But she'd fantasized what Sundays would be like, and it was this time she'd imagined sitting with Bob in some rectory, reviewing her sermon, sharing anecdotes about parishioners, sipping a sherry, laughing, holding hands.
A flash of anger rushed through her. She was surprised, believing that the rage she'd felt about Bob's dying was over; it had been five years. But maybe it never left you.
Opening the back door she went into the kitchen and immediately loneliness, like something alive, engulfed her. Her eyes misted and the fury came back again, stronger. In the dining room she went to the sideboard her mother had given them as a wedding present. The decanter of sherry stood on a crystal tray-another wedding present, she forgot from whom.
Annie poured herself a small glass and took it with her to the living room. Bob would have loved the room-oak woodwork, high ceilings, two rose wing chairs, and a comfortable gray velvet couch, good for napping. And the old ice chest with the brass fixtures, a wide oak coffee table, flowered curtains. It was Bob's kind of room; hers, too. Oh, damn him.
She took a sip of the sherry, wondering what her congregation would think if they saw her drinking alone. What did she think? Well, hell, it was hardly a big deal, a thimbleful of sherry before lunch. The Smiths didn't drink, so there'd be no more.
Jumping up, she went back in the kitchen and reached for the phone. She had a sudden desire to speak to her mother. Her father answered.
"Hello, Dad, how are you?"
"Annie? I was just thinking about you," he said. Harrison Winters always said the same thing to her.
"What were you thinking?"
He cleared his throat. "Nothing very important, honey. Just wondering how you were."
"I'm fine," she dissembled. "How about you?"
"Just fine, sweetie. We heard from Jason last night."
"How is he?" Annie suspected her younger brother had a cocaine habit, but she'd never said this to either parent.
"He moved again. He's living in Santa Monica now."
"Is he still with Holly?"
"I guess. He says he has almost all the money to start his picture."
She'd heard this line from Jason for almost three years. "Good. How are Rebecca and Ken and the kids?"
Harrison chuckled. "Linda's taking ballet classes and Jeff lost both front teeth. Some kind of kids, they are."
"Are you working, Dad?" Her father was a trumpet player, and now that he was older jobs didn't come his way that often.
"I'm playing a bar mitzvah next week."
For a man who'd played with Dorsey, she knew this was painful for him. "Good, Dad. Is Mother there?"
There was a long silence, and Annie felt her knees grow weak. Surely she would've been called had her mother made another suicide attempt. "Dad?"
"Yes, honey. She's here but she's sleeping now."
"Sleeping?" It wasn't a good sign. "Is anything wrong?"
"Of course not. It's just the old gray mare ain't what she used to be, you know," Harrison laughed falsely.
Annie knew he denied his wife's problems because he felt responsible for them-all those years of leaving her alone for months at a time when he'd be out on the road.
"Should I tell her to call you when she wakes up?" he asked.
"It's nothing important. I just wanted to say hello."
"I'll tell her, honey."
"Okay, Dad."
"Glad you called, sweetie."
"Me, too."
They hung up and Annie leaned against the kitchen counter, sipped her sherry. She'd be damned if she'd ever be dependent on a man the way her mother had been with her father. Oh, who was she kidding? Wasn't that exactly how she'd been with Bob? That was why she'd been thrown so terribly by his death, practically going under herself. She was her mother's daughter, all right.
She wished Peg were here. Was it her parents she wanted to talk about? No, it was Colin Maguire. So what? But it was nuts. Why should she want to talk about this guy who was rude to her, passed out at the sight of a dead body, and obviously couldn't drive a car with anyone else in it! Something was definitely wrong with him. On the other hand, his passing out didn't bother her at all. But his rudeness was another matter. Still, she suspected he didn't mean or want to be rude. After all, he'd apologized. Would he call again? she wondered. Oh, honestly, she was being like some silly school girl. Besides, there was no room in her life for a romantic involvement. She wasn't about to trust some man who'd just…just what? Die? Never mind.
She finished her sherry, put the glass in the sink, took a check in the mirror by the door, ran a brush through her hair, and left the house and thoughts of Colin Maguire behind.
– -
"So just what the fuck is going on?" Colin said.
"Tell me again," Mark answered.
He lit a cigarette, paced the Griffing living room, wondering if he was going nuts. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Calm down, Colin, okay? I'm just trying to get a mental picture. You want a drink, coffee, or something?"
"No. I want you to listen, to do something."
"I will, I will." Mark wasn't annoyed exactly, but he hated being interrupted when he was listening to Pink Floyd. Colin had come bursting in right in the middle of "Brain Damage." The guy hadn't cared a damn about rock when they were in college together and didn't care now. "Take it from the top, all right."
Colin blew smoke from his nostrils. "I'm leaving Hallock's office and I stop to say hello to Kathy, the radio operator, you know her. I always shoot the breeze with her, nice kid. So Kathy's on the phone and then hangs up, tells this guy to go in. I stand and talk to Kathy, we laugh about something, then there's this silence right after us laughing, you know how that is?"
A few squawks from Mark's big police radio in the corner distracted Colin for a moment, but then he went on. "So during that silence I hear the guy who goes into Hallock's office say: 'The woman they found in the pool. I killed her.'"
"And what does Hallock say?"
"He tells him to sit down but Kathy starts talking again, telling me this long story about her sister and some boyfriend, and so I don't hear anything else. Besides, I couldn't act like I was listening. Friendly as Kathy is, she's all rules and regulations. Okay. I go out and sit in my car across the street, figuring Hallock's going to come out with this guy in cuffs, take him over to the jail or drive him over to East Hampton jail, but no. Fifteen minutes later this bimbo comes out alone. No cuffs, no nothing. He walks."
"So?"
"So? What do you mean, so? A guy confesses and Hallock lets him walk? I don't get it."
"Colin, obviously the guy didn't do it. Describe him."
"You've got to be kidding."
"Let's hear your powers of observation."
Colin mashed out his cigarette in a large ashtray that said Stork Club on it. He felt like twisting the fucking alligator off Mark's blue shirt. "Okay. He was on the short side, about your height." He knew this would bug Mark, who hated being reminded of his size. "No, maybe a little taller. About five ten, eleven. Medium build. Dark hair, dark beard, scraggly looking. Wearing Levi's, leather belt, work shirt over a brown polo, work boots."
Mark, smiling, said, "Dirty nails?"
"I didn't notice. What is this? Why the stupid grin?"
"You just described a nut case. Jim Drew. Every time anything happens around here, burglary, vandalism, it doesn't matter what, Drew confesses. He's got a guilt complex or something. Didn't I brief you about him?"
"No."
"Sorry, pal. I should have."
"So what you're telling me, Mark, is that he’s one of those guys confesses to murder, but didn't do it."
"You got it."
"Jesus." He flopped down in an easy chair, legs outstretched. "How long's he been doing that, confessing to stuff?"