“Mr. Stanhope?”
“Yes, George?” Peter asked. He looked past the attendant and sized up Tish.
“I believe you have a meeting with this woman.”
Peter straightened up and propped his cue against the table. He folded his arms and rubbed his sunburned chin with his left hand. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity behind penny- colored glasses. “Do I?”
George’s smile evaporated. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Peter replied pleasantly. He eyed Tish. “Is there?”
“My name is Tish Verdure,” she said quickly.
Tish heard a rumble of displeasure among the other men in the room. They knew who she was. Peter didn’t react, other than to flick his tongue quickly across his upper teeth. “Ah.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Stanhope,” George said, stepping in front of Tish. “This woman told me she had a meeting scheduled with you. I’ll see her out immediately.”
Peter waved his hand. “No, no, it’s fine, George. I’ve been anxious to speak to Ms. Verdure, as it happens. Boys, carry on without me, all right?” He approached Tish and extended his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were smooth, except for the dust of pool chalk.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked her.
“Some red wine, I guess.”
“George, a bottle of the Alphonse Mellot pinot that I had last night, all right? Is anyone in 306 tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“Take it up there, will you?”
“Of course.”
Peter refilled his own tumbler from a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and then took Tish’s arm by the elbow. “Shall we?”
He guided her to a turn-of-the-century elevator that was uncomfortably small. They were shoulder to shoulder. Peter didn’t say anything as they rode upward. He just smiled, showing beautifully white teeth, and smoothed down his hair. She noticed his eyes straying over her body. When the doors opened, he led her to a room painted in cream, with an off-white sofa, an armchair, and a square glass coffee table. Through a doorway, Tish saw a queen-sized bed with an elaborately flowered comforter. She backed up.
“This is a bedroom,” she said.
“A guest room,” Peter said. “Members outside the city stay here sometimes. Or men whose wives have kicked them out for the night. That’s why I prefer the single life.” He added, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to assault you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I just thought we would both like some privacy.”
“Leave the door open.”
“Whatever you want.”
Peter took the armchair and worked on his drink. Tish sat uneasily on the sofa, her knees squeezed together. A few minutes later, George entered the room with a balloon-shaped wineglass and an open bottle. He set them on the table in front of her and poured, then gave her an imperious look and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Do you want me to open it again?” Peter asked, nodding at the door.
Tish shrugged.
“Well, here we are,” he continued. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking good, Tish. Do you mind if I call you that?”
Tish shrugged again.
“You were sexy then, and you haven’t lost your appeal,” he told her, his eyes roving. “Real beauty matures with age, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to repay the compliment,” he said.
“You know you look good, so why do you need to hear it from me?”
Peter laughed. “Try the wine, Tish. It’s excellent.”
Tish did, and it was.
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve changed?” she asked.
“We all change. You’re different, I’m different.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care who you are now or how much money you have. It’s what you did thirty years ago that concerns me.”
Peter nodded. “You think I murdered Laura. You think I took a baseball bat and beat her head in.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I didn’t do that. How can I convince you I’m telling the truth?”
Tish took another drink of wine. It was fruity and light as helium. “You can’t. I already know you lied back then.”
“Oh?”
“Finn Mathisen saw you,” Tish snapped. “He saw you attack Laura in the field. The black man, Dada, he saved her. When Laura ran off, the bat was still in the field. It was still with you.”
“Finn Mathisen,” Peter murmured, shaking his head. “I haven’t thought about him in years. Him and his sister, Rikke. She was one of those tasty young teachers we all lusted after. Please, Tish. We both know what kind of witness Finn is. Pat Burns is never going to put someone on the stand who probably can’t remember most of the 1980s.”
“I don’t care what kind of witness he would make,” Tish said. “I’m writing a book, not doing a dance for a jury. What matters is that he’s telling the truth.”
“Say he is. That doesn’t mean I killed Laura.”
“Are you admitting you assaulted her?”
“I’m not admitting anything. However, even if I was stupid enough to think that no from a girl really meant yes just because my name was Peter Stanhope, do you think I would kill her over something like that?”
“Over not getting what you want? Yes, I do.”
“Well, you’re right, I don’t take rejection well,” Peter admitted. “You said no to me, and I called you a queer. As I recall, I kissed you and grabbed your tits. I was a pig.”
“Yes, you were.”
“But I didn’t kill you, did I? Because here you are.”
“Maybe you wanted Laura more than me.”
Peter’s smile faltered. His full lips twitched.
“Maybe you were obsessed with her,” Tish continued. “Maybe you were enraged that she didn’t want you.” She met his eyes and whispered, “Are you going to be alone tonight, you whore?”