A Flower in the Desert by Walter Satterthwait Page B

see fairly far. The muscles of her thighs were long and sleek beneath the oiled brown skin, the muscles of her stomach were slightly ridged. It was a body that had seen a certain amount of exercise. All those tennis lessons, possibly.
    When she sat up and swiveled slightly to her left to raise the back of the chaise, her breasts swiveled with her, too firm to be constructed entirely of human flesh. She sat back, put her arms along the arms of the chaise. Her breasts stared at me. I tried not to stare back.
    She smiled. “What can I do for you?”
    I smiled. Engagingly. I was developing, like everyone else in this town, a nice repertoire of smiles. “Well,” I said, “you could try putting on a shirt.”
    She glanced down at her breasts, glanced back up at me. Smiled again. “Never seen tits before?”
    â€œOnce,” I said. “I haven’t been the same since.”
    She looked me up and down again. Maybe she was admiring my Wrangler shirt, my Levi’s, my Luchese boots. She said, “You’re not gay, are you?”
    â€œNot even giddy.”
    She smiled again, and then she shrugged. As her shoulders moved, her too perfect breasts slipped mechanically up and down. “What, then?”
    â€œMrs. Carpenter,” I said, “you’re an extremely attractive woman. Obviously, you take your body seriously. I take it seriously, too. The problem is, it’s a bit distracting right now. I’ve got this job to do. I’m supposed to ask you questions about Melissa Alonzo, and, in order to do that, I have to talk. I find it very hard to talk when my mouth is filled with drool.”
    She laughed. Much as I had admired her body, I hadn’t really liked the woman herself until she laughed. It was a good laugh.
    She said, “Nicely done,” as though I’d passed a test of some kind. Perhaps I had. With her left hand she reached down and lifted from beside the chaise a thin white muslin blouse. As she stretched her torso to ease it over her head, more muscles slid and tightened beneath her taut brown skin.
    At least an hour every day, more likely two hours, working with free weights and Nautilus both. That was the only way anyone could put together, and keep together, a body like hers.
    She shook loose her thick red hair, sat back, put her arms again along the arms of the chaise. “Better?” she smiled.
    Not by much. Pointed brown nipples still peered at me from beneath the loose, gauzy material. I nodded anyway. “Thanks.”
    She smiled again. “You’re so welcome.” Clearly, she thought I was entertaining. But that was good. That was part of my master plan.
    â€œSo,” she said. “What’s this about Melissa?”
    â€œDo you have any idea where she might be?”
    She shrugged lightly. “None. Just like I told everyone else. You’re working for Roy?”
    â€œNo,” I told her.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSomeone who’s concerned about Melissa and her daughter.”
    She smiled, and this time the smile was slightly sour. “Ever heard of Mary Chatsworth?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA television actress. A very pretty girl. I knew her. Some psycho, a fan, hired a private detective to find out where she lived. When he got the address, he drove over to her house and shot her. He killed her.”
    I said, “No one wants to shoot Melissa Alonzo.”
    â€œHow do I know that?”
    â€œMy guileless face?”
    She smiled, shook her head.
    I told her.
    â€œRoy’s uncle?” she said when I finished. “And he wants to know if Roy was fiddling with Winona?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMelissa said he was. I believe her. Roy’s a slime bucket.”
    â€œBut you never witnessed any molestation?”
    â€œI would’ve said so in court if I had.” She smiled another sour smile. “But then again, it’s not something you do in front of witnesses, is