Obsession, Deceit And Really Dark Chocolate. Kyra Davis

know, I know,” she said quickly. “It’s just that he so rarely called me Melanie. He always referred to me by my pet name.”

      I swallowed and looked away. “Well, it was kind of a stressful moment, I could have misheard him. What’s his pet name for you?”

      “Curly. He loved my curls.” She held up a lock of wavy hair that would have been f lat as a board without the help of her stylist.

      “I’m sure that’s what he said. There was a lot to take in at that moment.”

      For instance, I could have heard “furry” when in fact what he said was “curly.” My mentor and former professor could be a Goddamn curly shit.

      

      I popped in the latest Gorillaz CD and turned over in my mind all the things I had just learned, which wasn’t a lot. With traffic it took me over an hour to get back to San Francisco. Even if I had misheard Eugene, it didn’t mean anything other than that he was in pain, delirious and pissed off at his wife. (Melanie wasn’t capable of violence.) Besides, I was ninety percent sure that I did hear him correctly. Eugene had been cursing someone named Furry. Which, of course, raised another question: was Eugene the adulterous type after all? Wasn’t it possible that someone who was dorky enough to call his naturally straight-haired wife “Curly” might also be dorky enough to call his mistress “Furry”?

      But what kind of woman would sleep with a man who called her Furry? No, Eugene had to have been delirious. It didn’t really matter; this entire mess was much ado about nothing. I decided to shelve the whole thing until tomorrow and spend this time on more productive activities like cursing at the traffic.

      My cell phone rang just as I was contemplating the best way to stir up a little road rage.

      “C’est Sophie.”

      “Hello, Sophie, it’s Melanie. I just thought of a social event that you could attend where you would meet almost all of Eugene’s friends and coworkers.”

      “And what would that be?”

      “His funeral.”

      I felt the beginnings of another headache coming on. “Melanie, I can’t interrogate people at a funeral.”

      “Of course not. I just thought you might be able to meet a few people and make connections. If someone happens to volunteer something useful you can pursue it at a later date.”

      Gee, that sounded like great fun. Melanie would be busy receiving all of Eugene’s friends while I walked around by myself trying to initiate conversations with grieving strangers.

      “If I come I want to bring a friend…actually, I want to bring Leah.” My sister was one of maybe ten Republicans who actually lived in San Francisco. If nothing else she’d be able to help me come up with topics of conversation that would play well with the politicians Eugene used to hang with.

      “Then bring Leah,” Melanie said. “But…do you think she’ll be comfortable standing quietly by your side while you ask people about Eugene?”

      I tried to imagine Leah doing anything quietly. “I’ll bring my friend Mary Ann, too. That way Leah will have someone to complain—I mean talk to, no matter what.”

      “I think I met Mary Ann once. Is she the pretty girl with the long curly hair?”

      “That’s her.”

      “Very well, bring them both. And Sophie?”

      “Yes?”

      “Thank you.”

      I smiled and beeped at the idiot who had just cut me off. How many times had I said those words to Melanie? I owed her a lot, but I was fairly sure that when this was over we would finally be settled up.

      3

      I would rather burn in the fires of hell than spend eternity in heaven listening to a bunch of religious zealots say I told you so.

      —C’est La Mort

      It was like a black-and-gray sea of St. John and Brooks Brothers suits. I looked down at my own dark brown Old Navy dress as Mary Ann, Leah and I found seats in one of the rows toward the front, and then eyed their designer black dresses with undisguised resentment. “I thought you said earth tones were the new black when it came to mourning.”

      “They are,” Mary Ann said slowly, “but being in mourning and attending a funeral are different things.”

      “Oh?” I regarded her skeptically. “Don’t people come to funerals to mourn?”

      “Really, Sophie.” Leah let out an exasperated sigh. “People mourn on their own time. They come to funerals to get credit for mourning. There’s a huge difference.”

      I nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”

      “I didn’t expect them to have an open casket,” Mary Ann whispered. “Gosh, it’s so sad,” she added, tugging at the ends of her hair. “And look, they put way too much blush on him.”

      “Is anyone sitting here?” I looked up to see two men, both wearing the prerequisite gray suit. The one who had spoken was probably in his late thirties and was smiling down at Mary Ann. Or at least his mouth was smiling. His eyes were far too red to twinkle. He seemed fairly calm at the moment, so I wasn’t sure if the redness was due to a morning of crying or a night full of drinking. Still, he was cute in a teddy bear kind of way. His hairline was receding but he had a healthy tan that hinted at a love for the outdoors and a pug nose that automatically gave him a youthful air, despite his conservative attire. The other man was younger, taller and maybe in his mid-twenties. His dishwater-blond hair was cut a little too short for his round face and he was fidgeting with the knot in his tie in a way that made me think he wasn’t accustomed to wearing one.

      Mary Ann scooted over enough to make room for them. The older man nodded his appreciation and slid in first; the younger sat at the aisle and pulled out the prayer book in front of him.

      “I’m Rick,” the older said, presumably addressing all of us, although I noticed that his gaze lingered a little longer on Mary Ann. “And this is Johnny.”

      “Hi there!” Johnny chirped, then immediately looked a little abashed as if his tone had been too cheerful for the occasion.

      “I’m Mary Ann,” she said, “and this is Sophie and her sister Leah.”

      “Sophie…” Johnny looked at me and his eyes widened with recognition. “You’re that novelist…the one who found him!”

      “Yes, that’s me.”

      Rick did a quick double take while Johnny kept talking. “It must have been horrible. The newspaper said you didn’t see the crime actually happen, but surely you must have seen something, the make of the car driving away, perhaps? It doesn’t seem possible that someone could do something like this and not leave any evidence behind.”

      “Probably not, but if there was an eyewitness it wasn’t me.”

      “So it’s true, all you really saw was Eugene,” he said glumly. He looked like a kid who had just been forced to witness a Harry Potter book burning.

      “I can’t imagine what that was like for you,” Rick said. “You must have been terrified and—”

      “Did you know Eugene well?” I asked, cutting him off before he could miscast me in the role of innocent damsel in distress.

      “I spent time with him every day. I’m Flynn Fitzgerald’s main strategist. Johnny here is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant.”

      So he was that Rick! Perfect! Networking made easy.

      “Flynn Fitzgerald?” Mary Ann asked. “He’s a writer, right? I think I might have read one of his books a long time ago. Didn’t he write about parties and socialites?”

      Rick