The Monaghans lived in a too-big house in Ten Hills, a neighborhood that had run to huge Catholic families when Tess was growing up. Six kids, eight kids, ten, eleven, twelve. This was normal; it was Patrick and Judith Monaghan, with just one child, who had seemed freakish. Tess's classmates had assumed the Monaghans hadn't had more children because they eschewed sex, an abstinence adolescents found admirable in their parents. Tess had seen no reason to disabuse her friends of this notion. How much more embarrassing for them to find out her parents were certifiable voluptuaries. But now that she was grown, she was secretly proud her parents' marriage was still a passionate one.
Judith was sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing a foot just freed from an Italian pump, and reading the morning paper. For a second, Tess saw her as the rest of the world must see her-not as her maddening, monochromatic mother, but as a handsome woman, even a pretty one. She was both right now, her face smooth, without the frown lines her daughter so often provoked.
"Tess!" Judith cried when she sensed her standing there. Then, almost reflexively: "Your hair."
Tess put a hand up to her forehead, unsure what offense her hair had committed this time. It was loose, which her mother usually preferred to other styles-the long braid down the back, the ponytail low on the neck. Wait, here was the problem: she had used an old plastic headband to hold it back, one in a tortoiseshell pattern. Her mother did not approve of headbands for females over fourteen. Judith wore her glossy brown hair in a short, thick pageboy, which required exactly twenty-five minutes with a blow-dryer every morning. And today's outfit was perfect, as always, if not exactly fashionable. Navy shoes, now discarded, navy hose, navy skirt, white silk blouse, and navy jacket. Her earrings were lapis, dark enough to match the suit, and set in silver, which went with the silver beads at her neck.
"When a woman turns thirty, she shouldn't have a mane," Judith chided. "You need to shape it."
"I was in a hurry this morning. I've been working on special assignment."
"As an…investigator?" Her mother was lukewarm about the job with Tyner. When Tess was unemployed, she had insisted any job would do. Now she longed for Tess to be a professional, someone with regular hours, a fat salary, and a thin husband.
"Yes, as an investigator, although this is a contract job. But I think I'm suppose to keep things confidential. Like a lawyer."
The word "lawyer," even in passing, had a softening effect on her mother. If Tess worked at a law firm, perhaps she would go to law school and become someone Mrs. Monaghan could brag about, ever so casually. Better yet, maybe she'd meet a doctor on a malpractice case. Tess knew how her mother's mind worked.
"Would you like something to drink as long as you're here? A Coke? Tea?"
Although still full from her Marconi's lunch, Tess knew this was a cheap way to make her mother happy. "Tea would be nice. Let's have a cup together."
The kitchen had been redone three years ago, and it reflected Judith Monaghan's single-minded approach to color. Almost everything was white-walls, cabinets, appliances, the tile floor-with a few red and blue accents placed carefully throughout. As the water boiled in a bright blue teapot, Tess took down fire engine red mugs. The spoons, the everyday ones, had blue wooden handles. A bright red Le Creuset casserole sat on a back burner. When spring was further along, there would be red and blue flowers in a white vase on the whitewashed table. Perverse Tess sometimes longed to bring her mother pink tulips, or something yellow, to see if Judith could tolerate these unchosen, clashing colors.
"Forsythia," she said out loud, and her mother looked out the bay window in the front, to the row of ancient forsythia beginning to bud.
"I told your father to cut it back last fall, but I think he got carried away. It looks straggly, doesn't it?" Then, without transition, without any change in inflection, "That car again."
A brown car, with ever-larger portions of salmon showing through, was driving slowly down the street, the Buick that had trailed Tess the night before. Damn, my car is in plain view. But it seemed unlikely they could have followed her today, from downtown, through the maze of the Cotswolds and on her aimless journey. Were they keeping tabs on everyone close to Spike?
"Again. You said, ‘That car again.' Have you seen it before?"
"It was here on Saturday, when we got home from the hospital. It drove up and down a couple of times, so I called the neighborhood patrol. That's one good thing about the mayor's people moving into this neighborhood. You get action when something is going on."
"The mayor's people" was her mother's code for professional blacks. Tess usually corrected Judith's euphemistic racism, but enlightenment could wait. The Buick was pulling over, parking at curbside.
Tess shrank back behind the kitchen island, trying to find a place where she could watch the car through the kitchen window without its occupants seeing her. The front passenger door opened and, after a few seconds, a man came up the walk. A short, chunky man in a leather blazer, with a face that defied any specific description. It was a generic face, a clean-shaven oval beneath bushy brown hair, dark glasses hiding the eyes. A good face for a criminal, Tess thought, as the doorbell pealed.
"Mother-" her voice was urgent enough to stop Judith, who was bending over and putting her shoes back on.
"He's probably selling something," she assured Tess. "I'll send him on his way and we'll have our tea."
"Don't let him know I'm here."
Judith could be distressingly obstinate and slow at times, but she picked up on Tess's tone. "Is this something to do with your work?"
"Yes." There was no point in letting her parents know that the unsavory side of Spike's life was in the ascendance. "This man is very angry with me. Don't let him in. Whatever he says, don't let him in. I'm going to stand by the phone, ready to call 911 if I have to. But I won't unless I absolutely have to."
Her mother studied Tess. She was torn, Tess knew, between lecturing her daughter on her unorthodox life and enjoying this sense of mission between them. The bell rang again. She walked to the door with the brisk air known to quicken the pulses and words-per-minute of the clerk-typists in her division at the National Security Agency. Tess crouched down by the wall phone, eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Spike Orrick told me he was gonna leave something for me here," the man was telling Judith. "You know anything about that?"
"I think you must have the wrong house," she replied. Tess could tell she tried to shut the door on him as firmly as possible without slamming it, but her swing ended prematurely with a dull thud. The man must have stuck his shoe between the door and the frame.
"Maybe you better let me come in and look."
"I don't think so. In fact, I'm going to call the police if you don't leave Ten Hills right this minute." This time, Tess heard a sound she couldn't identify, followed by a quick exhalation and a muttered curse. The door slammed shut firmly and the deadbolt turned. As Judith marched back into the kitchen on her navy heels, Tess lunged for the kitchen door and locked it, just in case the men tried to come through that way. Outside, the Buick roared away from the curb. It sounded asthmatic, the way a car does when it's going to need a new muffler soon. Good, she'd be able to hear it coming.
"How did you get him to leave?" Tess asked.
"Stepped on his foot with my high heel." Judith laughed, pleased with herself. "He's not the first man to stick his foot in the door. But what does this have to do with your job? That man was asking for something from Spike. Is that why you didn't want to call the police, because Spike is mixed up in this?"