Roger was a little pleased at that. He wondered if she got the association: fundamentalism, religion. Probably. Marianne was very bright.
He patted her firm, flat tummy. She did eleven hundred crunches a day to keep it that way.
“This is beyond weird, Roger.”
The chill in her voice stopped his hand where it was.
“It’s definitely grounds for divorce, my dear. You could take him for all he’s worth.”
Marianne closed her eyes. “Roger,” she said with the weariness of repetition, “Eddie doesn’t have money, he makes money. Do you know what the payments are on a nine hundred and fifty thousand dollar mortgage? Well, neither do I, but that’s not the point. I couldn’t make a single month’s. Neither could you. But Eddie’s just a little money-making machine. He turns those guileless blue eyes on a client and suddenly checks are flying through the air. I know talent when I see it, and I knew it the moment I met him. It’s one of the three things he does really well. Eat, screw, and sell insurance to the stars. But he doesn’t have anything.”
Roger thought that the way Marianne spent Eddie’s money he never would have any, but had the common sense not to say so even if he was a little hurt by her tone. Roger might not be the brightest stockbroker in Thousand Oaks, but he was sensitive. He had to scramble just to keep up the payments on his Mercedes, and it was three years old. That was the beauty of the car. No one could really tell how old it was. He was thinking of painting it another color next year and passing it off as a new one.
Roger was handsome, well dressed, and — thanks to the time differential between coasts — had his afternoons free.
“So what if I’m extravagant,” she said to the ceiling. “Somebody’s got to spend Eddie’s money. It might as well be me. Who better? I’ve got more taste in my little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. That’s my talent.”
“Among others.” Roger grinned.
“Anyway, why would I want a divorce? I like Eddie. But, my God, how would you like to get a call in the middle of the night that your husband’s been arrested? Arrested because he has confessed to being the hillside slasher? In Van Nuys, for God’s sake!”
Roger decided flippancy was not to his advantage. Marianne did have the loveliest skin.
He frowned. “Why Van Nuys?”
“That’s where they found the last body,” she said impatiently. “So that’s where Eddie confessed.”
Roger wished he had the time to read a paper now and then, but he could hardly keep up with everything he was supposed to read as it was. If it didn’t make the Wall Street Journal, he was unlikely to have heard of it. But everyone had heard of the slasher.
And Van Nuys was the pits. Roger knew it well. He had lived there for a time some years ago, before it became too dangerous to do so. Suddenly Eddie’s little escapade was taking on the déclassé griminess of the tabloid. Roger knew Marianne wouldn’t be caught dead in Van Nuys.
“I understand,” he said sympathetically. Sympathy was one of Roger’s strong suits. “So what did Friar — Eddie say?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t talk about it.” Marianne frowned, then immediately touched the skin between her eyes, smoothing away the wrinkle there. Her husband was making her look older than her thirty-four years. “He was sheepish, embarrassed. All he would say was that he was having trouble sleeping.”
“Sounds like guilt to me, darling.”
Roger could no longer afford therapy, but remnants of those sessions flitted through his mind like snatches of songs half remembered.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. We’ve been married four years. If he were going to act weird because he feels guilty, you’d think he’d have done it sooner.”
Roger hated it when she was short with him. Roger said stiffly, “What about the nun and the kid?”
“—ex-nun, Roger, and ex-wife.”
She glared at him, and he regretted bringing it up. He knew it made her edgy. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing comforting to say.
“Never mind,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t give a goddamn why he did it. I’m the one who has to deal with it. Brenda Delaney already has their invitation to the Jonathans’ ball. We haven’t.”
Marianne frowned again.
Roger wanted to say something supportive. The Jonathans’ was a social event that was very important to Marianne. But he doubted the machinery of the club could have found out about Edward’s gaffe soon enough to have stricken the Brennans from the guest list. He had confessed but two days ago.
“It’s probably just the mail,” he tried, but she did not change expression.
“Why’d they let him go, anyway?” Roger asked. “When he said he did it and all? He fits the profile to a T: professional, white, middle-aged male. What more do they want?”
“Details,” she said absently. “They questioned him for hours, but the police don’t let the papers print everything they know. Eddie couldn’t tell them enough to satisfy them that he was the one.”
Roger was a little disappointed at Eddie’s throwing himself into the maw of justice being so lightly regarded. Then he felt like saying something mean about Eddie.
“You’re not the only one who spends money like it’s going to be devalued, darling. The man dresses like a peacock.” He was only partially successful at keeping the envy out of his voice.
Marianne had once taken Roger into Edward’s bedroom to show him the texture of a jacket which she thought would be perfect for him. She hadn’t offered to let him try it on for good reason. Roger was a foot taller than Edward and sadly narrower in the shoulders. But Roger had been impressed with the number and opulence of the clothes hanging there, given the almost monastic simplicity of the rest of the room.
Marianne closed her eyes. It was times like these that she regretted giving up smoking. “I dress Eddie. When I first met him he was wearing double-knit suits and button-down collars.”
Roger was shocked into silence but wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not. He didn’t think anyone had manufactured double-knit suits since the sixties.
“You do have exquisite taste,” he acknowledged. He stroked his maroon and blue banded silk tie and tried to remember if she had given it to him.
Marianne moved his hand off her stomach.
“He hasn’t been sleeping lately.”
“How would you know, darling? That’s a solid-core door.” Roger gestured toward Edward’s bedroom.
“I find him all over the house in the mornings, that’s why, looking like hell. Found him in the billiard room, once in the study, you name it. Once on the patio, for God’s sake.”
Roger thought that peculiar but was a little miffed at her removing his hand. He stood up.
“I’ve got to go. Dinner with Mum.”
Marianne nodded, her soft, curly hair bobbing prettily. She stretched out her arms.
“Give us a kiss. I’m sorry, darling, but he’s just been so weird lately, it’s making me cranky. See you soon.”
Edward folds the soft white cloth lengthwise until he makes of it a narrow band. He places it around his neck, smoothing the ends so they lie flat against his broad chest. He pours the wine into the crystal goblet, recorks the bottle, and sets it aside. He puts both hands around the body of the glass and slowly raises it above his head. His hands and the wine disappear in the dark.
Roger watched Marianne pace the room. She was smoking. He pulled the sheet closer about his chest. He was a little sensitive about his lack of chest hair.
“Canoga Park?” he asked, as much as anything to stop her angry rush from one end of the room to the other. It was making him dizzy.