Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

to be so heavy the court clerk will need a goddamned moving van to bring it in. So what’s the point of telling you what we have, when by this afternoon we’d have to give you a major update.”

“You’re playing poker,” Gideon commented.

“Do me a favor, Mr. Friedman. Give your client a message for me. Tell her that if she did it, she should come in now.

Maybe we can bring the matter to a conclusion that’s mutually advantageous.”

“Why won’t you be decent? She’s a truly good person.

Why won’t you give her the benefit of the doubt?”

“Let me continue. If she lets this thing play out, if she doesn’t come forward with a confession, it’s going to be harder for her.”

“Tell me something,” Gideon said. “Do you honestly think you can be objective about my client?” I didn’t like the way he was eyeing me; I got a quick, bad, pukey feeling. Had he picked up something from me? Had Bonnie told him anything? But what could she tell him? That once I stood a little too close to her? That a couple of times she’d sensed a bulge under my clothes that wasn’t my gun?

“Yeah, I can be objective. She’s a lovely lady. Good sense of humor. Friendly. Personally, I think she’s a sweetheart.”

Gideon listened, alert. “But she’s a sweetheart with a mean streak.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Hate to say it, but I’m right. You see, I think Bon-202 / SUSAN ISAACS

nie got—what’s the word?—piqued at Sy. She was lonely, divorced, poor, unsuccessful. And along came her ex. He winked, then fucked her a few times…. Hey, we know about that, even though she swears she didn’t. She lies all the time.

Anyhow, he fucked her. And then he told her goodbye. No companionship, no marriage, no money. Oh, and no movie.

No nothing. So she blew him away.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I do.”

“You have no evidence.”

“We’ve got plenty of evidence.” I put my feet up on the desk. “I’ve got to tell you, I find homicidal behavior not worthy of a sweetheart. But what I think isn’t important.

The lady’s going away. So be prepared. Maybe make her a nice bon voyage party.”

Marian Robertson, Sy’s cook, was being paid by the movie production company to remain on her job until Lindsay finished Starry Night. “Cook?” she sneered. “Lindsay Keefe needs a cook? Do you know what she eats? Fruit. All right, an occasional nut. No wonder she looks like a glass of milk.

I sit here all day so that maybe, when she gets home, I can make her seven Crenshaw melon balls. What kind of person can live on melon balls?”

For a second I couldn’t answer because my mouth was full. She’d insisted on making me bacon and eggs, to say nothing of a tower of English muffins and coffee. “You don’t like her,” I managed to say.

“There are worse.”

“Who?”

“Oh, the pushy ones. The braggarts. And the ones who come in two minutes before a dinner party for twenty and tell me they’re on Pritikin. The ones who have to explain to a colored woman what milles feuilles is.”

MAGIC HOUR / 203

The marmalade was in a tiny white crock, like a soufflé dish for midgets. I spooned some onto another muffin. “What about someone like Bonnie Spencer?” I asked. Marian Robertson started to gnaw on the inside of her cheek. “Remember Bonnie? Sy’s ex-wife.”

“Oh, of course! Nice girl.”

“Mrs. Robertson, this is very difficult for me. I’ve known you since I was a kid. I look up to you. I would hate to see you in trouble.”

“Me?”

“Yes. We have physical evidence that Bonnie Spencer was in the house the afternoon of Sy’s murder. Now, you can tell me you didn’t know she was here, but sooner or later we’re going to confront Bonnie with our evidence. And she may say something like: ‘…and that nice Mrs. Robertson, who knew me so well when I was married to Sy. She always made me my favorite…whatever. Kumquat pudding. Well, Mrs.

Robertson and I had a nice chat that afternoon.’ And then you’d have a legal problem, because in your statement you said no one was here.”

“More coffee?”

“Mrs. Robertson, withholding evidence, lying to the police—it’s a crime.”

Finally, she said: “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Steve.

Bonnie’s as good as they come.”

“If she’s that good, why did you lie to protect her? Don’t you think it would be better to let her goodness shine through?”

“If she wanted to tell you she was here, it was her business, not mine.” She cleared the cream and the marmalade off the table. I was no longer a welcome guest.

“Was she here last Friday afternoon?” She took away the sugar bowl.

204 / SUSAN ISAACS

“Yes.” Clipped. No, Steve, you’re looking fine. No, You were the best shortstop the Bridgies ever had.

“Did you speak with her?”

“Just hello, how are you, and just a couple of minutes of catching up.”

“Was it friendly? Did she kiss you hello? Did you make a fuss? ‘Good to see you, Mrs. Spencer!’”

“I call her Bonnie. And I was glad to see her and she was glad to see me. I gave her a big hug. What are you going to do about that? Put me in the electric chair?”

“Mrs. Robertson, I’m just trying to get the feeling of the afternoon.”

“The feeling was, Mr. Spencer must have gotten tired of Madame Melon Balls, because he actually brought Bonnie into the house. And he was smiling, happy to be with her—like the old days. And they didn’t stay in the kitchen to chat. My guess is they had other fish to fry upstairs. But that was all right, because I got the feeling Bonnie would be back. Then we could catch up. I know her; Mr. Spencer would get busy on the phone, and she’d wander down to the kitchen and we’d have ourselves a good gabfest.”

“I’d like the truth now. Were there any sounds of fighting coming from upstairs?”

“No.”

“Any sounds of anything?”

“No. Listen to me. He wouldn’t have gone