Death in a Funhouse Mirror Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the chicken and vegetables, and put the strained broth back on the stove, putting the burner on high to reduce it and make it richer. I flicked on the fan to pull the steam out of the kitchen. As I worked, I answered his questions about how I knew Eve, Helene and Cliff. While the chicken cooled, I put the carrots, celery and onions I'd cut up in a glass dish with some melted butter, and threw them into the microwave.
    "You're going to put those in the soup?" he said. I nodded. "My grandmother would die if she saw you do that."
    "So would my mother," I said, "but I've tried it both ways and I find the quick and dirty route usually tastes just as good." He didn't seem to find it strange that I'd come to comfort Eve and ended up in the kitchen. I often deny it, but I have a lot of my mother in me. If she were here, she'd be doing exactly the same thing, both because neither of us can bear to be still and because feeding people is an important part of social interaction.
    It was impossible not to cook in Helene's kitchen. It was the best room in the house. She'd redone it several years ago, pushing out the back wall and installing a huge greenhouse window extending about five feet back into the roof. Outside was a terrace surrounded by blooming azaleas, where Helene had planted masses of annuals in big terra cotta pots. Inside, there were acres of counters, a huge double sink, and fancy european appliances. A kitchen where things had to turn out right. It made me feel like Julia Child. I've always had an affinity for Julia. She's even taller than I am.
    All those expensive renovations were absurd because Helene seldom cooked. She could cook. She was a fabulous cook, but she considered cooking political. If she cooked, she acknowledged she was the one with the obligation to care for the others. She believed that it was women's acceptance of the nurturing role that had led to them being devalued in a world which valued independence rather than interdependence. So Helene built her beautiful high-tech kitchen and then let the housekeeper cook. Even though the housekeeper was also a woman and not a very good cook.
    Florio seemed puzzled when I told him what I knew about Helene and Cliffs lifestyle, staring at me quizzically as I stripped the meat off the bones. We must have looked very odd, Dom in his suit and I in my red oilcloth apron—portrait of a homicide detective at work. "Don't look at me like that," I said. "I'm just answering your questions. I'm not saying her behavior made sense. All I can tell you is that it made sense to her and I assume it made sense to Cliff. I never heard him complain. Of course, they presented a unified front to the world. I don't know what their relationship was in private."
    I turned down the heat under the pot, threw in the chicken, the vegetables, and several handfuls of noodles, tasted it and added more salt. It was almost dinner time. I couldn't speak for anyone else, but I was hungry. Andre was always hungry. I didn't know about Cliff. I was surprised that he hadn't come into the kitchen at all, at least to see what Florio and Meagher were up to.
    The soup didn't seem like quite enough. I explored the refrigerator and the cupboards, and found the ingredients for my friend Fran's luscious, high-cholesterol muffins. I shifted into hyper-speed, trying to get the muffins in the oven so they'd be done when the soup was ready. Dom followed me around, passing me things as I needed them, asking his questions and listening carefully to my answers.
    "How did Eve get along with her mother?"
    "That's a loaded question."
    "I don't think so," he said. "I just want your opinion. I'm going to ask other people the same questions I'm asking you. You know that."
    "Right," I said, "I'm an expert informant in murder cases. Trained by old what's-his-name himself." He frowned at that, and I was sorry I'd said it. It wasn't that I didn't want to help, it's just that what the police saw as routine questions I saw