K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

Silence.

"Am I right?"

Trinny lifted one shoulder, still without making eye contact.

"Ah. I'm assuming that little gesture means 'yes.' So Berlyn sent the tape. Now the question is, how'd she get it?"

More silence.

"Come on, Trinny. Please, please, please?" I learned this interrogation method back in grade school, and it's particularly effective when the subject matter is a cross-your-heart-type secret just between us girls. I could see her softening. Whatever our confidences, we're usually dying to tell, especially if the confession involves the condemnation of someone else.

Her tongue moved across her teeth as though she were testing for fuzz. Finally she said, "Swear you won't tell?"

I held up my hand as if taking an oath. "I won't say a word to another soul. I won't even mention that you mentioned it."

"We just got sick of hearing how wonderful she was. Because she wasn't all that great. She was pretty and she had a great bod, but big deal, you know?"

"Really," I said.

"Plus, she took money for sex. I mean, Berlyn or me would never have done that. So how come Lorna got elevated to the stars? She wasn't pure. She wasn't even good."

"Human nature, I guess. Your mother doesn't get to have Lorna in her life, but she keeps that perfect picture in her heart," I said. "It's hard to let go when that's all you have."

Her voice had begun to rise. "But Lorna was a bitch. All she thought about was herself . She hardly gave Mom and Daddy the time of day. I'm the one helps out, for all the good it does. I'm as sweet as I know how, and it doesn't make any difference. Lorna's the one Mom loves. Berlyn and me are just bullshit." Emotion was causing her skin to change colors, chameleonlike. Tears rose like water suddenly coming to the boil. She put a hand to her face, which twisted as a sob broke through.

I reached out and touched her hand. "Trinny, that's just not true. Your mother loves you very much. The night she came to my office, she talked about you and Berlyn, all the fun you have, all the help around the house. You're a treasure to her. Honestly."

She was crying by then, her voice high-pitched and pinched. "Then why doesn't she tell us? She never says a word."

"Maybe she's afraid to. Or maybe she doesn't know how anymore, but that doesn't mean she isn't crazy about you."

"I can't stand it. I can't." She sobbed like a child, giving rein to her grief. I sat and let her work it through on her own. Finally the tears subsided and she sighed heavily. She fumbled in the pocket of her cutoffs, pulling out a ratty hankie, which she pressed against her eyes. "Oh, God," she said. She propped her elbows on the table and then blew her nose. She looked down, realizing she'd picked up the imprint of wet paint on her forearm. "Well, shit. Look at that," she said. A bubble of laughter came up like a burp escaping.

"What's going on?" Berlyn was standing at the front door, her expression blank with suspicion.

Both of us jumped, and Trinny let out a gasp. "Berl! You scared me half to death," she said. "Where did you come from?" She wiped her eyes in haste, trying to cover up the fact that she'd been crying.

Berlyn had a plastic carryall of groceries in one hand, her key ring in the other. She fixed Trinny with a look. "Pardon me for sneaking. I didn't know I was interrupting. I parked in the driveway big as life." Her gaze jumped to mine. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," I said. "We were talking about Lorna, and Trinny got upset."

"Just what I need. I've heard enough about her. Daddy's got it right. Let's just drop the subject and get on to something else. Where's Mom? Is she up yet?"

"I think she's in the shower," Trinny said.

Belatedly, I became aware of water running somewhere.

Berlyn dumped her purse on a chair and moved over to the counter, where she began to unload grocery items. Like Trinny, she wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, professional attire for the working plumber's helper. The roots on her blond hair were showing through. Despite the four-year age difference, her face was a projection of Lorna's in middle age. Maybe young death isn't bad, perfect beauty suspended in the amber of time.

Berlyn turned to Trinny. "Could you give me a hand?" she said, aggrieved. "How long has she been here?"

Trinny shot me a pleading look and went over to help her sister.

"Ten minutes," I supplied, though I hadn't been asked. "I just stopped by for the stuff your mother left. Trinny was showing me how to make T-shirts, and then we got talking about Lorna's death." I reached for the box, thinking to flee the premises before Janice emerged.