Death in a Funhouse Mirror by Kate Flora Page A

dozed, but never quite gave in to sleep, afraid that the dreams would come again.
    Now, in the full glare of the sun, I was still in bed, exhausted and spacey, my head pounding, trying to drink the coffee. "Can I get some aspirin with this?" I asked.
    "How about some brisk sea air and cool, refreshing orange juice?"
    "What are either of those going to do for pain?"
    "Take your mind off it," he suggested. I knew this agenda. It was bad to be someone who drank and woke with a headache and therefore it was necessary to work it out by exercising the flesh, pounding out the evil. A drill sergeant mentality. Only this wasn't a hangover. It was a grinding, lack-of-sleep headache.
    "I do not have a hangover, you know." The sheet felt hot and damp and scratchy. I kicked it off, forgetting I was naked. He stared at my body with interest.
    "Forget it, mister," I said, "that is the farthest thing from my mind right now."
    "Don't mind me, ma'am," he said. "You know how it is with men and hormones. We're just slaves to our lust. If an attractive woman with a delightful body throws off her sheet right in front of me, what am I supposed to do?"
    "You might try thinking about the British Empire. How about if we make a deal. I'll let you look if you bring me those aspirin?"
    "Oh goody." He executed a joyous little caper that went so absurdly with his muscular body and serious face that it cracked me up, even though laughing hurt my head. "I'll be right back. Don't go away."
    "Where would I go? I live here." But he was gone. I lay back against the pillows and massaged my temples. The light hurt my eyes and I hoped it wasn't the beginning of a migraine. I don't get them very often, but when I do, they can wipe me out for a day or two. He came back with two aspirin and a glass of water. "What shall we do today," I asked, "assuming that these work?"
    He was standing at the window, looking out at the water, refusing to look at me. "I've got to get back," he said. "These were really stolen moments. I've still got people to talk to, and the paperwork, and court tomorrow. The arrest marks the end of one phase, but now we've got to make sure all the ducks are lined up so the guy doesn't just walk away. And I really don't want this one to walk." I didn't blame him. The guy they'd finally arrested had assaulted and strangled his twelve-year-old stepdaughter, though his wife—the child's mother—swore he hadn't done it. But the mother was spineless as a jellyfish, with a long history of not protecting her children, and the guy had abused the girl before.
    "I thought we had the weekend," I said, aware of the sulky note in my voice. I didn't want him to go. I might feel lousy, and be bad company, but I still wanted him there. Besides, there was the stuff he'd hinted at yesterday, things we still hadn't had a chance to talk about.
    "We've had much of the weekend. We didn't plan to spend most of yesterday with Eve. You know I'd stay if I could."
    I did know that. No sense in arguing about it. He'd stay if he could, and I knew it. And I wanted him to stay, and he knew it. "Do you have to go right now?"
    He checked his watch. "Soon. I have time for breakfast, if you feel like cooking again after yesterday."
    "It was only six, Andre. I can do that with one hand tied behind my back. And it wasn't much of a meal."
    "What else can you do with only one hand?"
    "Depends on which hand." I'm not so good at verbal ping-pong when I have a headache. "What do you want for breakfast?"
    "A caviar omelet. English muffins with loganberry jelly. Half a pound of bacon. Some melon. And you."
    "That last item, at least, I know I have in the house. I'll have to check on the rest." I pulled on some underwear, running shorts, and the shirt he'd worn yesterday, and went into the kitchen, while he went and got the paper. The light wasn't hurting as much, so it didn't look like a migraine was looming. I got out the eggs, the caviar, an onion, and some sour cream. Pulled a pound