Laura Lippman by Tess Monaghan 09 - No Good Deeds (v5)

Author:Tess Monaghan 09 - No Good Deeds (v5) [Deeds, Tess Monaghan 09 - No Good]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: a cognizant original v5 release october 09 2010
Published: 2006-10-09T04:00:00+00:00

18

Miss Monaghan?”

Tess was used to being accosted anywhere, anytime in Baltimore, her personal and professional identities forever overlapping. Relatives crashed meetings with clients when she was foolhardy enough to conduct her affairs in public places, while those who knew her through her work had no qualms about confronting her during obvious downtime. Once, a disgruntled city official, unhappy with the effect that Tess’s research had on his divorce settlement, kept up a running commentary on her ethics during a screening of Lawrence of Arabia. He had finally been led out of the Senator Theater by two young ushers, still hissing invectives all the way—“Bitch! Whore! CUNT!”—while Tess stared straight ahead, trying to lose herself in the restored glory of Peter O’Toole’s gaze.

Still, it was disconcerting to have someone address her formally while she was naked except for Jockey underwear.

“Yes, that’s me,” she said, pulling on her bra and T-shirt as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but you looked too, um, focused to interrupt on the gym floor. I’m Wilma Youssef.”

The first irrelevant thought that crossed Tess’s mind was, But you’re so blond. Silly, she had imagined Youssef’s wife more as a sister—dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive skin. The woman standing at the end of this row of lockers was a petite, blue-eyed blonde. Tess’s second, still-not-on-point reaction was, You’ve kept your face out of the news. Gregory Youssef’s image may have been as ubiquitous as the girl on the Utz potato chip bag, but his wife had managed to stay off camera, no small feat for a grieving widow.

Then, finally, an almost appropriate observation: What did one say to a notorious widow? What did one say to a widow who almost certainly believed that you were an obstacle in her husband’s murder investigation?

“Hi,” Tess said, offering her hand, once her T-shirt was in place. Mrs. Youssef declined to shake.

“I really need to talk to you, but I don’t have much time. My mother-in-law spells the nanny at day’s end, but I hate to impose on her longer than necessary. Can we speak in the café upstairs?”

Tess made a face. There was nothing wrong with the bar-restaurant in the Downtown Athletic Club, but gym was like church to her—a sacred place, yet not one where she wanted to linger once her ablutions were done.

“The Brass Elephant is just a few blocks away. Could we have a drink there?”

“Oh, yes. That bar you like so much.”

“How do—”

The widow Youssef’s smile was at once sad and superior. “We’ve been making quite a study of you. Do you think it’s a coincidence that I’m at this particular gym at this particular hour? I don’t exactly have time to work out.”

Tess wasn’t sure what was more unnerving—the idea that someone could so easily discern her patterns or the woman’s use of the first-person plural. Who was this “we,” exactly?

“I can be there in five minutes,” she said. “It’s not a bar that stands on formality, but it does prefer that the patrons wear something below the waist.

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