sharp.”
“Oh.” Judith didn’t dare look at Renie. “Joe Flynn,” she echoed in a voice that sounded dangerously giddy. “Joe Flynn!”
Renie had purloined Otto’s Courvoisier when the medics weren’t watching. “Drink this,” she whispered, sloshing brandy into an empty glass from the little bar. Judith obeyed and sat down on an armless rocker, a relic of Grandma Grover’s era.
Across the room, Otto was bickering with Oriana. “That’s not my tea, I had sugar in it. Mine’s the one with the fruity-looking flowers. Where the hell did it go?”
42 / Mary Daheim
“That was Madame Gushenka’s,” Renie put in, a hand steadying Judith’s rocker. “It’s still on the table, but I don’t think we’d better go into the dining room just yet.”
“Bull,” contradicted Otto, “that was my tea. Oh, hell,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands, “I’d rather have a stiff scotch anyway.”
Ever obliging, Gwen made a rush at the bar, but was stopped by the firemen at the archway. “Please, Daddy needs a little something,” she begged, all fluttering eyelashes and rippling wool jersey.
But the stalwart men in uniform could not be coerced.
Kinsella and the others were conferring over the body, checking forms, and using the phone in the kitchen. Dejected, Gwen backpedaled straight into Renie, who was holding the almost-empty brandy bottle aloft.
“Here,” offered Renie, “let Daddy polish this off. It’s his, anyway.” She gave Gwen a genuine smile, reminding herself that no matter how bizarre the Brodies might be and how disastrous the evening had become, Judith was still the hostess and needed all the cousinly support Renie could muster. And when Joe Flynn showed up, Renie would have to be prepared for just about anything. Like nuclear war, but not as nice.
At the moment, however, Judith was trying to appear be-nign. She couldn’t prevent her gaze from sliding in the direction of the entry hall, and the rocker moved in jerky spasms, but otherwise she hoped she was exhibiting a calm exterior.
Inside was another matter: What, she wondered, would he look like after over twenty years? Would he even recognize her? Did he know her married name? Would he give a rat’s ass? She swallowed more brandy and braced herself as the front door swung open.
For Judith, the years rolled back at a dizzying pace, to bouffant hairdos, stiletto heels, and the Good Wool Suit; to picnics on the Ship Canal Bridge, the sun coming up at the city zoo, and driving a sports car on the pedestrian overpass at the university; to sourdough bread flown in JUST DESSERTS / 43
fresh from San Francisco, Moscow Mules made out of lab alcohol, and root beer floats at four a.m.
What Judith actually saw was a red-haired, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and just the hint of a paunch.
His shoulders were still broad, the charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, and the green eyes still held those gleaming gold flecks. Magic eyes, she thought, and felt her stomach hop, skip, and jump. At the moment, those eyes were registering the entire tableau, the cluster of Brodies, the medics hovering over the body, the police and firemen on the alert. At last, Joe Flynn’s gaze came to rest on Judith McMonigle.
“I’ll be damned,” he said without inflection, “it’s Jude-girl.”
“And Renie,” said Judith, grabbing her cousin as if she were a lifeline. “Remember Renie, Aunt Deb’s daughter?”
“Sure.” Joe Flynn put out a hand, first to Judith, then to Renie. His smile was as easy as ever, the charm was still intact, if frayed around the edges. “Damn, it’s been a while.
Not exactly the time or place to catch up, though.” He glanced around, exhibiting a professional demeanor. “Where can I get some privacy to interview everybody?”
Summoning up her natural resiliency, Judith moved toward the entry hall. “The front parlor has two doors: one here,”
she said, flipping on a torchère lamp, “and the other one goes
“Oh.” Judith didn’t dare look at Renie. “Joe Flynn,” she echoed in a voice that sounded dangerously giddy. “Joe Flynn!”
Renie had purloined Otto’s Courvoisier when the medics weren’t watching. “Drink this,” she whispered, sloshing brandy into an empty glass from the little bar. Judith obeyed and sat down on an armless rocker, a relic of Grandma Grover’s era.
Across the room, Otto was bickering with Oriana. “That’s not my tea, I had sugar in it. Mine’s the one with the fruity-looking flowers. Where the hell did it go?”
42 / Mary Daheim
“That was Madame Gushenka’s,” Renie put in, a hand steadying Judith’s rocker. “It’s still on the table, but I don’t think we’d better go into the dining room just yet.”
“Bull,” contradicted Otto, “that was my tea. Oh, hell,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands, “I’d rather have a stiff scotch anyway.”
Ever obliging, Gwen made a rush at the bar, but was stopped by the firemen at the archway. “Please, Daddy needs a little something,” she begged, all fluttering eyelashes and rippling wool jersey.
But the stalwart men in uniform could not be coerced.
Kinsella and the others were conferring over the body, checking forms, and using the phone in the kitchen. Dejected, Gwen backpedaled straight into Renie, who was holding the almost-empty brandy bottle aloft.
“Here,” offered Renie, “let Daddy polish this off. It’s his, anyway.” She gave Gwen a genuine smile, reminding herself that no matter how bizarre the Brodies might be and how disastrous the evening had become, Judith was still the hostess and needed all the cousinly support Renie could muster. And when Joe Flynn showed up, Renie would have to be prepared for just about anything. Like nuclear war, but not as nice.
At the moment, however, Judith was trying to appear be-nign. She couldn’t prevent her gaze from sliding in the direction of the entry hall, and the rocker moved in jerky spasms, but otherwise she hoped she was exhibiting a calm exterior.
Inside was another matter: What, she wondered, would he look like after over twenty years? Would he even recognize her? Did he know her married name? Would he give a rat’s ass? She swallowed more brandy and braced herself as the front door swung open.
For Judith, the years rolled back at a dizzying pace, to bouffant hairdos, stiletto heels, and the Good Wool Suit; to picnics on the Ship Canal Bridge, the sun coming up at the city zoo, and driving a sports car on the pedestrian overpass at the university; to sourdough bread flown in JUST DESSERTS / 43
fresh from San Francisco, Moscow Mules made out of lab alcohol, and root beer floats at four a.m.
What Judith actually saw was a red-haired, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and just the hint of a paunch.
His shoulders were still broad, the charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, and the green eyes still held those gleaming gold flecks. Magic eyes, she thought, and felt her stomach hop, skip, and jump. At the moment, those eyes were registering the entire tableau, the cluster of Brodies, the medics hovering over the body, the police and firemen on the alert. At last, Joe Flynn’s gaze came to rest on Judith McMonigle.
“I’ll be damned,” he said without inflection, “it’s Jude-girl.”
“And Renie,” said Judith, grabbing her cousin as if she were a lifeline. “Remember Renie, Aunt Deb’s daughter?”
“Sure.” Joe Flynn put out a hand, first to Judith, then to Renie. His smile was as easy as ever, the charm was still intact, if frayed around the edges. “Damn, it’s been a while.
Not exactly the time or place to catch up, though.” He glanced around, exhibiting a professional demeanor. “Where can I get some privacy to interview everybody?”
Summoning up her natural resiliency, Judith moved toward the entry hall. “The front parlor has two doors: one here,”
she said, flipping on a torchère lamp, “and the other one goes
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