The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
unsteady.
* * * * *
When the group had cleared out for the evening, and I’d finished cleaning up, I
dragged upstairs to discover that Guy had left a message. I weighed calling him back, then
decided maybe it was better to let that ride.
Dimming the lights, I put on Peter Davison’s Adagio and went slowly through my tai
chi exercises. I focused on deep breathing and relaxing every muscle. It had been awhile. I
was stiff and sore, but as I went through the routine, I felt better. More limber in body, if not
spirit.
Of course, Jake’s idea was that I should focus on cardio stuff and forget the tai chi.
But it didn’t matter what Jake thought or didn’t think. That was my new mantra.
The phone rang. I listened to it ring, then right before the machine picked up, I
abandoned my combat pose and grabbed it.
“Hello there,” Guy said, elaborately casual. “I wondered how you were recovering from
last night.”
My heart slowed. “I think the wine did more damage than the crash landing. I’ve had a
headache all day.”
“Me too.” He gave an odd laugh. “I’ve been placed on administrative leave.”
“What does that mean?”
“In effect, I’ve been suspended pending the outcome of the police investigation into the
death of Tony Zellig.”
Phone propped between my shoulder and ear, I poured myself a brandy and sat on the
sofa. I should have known Jake wouldn’t abandon his original line of inquiry. This must
mean that the police were now openly and officially connecting Kinsey Perone’s death with
the others. I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news for Angus. Good news if he could
prove his alibi for the night Kinsey had died.
“So Zellig was a student?”
“Yes. Practical Magic 101.”
Funny, I’d thought to ask him about everyone except Tony Zellig.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too. But you don’t have anything to be sorry for. My impression is that the police
pushed for this, and the administration was relieved to have the decision made for them.”
I said, “I’m sure it will all work out.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I had no idea
what to say to him.
There was a silence that lasted too long, then he said, “I tried to get hold of Peter today.
I wanted to ask whether he would be willing to speak to you, but he’s out of the country.
He’s celebrating the holidays with his parents in Germany.”
It was possible. Lisa and I had celebrated Christmas in Germany when I was eighteen.
It was the year before I’d started college. The year before I met Mel.
“I appreciate that.”
“What will you do next?”
“I don’t know. I’m running low on ideas.” And I was completely out of enthusiasm. I
had no proof that my inquiries hadn’t made everyone’s situation, including mine, worse.
Maybe the biggest favor I could do myself was to butt out.
“I see,” he said quietly.
Once again there was an unnatural silence.
Once again Guy broke it. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I wish you’d let me
know.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said.
* * * * *
Rewind Tuesday, hit play: that was Wednesday.
When it was over at last, and my wish to be alone again – silent and barricaded in for
the night – was finally granted, I realized I was too restless to stay home.
I couldn’t do tai chi all evening. I had no desire to write. Less desire to read. Sitting
home with the brandy bottle was not a good plan in any case.
What did single people do on Wednesday nights? I didn’t seem to remember, although
technically I had never stopped being single. Did they sit home and watch TV, or did they go
to clubs, bars, single events? I was pretty sure the majority of them did not run around trying
to solve murders.
I decided to get my hair cut. You know, stiff upper lip. Standards must be maintained.
Here in the African bush we dress for dinner.
I decided if I couldn’t wrangle an appointment with Paolo, I’d settle for Super Cuts, but
the risk turned out to be minimal. When I walked into That Jones Boy, the place was empty.
One of the stylists was kicked back in his chair reading GQ, and Paolo and a third kid were
leaning on the front desk.
Paolo is about as Italian as I am British. He’s tall and thin with blue black hair – more
blue than black – and permanent eye makeup. He’s one of this new generation of gay guys
who seem to be totally apolitical and essentially fear free – about everything except getting
fat.
He nudged the Asian boy with a shaved head who stood beside him and greeted me.
“Look what crawled out of the train wreck!” The Asian stylist met my eyes. Winked.
“Sweetness, do you have to wait till you look like Beethoven’s baby brother before
you’ll come and see me?”
I slipped off my coat, draping it over one of the brass hooks. “I know you enjoy the
challenge.”
A young, platinum blonde manicurist was summoned from the tanning room where
she had been toasting herself midsummer brown. I sat in the styling chair; the manicurist
wheeled her nail station over to me. Paolo positioned himself behind me, comb in hand, like
the maestro about to conduct the symphony.
“So, are we doing something different?”
“No.”
“Sweetness. You know, hair style has evolved through the centuries.”
The girl buffing my nails snickered.
I tuned out while Paolo fluted on about waxing my eyebrows, his strong clever fingers
massaging my scalp with what I had to admit was hypnotic skill.
“Why so gloomy, Heathcliff?” he asked finally.
Someone who sounded a lot like me answered, “My boyfriend dumped me.”
The crispy manicurist squeaked and dropped her nail file. The stylist to the right of me,
still poring over GQ, raised curious eyes over the glossy pages.
Paolo exclaimed, “The heartless bastard. Right before Christmas!”
But I was listening in horror to the echo of my own words. Had I actually said that? I
don’t think I ever permitted myself to think of Jake as my boyfriend even when we were
seeing each other. Now here I sat spilling my guts to my hairdre – er – stylist.
When I tuned back in, Paolo was going on about honey almond masks and mango deep
