The Prettiest Girl I Ever Killed Read Online Free PDF

She wore a preoccupied, totally introverted air, as though unaware that she had the attention of everyone in the store. The bread man had dropped two loaves trying to stack bread and watch her at the same time; the candy man had broken off his discussion with me and was peering over the shelves at her. She wore a hip-length mink jacket and tight toreador pants which revealed the abrupt beginning curve of her buttocks below the jacket. She wore the fur as though it were something to keep her warm; a combination of the elegant and shoddy (her ski boots, for example, were scuffed and muddy) made her look as though she’d grown up in wealth and no longer noticed it.
    Gladys Schmit must have been watching the store; she came in five minutes later and examined the shelves of pickles. Gladys didn’t eat pickles, but that’s where Curt’s wife was. I heard Gladys ask: “Aren’t you Curtis Friedland’s wife?”
    The girl paused as though thinking it over, then said: “Yes. I’m Gabrielle.”
    Gladys launched her schoolmarm’s interrogation about Gabrielle’s career, her husband, and her plans. Gabrielle dodged none of the questions, but answered them in a way which told Gladys only what she knew already: that they’d sold their business in Chicago, spent a few months in the Caribbean, then come here. Gladys attempted to trade confidences; she told about having Curt in school, and how intelligent he was …
    “… But so shy and unsure of himself. I used to tell him, go ahead, don’t doubt yourself, but he never …”
    The girl was not interested. Having defined the old woman’s relationship to her husband and decided there was nothing she wanted, she answered in polite monosyllables until Gladys ran down and departed. Then she wheeled her cart to the counter and said to me:
    “It seemed like she was talking about someone else. He isn’t like that.”
    She’d done nothing to me except marry into the Friedlands, but I’m really not an outgoing type; I’m narrow and suspicious and mean-tempered, like most Brushcreekers. I busied myself in ringing up her purchases. “People change,” I said.
    She gave a vague lost smile. “They don’t, really.”
    I ripped off the long ribbon of tape and laid it before her. While I was boxing her purchases, the guilt crept in. After all, she was a stranger in our xenophobic little village and it was pointless to be rude to her. I told her who I was and asked if she’d like to visit some afternoon.
    She laid a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and gave me an unblinking look: “Does this include Curt?”
    So … she wouldn’t let me off the book. I slightly admired her honesty. “I saw him earlier. Didn’t he tell you?”
    “Yes. He said you’d changed. You used to be friends.”
    My face felt hot. “It was a long time ago.”
    “Yesterday,” she said. “It all happened yesterday.”
    I frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve got a man,” she said, “who had it all in his hands. Success. Then he threw it away. Why? Because he skipped a turn. He says life is a downhill slalom and if you miss a run the rest of the run doesn’t count. No matter how good it is. He thinks he could have saved Frankie if he’d been here, but the air force doesn’t give emergency furloughs for murder trials.”
    I was shocked at the change in her. Instead of a lost, bewildered girl, I was suddenly faced by a passionate, self-assured woman; eyes blazing, coat thrown back and hands on hips, small breasts thrust against a white cashmere sweater. She had a raw physical appeal, a certain savage sexuality which I’d missed the first time.
    I lowered my eyes and started counting out her change. “You think Frankie’s innocent?”
    “I don’t question my husband’s convictions.”
    “And he thinks so?”
    “Curt doesn’t question Frankie’s word.” She smiled and put the change in her purse. “We all have our little dogmas, don’t we?”
    I knew what she meant, and I wanted to