Page 95 of Unnatural Death

“It sounds perfect. Are you sure you’re all right, Dorothy?”

“I made the same thing for Lucy and put it in her refrigerator when I first got here. All she has to do is pop it in the oven and serve the salad.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“Well, everyone knows I’m not the cook, you are, but I’m not half bad when I put my mind to it.” She pulls the cork out of a twelve-year-old Glenmorangie with a sherry finish, and I can smell it from where I’m sitting. “Pete’s always going on and on about your cooking.” She’s heavy-handed with the Scotch, splashing it over the ice. “It’s made me not want to try.”

“Let’s be honest, Dorothy. You’ve never been one to spend much time in the kitchen if it can be avoided. Going all the way back to when we were kids.”

I would do what was needed around the house, including taking care of our sick father. Keeping busy, trying to fix the unfixable was my way of coping and probably still is. But Dorothy ducks and runs from emotional pain. She has an uncanny ability to absent herself all the while seeming present.

“Who wants to be compared and found lacking? That’s why Pete and I order so much takeout food,” she explains, her glass tilting precariously as she gestures. “I damn well don’t want to hear that my pasta’s nowhere near as good as yours.”

“You can do almost anything when you decide,” I reply. “But you’ve never been very interested in cooking. Or most things domestic.”

“I certainly don’t care to be second best. Or second choice.” She sets our drinks on the table. “I don’t play runner-up to anyone.”

“Are you and Marino doing okay?” I watch as she opens the freezer again, this time for a frozen gel pack.

Wrapping it in a clean dish towel, she hands this to me.

“Thanks.” I gently press it against my cheek.

“See? I can be a medicine woman too.”

She holds up her drink, and we touch glasses as her eyes well with tears that she quickly blinks back. She’s having relationship problems. By now I know the signs.

“What is it, Dorothy? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Pete’s just now leaving the hangar and from there it will take him at least an hour in this weather. Possibly longer,” she says. “It’s not damn likely that I’m waiting up for him. I’ve hardly heard a word all day.”

“There’s a reason for that,” I reply. “Much of the time we were out in the middle of nowhere. Or in the helicopter. Or our phones were in a locker.”

“When somebody’s losing interest there’s always an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse. I was with him …”

“You certainly were,” she says tipsily in a loaded way. “And I know how happy that makes him. I’m the one who doesn’t seem to light up his life, to quote Debby fucking Boone.”

“He’s crazy about you. Everything he does revolves around you.” I don’t say the rest of it. Smothering him is a problem. Without meaning to she takes away his power.

“It all starts the same way.” She picks up the pizza, sliding it into the oven. “Sometimes he’stoo tired.”

“It happens to the best of us.”

“Huh. Well, he didn’t used to gettired. But now he does.” She opens the refrigerator, retrieving a plastic takeout container from Fresh Market. “He forgets to tell me when he’s working out in the gym, and we rarely do that together anymore either. Yet he finds time to work out with Blaise Fruge.” She finds paper napkins. “He never wants to take a spin in that beautiful boat I got for him. I’m curious as to whether you’ve noticed any changes in his behavior. For example, him flirting more than usual.”

“With whom?”

“With anyone, including you.” She sets down the container of premade antipasto, and I don’t care about plates or silverware right now.

“I’m not sure about noticing him acting in an unusual way with anyone.” I eat an olive while holding the ice pack against my face. “You know how he is. I’m not sure what you considerflirting. He flirts with Shannon, for example …?”

“She’s not who I’m worried about,” Dorothy says as I shift the ice pack, wincing a little. “I’m going to grab my special potion from my suitcase,” she decides. “I’ll do it now, and you’ll feel like a new person. I hope you don’t mind that I put my things in the upstairs guestroom where I can see the river peeking through the trees. It has such a better view than the room down here.”

“This floor is quieter,” I reply, and it’s not her privacy I’m thinking about.

I prefer that my sister and Marino aren’t sleeping down the hall from me. But I’m not going to have a say about it. While she heads upstairs, I call Benton and he answers.

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