hand on the arm of my chair. “Are you engaged?”
I nodded.
“Pretty.”
44
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“It was my fiancé’s grandmother’s.” The small sapphire encircled by tiny diamonds didn’t particularly look like an engagement ring, which was one of many reasons I loved it, but apparently Mrs. Fairchild was ever on alert for signs of impending matrimony.
“Will it affect your attitude?”
“Toward what?”
“My . . . this investigation.”
“Why would it?” Though I’d never admit it, I knew the answer, and, I suspect, so did she. And the answer was yes, definitely—it already had prejudiced me against her. She’d notched up all the dreadful mother-in-law clichés by calling in auxiliary troops with which to persecute a girl. She’d have frightened and repulsed me even if I myself were not engaged.
“You know his parents?”
“I’m about to meet them. They live out of state.” They’re going to appear out of nowhere, I wanted to add, and how about that?
“Do they know you?”
She wasn’t making sense. “As I said, we haven’t met.”
“Do they know normal things? Your name—”
“You know that about your son’s fiancée.”
She shook her head.
So that was the problem with the name. She didn’t believe it was real.
Not that she said so. She aimed her iceberg eyes at me and said nothing.
“Mrs. Fairchild?”
She seemed to pull herself back from the far horizon. “I didn’t decide to investigate out of the blue.”
“Of course not.” The velocity and emphasis with which I lied were improving with practice.
“But that’s what you think.”
My lies were fast and loud and failures.
“I don’t do things like hire private investigators.”
Need I mention what a rush that sentence gave me? Forget her imperial attitude. She believed I was what I said I was, even though 45
GILLIAN ROBERTS
I barely believed it. She’d handed me my credentials. I felt knighted by the queen.
“I don’t care what you think.”
The thrill was gone. “It’s your dime, Mrs. Fairchild, but if I’m on the wrong track—or if you think I am—maybe you could be more helpful about rerouting me. More precise about why you decided to hire me—”
“I didn’t.”
“Us, then. Hire us.”
She had a wide variety of lip-poses. This time, she pushed her chin forward and pulled her mouth tight, regarding me again with her freezing gaze.
I’d about had it, especially if it meant coffee, in which case I’d had about too much of it. “While you’re thinking,” I said as I stood up, “could you direct me to a powder room?”
She pointed toward the entry and to the right. Even though I’d asked to leave the room, I felt dismissed.
The apartment was spacious, with a hall leading off the entry. I passed a full dining room, its long table ready to seat ten, and then I saw the door she’d mentioned and opened it.
Except she hadn’t meant this door, because I found myself in a narrow room lined to its high ceiling with shelves heavy with china and glasses on one side, and boxes and bags of rice and grains on the other. Traditionally, a butler’s pantry, I believed, but at the moment, a housekeeper’s refuge. I’d nearly tripped over Batya, the super-pregnant dumpling, who sat on a low step stool, crying.
She looked up at me, a tissue pressed to her nose, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought this was the—” What did it matter what I’d thought?
Batya clutched her belly and looked away.
“Are you all right?”
She flashed a bitter look at me. Okay, it had been a stupid question. People who are all right don’t huddle, crying, in a butler’s pantry. “Is it—is everything okay about the baby?”
46
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
She looked down at her pregnant belly, as if surprised by it.
“Yes, why . . .” She shook her head and retreated into herself again.
We were in a social situation that might be described as awkward. Having
I nodded.
“Pretty.”
44
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“It was my fiancé’s grandmother’s.” The small sapphire encircled by tiny diamonds didn’t particularly look like an engagement ring, which was one of many reasons I loved it, but apparently Mrs. Fairchild was ever on alert for signs of impending matrimony.
“Will it affect your attitude?”
“Toward what?”
“My . . . this investigation.”
“Why would it?” Though I’d never admit it, I knew the answer, and, I suspect, so did she. And the answer was yes, definitely—it already had prejudiced me against her. She’d notched up all the dreadful mother-in-law clichés by calling in auxiliary troops with which to persecute a girl. She’d have frightened and repulsed me even if I myself were not engaged.
“You know his parents?”
“I’m about to meet them. They live out of state.” They’re going to appear out of nowhere, I wanted to add, and how about that?
“Do they know you?”
She wasn’t making sense. “As I said, we haven’t met.”
“Do they know normal things? Your name—”
“You know that about your son’s fiancée.”
She shook her head.
So that was the problem with the name. She didn’t believe it was real.
Not that she said so. She aimed her iceberg eyes at me and said nothing.
“Mrs. Fairchild?”
She seemed to pull herself back from the far horizon. “I didn’t decide to investigate out of the blue.”
“Of course not.” The velocity and emphasis with which I lied were improving with practice.
“But that’s what you think.”
My lies were fast and loud and failures.
“I don’t do things like hire private investigators.”
Need I mention what a rush that sentence gave me? Forget her imperial attitude. She believed I was what I said I was, even though 45
GILLIAN ROBERTS
I barely believed it. She’d handed me my credentials. I felt knighted by the queen.
“I don’t care what you think.”
The thrill was gone. “It’s your dime, Mrs. Fairchild, but if I’m on the wrong track—or if you think I am—maybe you could be more helpful about rerouting me. More precise about why you decided to hire me—”
“I didn’t.”
“Us, then. Hire us.”
She had a wide variety of lip-poses. This time, she pushed her chin forward and pulled her mouth tight, regarding me again with her freezing gaze.
I’d about had it, especially if it meant coffee, in which case I’d had about too much of it. “While you’re thinking,” I said as I stood up, “could you direct me to a powder room?”
She pointed toward the entry and to the right. Even though I’d asked to leave the room, I felt dismissed.
The apartment was spacious, with a hall leading off the entry. I passed a full dining room, its long table ready to seat ten, and then I saw the door she’d mentioned and opened it.
Except she hadn’t meant this door, because I found myself in a narrow room lined to its high ceiling with shelves heavy with china and glasses on one side, and boxes and bags of rice and grains on the other. Traditionally, a butler’s pantry, I believed, but at the moment, a housekeeper’s refuge. I’d nearly tripped over Batya, the super-pregnant dumpling, who sat on a low step stool, crying.
She looked up at me, a tissue pressed to her nose, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought this was the—” What did it matter what I’d thought?
Batya clutched her belly and looked away.
“Are you all right?”
She flashed a bitter look at me. Okay, it had been a stupid question. People who are all right don’t huddle, crying, in a butler’s pantry. “Is it—is everything okay about the baby?”
46
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
She looked down at her pregnant belly, as if surprised by it.
“Yes, why . . .” She shook her head and retreated into herself again.
We were in a social situation that might be described as awkward. Having
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