The Beverly Malibu by Katherine V. Forrest

Author:Katherine V. Forrest
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: detective, mystery, women sleuths, gay, lesbian
ISBN: 9783886195299
Publisher: Alyson Books
Published: 1992-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Thirteen

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Aimee Grant answered the door to Paula Grant’s apartment.

Taylor’s knees would buckle, Kate thought as she surveyed the loosely knit maroon sweater that outlined high and shapely breasts, the stone-washed jeans that clasped the young woman’s legs all the way down to the ankles.

“Detective Delafield, please come in,” Paula Grant called in her Lauren Bacall tones. She reclined in a corner of the sofa, sitting sideways, her dark pants and gray sweater blending with the black and white tweed fabric, one leg stretched out and the other drawn up, an arm draped over the knee, smoke curling up from the cigarette she held.

Graceful, Kate thought. The woman is so graceful.

As she had earlier that morning, Paula Grant cast an impassive glance over Kate’s jacket and pants. But she smiled — a guarded smile — and Kate was annoyed at the gratitude she felt; she needed to master her sense of inferiority to this woman.

Kate chose the same sling chair she had occupied the night before. Aimee sat beside her. On the muted television screen football players flung their brightly armored bodies together, accompanied by low volume music emanating from two small speakers that flanked the windows; Kate recognized the falsetto notes of the Bee Gees. On the coffee table in front of Aimee were an untouched toasted cheese sandwich and a can of diet Coke, and a paperback turned face-down.

Aimee Grant had taken over this apartment, Kate thought with an emotion close to resentment. Her football game, her music, her food, her book.

“May we get you a sandwich,” Paula offered. “I’ve just finished lunch, but you can keep Aimee company.”

“Thank you, no,” Kate said. She would eat later, when Taylor returned.

“Share my sandwich,” Aimee said, “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” Kate said, realizing the fact with surprise.

“Aimee, do try to eat,” Paula said. “You need to.” She said to Kate, “Perhaps something to drink, then?” She indicated the goblet on the table beside her. “Would you join me in a glass of wine?”

In dry-mouthed reaction to the note of warmth and intimacy in the low, husky tones, Kate said, “I’d appreciate some water.”

“I’ll get it,” Aimee said.

“Why don’t I turn off the radio,” Paula said. She rose in one fluid motion as the Pointer Sisters began to croon “Slow Hand.”

Stirring in her chair, aware she was fumbling with her notebook, Kate watched Paula cross the room to a small stereo console, the slender delicate body moving in the same unified flow.

“The music you heard yesterday from Owen Sinclair’s apartment,” Kate said, seizing on one of the questions she must ask. “Did you notice anything special about it?”

“I never actually heard his music unless I was in the hallway.” Facing Kate, Paula was silhouetted straight and slim against the sunlit window, her hands in the pockets of her chinos. “It was just noise and vibration.”

“Yesterday it was loud noise.” Aimee placed a tall glass filled with water and ice cubes on the coffee table and again sat down beside Kate.

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