Death in a Funhouse Mirror Read Online Free PDF Page B

completely, shattering on the floor at his feet.
    "But your housekeeper's name is Norah."
    "I know that," he yelled, wheeling to face me. "I know that, dammit. Norah. Mariah. One of those gloomy Irish, wind-sighing-in-the-trees sort of names. What's the difference? Don't you be condescending to me in my own home. Why don't you leave? Eve and I don't need you." He took a step toward me, his hand raised in a fist. Dom stepped forward to intervene, but stopped when I shook my head. Suddenly Cliff’s body sagged, like a puppet when the strings go slack. His hand dropped limply to his side. "What am I going to do without her?" he whispered. I put out my arms, and he came to me like a child seeking comfort, burying his head in my shoulder.

 
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    Chapter 3

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    It was one of the strangest dinner parties I'd ever attended. The menu was perfectly ordinary—my chicken soup, which had come out just right this time, rich, oily and sustaining, Fran's blueberry muffins, steamy and fragrant, saved from being commonplace by just a hint of lemon rind, and a deceptively simple salad laced with peppercorns and mustard, all accompanied by a cool, buttery Chardonnay Cliff had produced. It was the company that was odd. The guests were Andre and the two homicide detectives; Cliff Paris, restored, after his brief lapse, to his normal, charming self; and Eve, pale and disoriented, stunned into silence by the responsibility of sitting in her mother's place.
    Around us, the mirrored walls gave us back multiple images of ourselves and brought me unwanted memories of other, happier meals in the room. Outside, the glorious day went on and on, an insistent reminder that summer was coming. It seemed impertinent. The sun should have known better than to shine so blatantly onto this house of grief.
    Cliff made a few attempts at conversation, but after we got through the routine comments about the food, things lapsed into silence. No one wanted to talk about Helene, and no other subject seemed appropriate. We sat in an awkward circle, the quiet punctuated only by the tinkle of ice on glass, the rattle of silverware, the quiet slurping of soup, with an occasional murmur when someone asked for something to be passed. I thought, fleetingly, of the beer and fried clams I was missing. Across the table, Andre looked as uncomfortable as I felt, and weary as well. He'd had a difficult three weeks and today hadn't been the relaxing day we'd planned.
    Finally, Eve broke the silence, tossing her soup spoon into her bowl with a clatter. "This is ridiculous," she said. "If Helene were here, she'd be laughing at us. She wouldn't have put up with this. She would have chosen a topic and made us talk. She would have sat here in this chair, tossed back her hair, and laughed at us. 'Nature abhors a vacuum,' she would have said, and then suggested a topic." Eve planted her forearms on the table, clasped her hands over her plate, and looked at us all expectantly.
    "Delicious dinner, Thea," she said. "I think one of the best gifts a person can have is a friend who makes soup. It's not the first time you've rescued me with soup. I think I floated to my graduate degree on a wave of your soup. Soup and common sense. But we've already talked about soup. Let's talk about infidelity. Detective Florio, are you married?"
    "Eve, don't," Cliff said. "You'll just get yourself upset again."
    She tipped her head slightly sideways, reminding me again of a bright little bird. "It's just conversation, Cliff," she said. "I'm not going to get upset." She shifted her gaze back to Florio. "Detective?" There was a teasing note in her voice, but it wasn't playful teasing, it was malicious teasing. You don't grow up with two parents skilled in dissecting every remark without learning the skill yourself.
    "Yes, I'm married."
    "Is your wife faithful?"
    "Eve," Cliff said, "intrusive personal questions are not appropriate table conversation."
    "My mother would have..."
    "Your mother