Skeleton Key by Jane Haddam Page A

scotch. Hewould have ditched his drink glass for a tumbler, but he thought it would be too obvious. He hoped Deirdre would think he was sweating because of the water in the hot tub. He hoped he wasn’t breathing too hard.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter who it was,” he said finally. “If it was anybody important, he’ll call back.”
    â€œYou’re really a snot, do you know that?” Deirdre said. “You pick your friends out of the
Social Register.
You care more about your image than you do about your bank account.”
    â€œIf that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”
    â€œOh,” Deirdre said, “I think I’d still be here. Even men who are listed in the
Social Register
go slumming.”
    â€œI’ve never called seeing you ‘slumming.’ And you know it.”
    â€œYou’ve never called it anything else, either. Are you going to marry Kayla Anson?’
    â€œI doubt if she’d have me.”
    â€œBut you would marry her, if she’d have you? Because of all that money?”
    â€œKayla is a wonderful girl. But she’s a girl. She’s very young.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Deirdre said.
    Peter turned around with his drink in his hand. His penis was waving in the air. He felt so exposed, he wanted to duck, except that there was no place to duck into, and nothing to hide behind. Deirdre put her glass down on the tub collar and hauled herself up. She was exposed, too, but she didn’t seem to mind it.
    â€œYou know,” she said finally, “you really shouldn’t treat me like an asshole, because I’m not an asshole. Do you get my meaning?”
    â€œI never treat you like an asshole.”
    â€œYou never treat me like anything else. But if you really think I’m going to let you get away with pushing me around the way you push around your debutantes, you’re going to be very surprised. Have I made myself clear?”
    â€œI never push you around.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Deirdre said again.
    She walked around the tub collar until she got to the towel rack. She got a towel and wrapped herself up in it, tucking the edge between her breasts to make it stay. Deirdre was the only person Peter had ever known who could do that and walk around without the towel coming lose and falling off. She was the only woman he had ever known whose breasts pointed at the ceiling like missiles at a launch pad. He supposed she’d had them done.
    â€œI’m going to get dressed and get out of here,” she said. “You’re beginning to piss me off. But try to remember a few things, will you please?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike the fact that you have caller ID.”
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œI’m going home,” Deirdre said again.
    On any other night, Peter would have gone to her and tried to make her change her mind. He would at least have grabbed her arm and tried to do something physical. Now he just watched her walk away, her hips moving like waves under the pink terrycloth of the towel. She reminded him of Marilyn Monroe in some old movie.
    When she was out of the room, Peter got a towel for himself and brought his scotch out into the main room. He could hear Deirdre in the loft, getting herself dressed, but he didn’t go up to see her. He sat down on the love seat instead and closed his eyes.
    He felt as if he were a single wagon, detached from a wagon train, and the Indians were attacking.
7
    The call came in at 11:37, and Eve Wachinsky almost didn’t hear it. She had an uneasy feeling that she might have failed to hear a number of calls tonight. With Darla upstairs, sick as a dog, and nothing going on down here but a movie on HBO with the sound turned down too lowto hear, the world could have come to an end without her noticing. Darla Barden was the woman whose house this was, and who owned the answering service that was run from this broad front room. The