Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

“Um, he would have let her think it, but he never would have.” Easton sounded thick-tongued, slightly dopey.

I’d obviously woken him from one of his ritual marathon sleeps: striped pajamas on, phone on a pillow on the floor to muffle the ring, curtains safety-pinned to ensure unending darkness. His sleeps were escapes that would last for weeks, except for shuffling excursions in flapping leather slippers down to the kitchen, where he’d spoon soft food—ice cream, canned fruit cocktail—into his mouth listlessly, as though feeding a baby who wasn’t hungry. Occasionally, he’d offer a thin excuse: The doctor says it’s probably mono, and then give a feeble cough. Easton’s sleeps came whenever he realized he wasn’t going to be superstar insurance agent, or hero of men’s wear. He’d start going in to work late, coming home early—sometimes after lunch. A boss would call, first to lecture, finally to fire him, and Easton would simply mumble, If that’s how you want it, and hang up the phone and go back to sleep.

Well, what did he have to stay awake for now that Sy was dead? “East, come on. Focus for a second.”

Irritable. “I am focused.”

“Do you think there was any chance Lindsay knew that Katherine Pourelle had been sent the Starry 234 / SUSAN ISAACS

Night script, or that Sy was going to see her out in L.A.?”

Easton tried to rise to the occasion. You could almost see him shaking his head, clearing out the fog. “Did she know?”

he repeated. Suddenly he sounded alert, interested, protective.

“Why do you want to know about Lindsay?”

“Look, I know you’re—you know—kind of attracted to her, but try to be objective, East. This is a homicide.”

“And you think if Lindsay had found out somehow…Steve, that’s idiotic.”

“Probably. But I can’t leave any loose ends untied.”

“Give me a second,” he said. “I must have dozed off for a couple of minutes. I’m still a little groggy.” I reached into my drawer and retrieved a combo key ring-nail clipper I’d gotten at a grand opening of a car wash and gave myself something resembling a manicure. It seemed I’d have time to take off my shoes and socks and do my toes, but finally Easton spoke, although hesitantly. “Lindsay had…a certain curiosity about Sy’s business.”

“What does that mean in real life? She was nosy?”

“If you want to look at it superficially.”

“Give me a for-instance.” He didn’t reply. “Stop the chivalry shit. I’m not looking to arrest her. I’m just looking to finish the paperwork on this case.”

“Is Lindsay a real suspect?”

“No.”

“Who is?”

“Not for public consumption, okay?”

“Of course not.”

“The ex-wife, Bonnie. But Lindsay shot a rifle in a movie called Transvaal, so I’ve got to check her out some more.

Now, how was she nosy?”

“The word I used was ‘curious.’ You see, Sy usually swam his laps after she did hers. So when she came MAGIC HOUR / 235

back into the house, supposedly to take a shower, she’d actually go into his study.”

“And?”

“And pretend to be looking for a stamp or a paper clip, but actually go through whatever papers were lying on the desk. Oh, I just remembered. Sy had one of those pocket computer calendars. One time, I saw her pressing some buttons on it. My guess was she was reading off all his entries. I know this makes her sound like a sneak. She really wasn’t. Sy was more than her lover, he was her employer.

She knew as well as anyone how brutal he could be with anyone he wasn’t pleased with, and he definitely wasn’t pleased with her. So she was protecting her own interests, so to speak.”

“Bottom line, Easton. Do you think she knew why he was going to L.A.?”

“Bottom line?” He gave it real thought. I waited. “She was getting curiouser and curiouser. Extra visits to his study.

Checking out the fax machine early in the morning, before Sy was up, before she went to the set.”

“How do you know what went on so early?”

“I liked to get in early. This is…embarrassing.”

“Listen, do you think you’re the first guy in human history to get stupid over a girl? I’m your brother. You can tell me.

You went in early because you wanted to see her?”

“Yes. But she never really tried to hide her curiosity from me. Either she thought I was so much a part of the household that I was like wallpaper—there, no threat—or she sensed how I felt about her, and felt safe.” Easton sighed. “I think that must have been it. But in any case, what you want to know is if I think Lindsay knew Sy was going to take some action. And the answer is yes. I do.”

Germy called back a half hour later. He’d spoken to 236 / SUSAN ISAACS

the producer of Transvaal. They had hired some South African game warden as a technical adviser, and he’d given Lindsay a couple of hours of lessons with a rifle. The producer had no idea what kind of a shot she was, but he’d added she’d had a quickie affair with the game warden but then switched over to a black actor who was playing an anti-apartheid activist.

Gideon called around noon. He was back in his office.

He’d hired Bill Paterno for Bonnie, but wanted one last talk with me. In person. Man to man. He said that without self-consciousness. Could he come back to my office? I glanced over at Robby. He was hunched over his desk, going over all the DNA and lab reports, index finger inching down the pages, lips moving, calling on the God of Science to bless his crusade against Bonnie Spencer. He looked pasty and intense and a little nuts, so I gave Gideon quick directions to the nearest diner, told him to meet me there at one-thirty, that he could have as long as it took me to finish a chicken salad and bacon sandwich and a vanilla malted—which, when I was minding my manners, took