming right then. "No," I said, "no." I lifted her off me, nearly throwing her onto her back. I watched her raise her hand, jerk off her glasses, and toss them across the room. She stopped cold then, just staring up at me. "I don't understand," she said.

"You don't have to," I said, and brought her up to my mouth. I wondered a few seconds later why the entire household didn't come rushing into the room, she screamed so loudly. I managed to fit my hand over her mouth, felt her hot breath lacing through my fingers, felt her cries nearly liquid against my skin.

When she collapsed, all boneless, I came into her, wild and hard. I didn't stay long, I couldn't.

It always takes me a while to get my brain back together. I didn't really want to this time; I didn't want to think about any consequences. I just wanted to keep floating free, not thinking, just mellowing, drifting away. Eventually she moved and then I did. She was wide awake, looking up at me in the shadowy light.

"You came down on me," she said, unexpectedly.

I still tasted her, a lingering scent of dark promises and bone-deep lust. It was amazing, that taste of hers, and it made me hard again. "Yes," I said, and managed to slide off to her side. I leaned down on my elbow, and kissed her mouth. I kissed her several times, lazy kisses, and I said against her lips, "You draw a picture and it makes you horny?"

"Not usually," she said, kissing me back, all the while stroking her fingers over my jaw and back into my hair. It was like she was drawing me all over again. "But you, Mac, you were different. I sketched your mouth, then your jaw, and it was all over for me." She sighed and curled onto her side facing me. "That was very nice, Mac. Come into me again."

"All right," I said. This time didn't last much longer than the first time, and I was ready this time to muffle her cries when she climaxed. I knew her scent, the taste of her, would stay with me for a while. I'd learned two very important things about Cal Tarcher: She really liked making love, and she had long thin legs that fit nicely around my neck.

I found out she wasn't much for conversation either, which I appreciated since I didn't have a thing to say. She kissed me once more, patted my cheek, and rose. I watched her blot herself with kleenex, watched her dress and slide her glasses up her nose. She left the small room first to go upstairs and straighten herself up, she told me. I moved more slowly. I finished my beer, now warm, and tossed it in the wastebasket beside the desk. I zipped up my pants, found a bathroom just down the hall, and tried to wipe the just-fucked look off my face. It was difficult because it had felt so good, still felt good. So good if she'd been there I would have asked for more.

When I went back into the huge great room, confident that I looked normal again, except for the lingering glazed stupor in my eyes, the first person I saw was Maggie Sheffield, standing right in front of me. She frowned a moment, then looked me up and down. Then she smiled. "Well, Mac, who just put you out of your misery?"

It was impossible. There was no way she could tell what I'd been doing. No way.

"You want to dance, Maggie?"

"I wonder," she said, tapping her fingertips on her cheek, her head cocked to one side.

"All right. No dance. I'd like to meet Elaine Tarcher," I said. "Could you introduce me?"

"Why not? Come along, Mac, that's Elaine over there, in the midst of that group of men. She's a middle-aged femme fatale. I think she's ridiculous with all her little coyness, a little pathetic actually. She's old enough to be my mother."

The first thought in my brain when I saw Elaine Tarcher up close was that if she wanted to jump me, I wouldn't have hesitated any longer than I'd hesitated with her daughter. The woman wasn't anywhere near her husband's age. I knew she had to be at least in her late forties, given Cotter's age, but still, she just didn't look it. There wasn't anything pathetic about her. I had nothing against cosmetic surgery, if that's what she used to stop the march of gravity. If so, Elaine Tarcher had an excellent cosmetic surgeon.

She looked to be in her thirties, no older. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, sheer black panty hose, and black high heels. She had Cal's rich brown hair, short and styled in a mussed-up fashion that made her look very natural and, at the same time, eminently sophisticated. At least half a dozen men were standing around her in a circle, and she let them admire her. I heard her laugh, a charming sound, full and deep and very personal. I didn't agree at all with Maggie that any of her moves were ridiculous.

I heard Alyssum Tarcher call out Maggie's name. She shrugged, pressed my hand, and left me. I stood there observing Elaine Tarcher's magic.

"Everyone thinks my mother is just a silly, useless ornament, but it's not true."

I smiled down at Cal Tarcher, who'd come up behind me. I couldn't see any just-had-sex signs on her face. She was back in her frump mode, neat as could be, her glasses firmly in place. She had changed her blouse since I'd ripped hers. This one was just as bland.

"Introduce me, Cal."

She looked up at me, silent for a moment, and said, "I wish you weren't staying with Paul."

I felt her lurching upward, bringing me deeper inside her body, and swallowed hard. "I agree, but there's nothing to be done for it."

"Old Charlie Duck adored my mother. She'll be one of the main speakers at his funeral tomorrow. I hope you'll be there? That's all she's talking about tonight, his murder. She's really mad about it."

"Oh, yes, I won't miss it. Perhaps Jilly can come as well."

"When are you going to leave? To go back to Washington."

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe I'll stay on a couple more days. I thought of Laura and felt a hard dash of guilt for having sex with Cal. I shouldn't, I knew that, but it was still there.

I met Elaine Tarcher, all of her gathered admirers, and Miss Geraldine, the leader of the town League and the mayor of Edgerton. She was a well-dressed old bat with a sharp tongue and faded blue eyes that I bet never missed a thing. She said, "Well, boy, I understand you came to see what happened to your sister. Well, I'll tell you what happened. She was going around a corner in that Porsche of hers and lost control. I've told Jilly a dozen times to be careful, but she just sings and dances away. She's fine now, I hear. That's good."

"That's exactly what Jilly said happened," I said.

"How long are you staying in Edgerton?"

"You'll make Mr. MacDougal feel unwelcome, Geraldine, and he's not," Elaine Tarcher said. She'd not said anything up to now. She'd been studying me, assessing me, calmly. There was nothing at all flirtatious in her manner. I wondered if she was seeing me as a possible mate for her daughter. I saw her group of friends fade back when her husband came over.

Alyssum nodded to his wife, then kissed Miss Geraldine's parchment cheek. "You've met our guest here, Geraldine?"

"He appears to be a good boy. Or maybe he's just tall and good-looking and nothing else interesting. I've heard he wants to solve the puzzle of our key letters."

"I've been working on it," I said.

"So did Charlie Duck," Elaine Tarcher said. "He told me just a couple of days ago that he was getting real close. I know I never should have thought it up since I didn't have anything to go with it, and I've thought and thought, but without reportable results."

"BITEASS-not easy," Alyssum said. He was impatient with this nonsense, I could see. Where was that prick, Cotter?

"Edgerton Town League," said Elaine. "That would have been better. Simpler. Short and to the point."

"Not as clever," said Miss Geraldine. "I've always admired clever. Don't worry, Elaine. I'm counting on our nice-looking fellow here. So you're with the FBI. Is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I also heard you were in the hospital until just before you came here."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm just fine now."

"Are you some sort of hero?"

"No way, ma'am, just in the wrong spot at the wrong time. How about Better Information Through Elucidation And Sober Selection?"

"That's not bad," Elaine said, nodding. God, she'd taken me seriously. No, I saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

"It doesn't mean anything," Alyssum said. "It's just nonsense."

Elaine Tarcher gave me a sweet smile. "Keep working on it, Mac. Do you mind if I call you Mac? Good.

It's a nice solid name. Poor Cal, now she's got a burden to bear-"

"Please, Mother, don't."

"All right, dear. I forgot."

"Maybe," I said, "if you could tell me the purpose of the BITEASS League, I could come up with something better."

I know I didn't imagine it. Elaine Tarcher shot a look toward Miss Geraldine, who just smiled and said, "We do a bit of everything, Mac. I originally organized the League to force a local chemical plant to clean up its waste. With Alyssum's help, we got them to do it. We discovered we had clout. With an entire town focusing on one specific problem, we could accomplish quite a lot. Now we use it whenever anyone in town needs help or there's another problem common to all of us. Nothing more than that. It's worked very well."

"Usually we're just a big social club," Elaine said. "Tomorrow we'll hold a wake for poor Charlie. The funeral will be the next day. We want to give him a good send-off."

"Poor old man," Cal said.

"It's time for Geraldine to cut her birthday cake," Alyssum Tarcher said.

I walked with them to the long table where a large three-tiered cake sat, weighted down by more candles than I could count.

"Don't think we're insulting her," Cal said. "Geraldine always insists that the number of candles equal the number of years."

I saw Paul out of the corner of my eye, cutting through the crowds of people to get to me.

"What's the matter, Paul?"

"Mac, I just got a call from the hospital. Jilly's gone. They don't know where she is. Do you know anything? Did she tell you where she was going?"