Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

7

I crossed to the banister and peered over the railing. Tasha stood in the stairwell, looking up. “I saw your car parked outside.”

“I’ll come down.”

I descended the stairs, embarrassed that I’d been caught poking around the house uninvited. She’d taken a seat on the third step up, leaning against the wall. I settled on the same step, sitting close to the rail.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Arne saw your car pull in and called me. My office isn’t that far.” She was dressed in lawyer clothes: a crisp navy-blue pantsuit with a white silk shell under the two-button jacket. She wore pearls. I’d always heard you could tell real pearls from fake by running them across your teeth, but I wasn’t clear what information that was meant to impart. I thought it’d be rude to ask if I could bite her necklace. She had dark eyes, delicately enhanced with a smoky eyeliner, a straight nose where mine was ever so faintly bumpy from having been broken twice. Her dark hair was tastefully highlighted with blond and pulled into a rope at the nape of her neck. I could see a bow of red chiffon peeking into view from the hair clip behind.

It’s odd to see someone you know looks like you. The face we see in the mirror is always reversed so that our impression of ourselves is flipped left to right. If you stand in front of a mirror and put your right index finger against your right cheek, the mirror will tell you you’re touching left to left. The only way you can see yourself as you appear to others is to hold a mirror to the mirror and check your image in that. What I saw now of Tasha was what others saw of me. Already, I liked her face a lot better than mine. I usually ignore my own looks, not from distaste, but from a sense of despair. So many women have mastered an arsenal of beauty products: foundation, powder, blusher, eye shadow, pencils for lining their eyes, brows, and lips. As a rule, I avoid makeup, having little experience with the selection and application process.

It was clear at a glance that Tasha knew her stuff. I couldn’t identify all the kinds of goop on her face, but she’d tinted herself with care. Her skin had a healthy glow, her cheeks showed a hint of pink, and her eyes looked enormous because her lashes were so thick. I could see her assessing me while I assessed her. We smiled at the same time, which only furthered the notion we were looking at ourselves. We had identical teeth.

She said, “After our telephone conversation, I had a long talk with Mom. Her version of events is different.”

“Oh, really. How so?”

“She says your parents made that trip to meet with Grand and Granddaddy in hopes of a reconciliation. They were killed on the way. Grand blamed herself. Aunt Gin blamed her, too. Mom says Grand tried to keep in touch, but Gin was having none of it. Finally, Grand gave up, but only after years of trying to make contact.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not asking you to believe. I’m telling you what Mother said.”

“Well, of course she’d say that. She’s still tied into Grand. How can you afford to think ill of someone who has the power to pull the rug out from under you? You’d do just about anything to see them as good no matter what they’ve done.”

“Kinsey, if you really want to find out what went on back then, you can’t start by rejecting the messages you don’t want to hear. There are two sides to every story. That’s why we have the courts. To settle disputes.”

“Oh, right. Compare this to litigation. That’ll win you points,” I said. “Most people can’t stand lawyers. I’m one of the few with any respect for the trade.” I stopped. I stared down at the floor for a moment and then shook my head. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I didn’t mean to get into it with you again.”

Tasha smiled slightly. “I told you we couldn’t talk without hassling.”

“You set me off.”

“That’s not my intent.”

“I know. The hard part is that neither of us has any concrete proof. We can do this ‘Did too! Did not!’ routine until the cows come home. It’s Grand’s word against Aunt Gin’s, or my mother’s word against your mom’s. There is no fact of the matter.”

“Probably not. Just keep an open mind. That’s really all I ask.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. My mind’s been made up since the day I met Liza. I wasn’t interested then and I’m probably not interested now.”

“At least you use the word ‘probably.’ That’s progress, isn’t it? You used to be adamant. Now you’re obdurate.”