Passion, Betrayal And Killer Highlights. Kyra Davis

as fine as grains of black sand. However the person preparing these beans was pressing the grinder for five seconds at a time, and, taking two-minute breaks in between to utter phrases like “Oh, my head!”

      I pulled on a robe and went out to the kitchen to see Leah braced against the sink, the grinder currently silent beside her.

      Her angry, bloodshot eyes zoomed in on me. “Look at me! Look what you’ve done to me!”

      I didn’t immediately answer. I understood that she was hungover but I missed the part that made it my fault.

      “Why did you let me drink all that brandy?” She ran her fingers through her hair, inadvertently molding it into a wing formation. “How am I going to reevaluate my life if I feel like my head is going to explode?”

      I pulled out a filter and began to prepare the coffeemaker for the beans that I was clearly going to have to grind myself. “Maybe you shouldn’t reevaluate your life just yet.”

      “Of course, I have to reevaluate! Weren’t you listening to me last night? I’m not the wife of a comptroller anymore. I’m the widow of a comptroller. That’s an entirely different situation. I have to figure out—OH MY GOD!”

      I almost dropped the coffeepot. “What? What is it?”

      “This nightgown I’m wearing! You lent me a pink nightgown!”

      I blinked. “I thought you liked pink.”

      “I’m in mourning! I’m supposed to be wearing black.”

      “To the funeral maybe…”

      “No, no, no, no.” Leah shook her head hard enough to cause her hair wings to make a flapping motion, then abruptly stopped as she struggled to regain her equilibrium. “There is a period of time in which widows are supposed to wear black, I’m sure of it.”

      “Leah, this isn’t Gone with the Wind. No one is going to blackball you for wearing a pink nightgown.”

      She started pacing the narrow kitchen. “There’s a way to do this…I know, a book! There’s got to be a book that explains the proper protocol for a newly widowed woman.”

      “Like what? Mourning for Idiots? Why don’t you pick up Emily Post’s book on how to be a socially gracious murder suspect while you’re at it, because that seems to be the more pressing problem.”

      Leah stopped pacing. “Murder suspect? I didn’t kill Bob.”

      “I didn’t say you did, but I’m sure you’ve heard the saying ‘perception is the greater part of reality.’ And I’m pretty sure I know what the police department’s perception is right now.”

      Leah looked bewildered, although how this could have been news to her was beyond me.

      “But once the police start investigating, they’ll see it wasn’t me. There’s no evidence that could say otherwise because I really am innocent.”

      “Wake up, Leah. Innocent people go to jail all the time on bogus charges. It was barely a month ago that Anatoly was charged with assault and murder.”

      “But that’s because you set him up, Sophie. You invited him up to your place, kicked a few chairs over or something and then called 911.”

      “Okay, forget about that. How many times in the past couple of years have forensic scientists used old DNA evidence to prove that some of the people who have served time for various crimes were actually innocent? While researching Words To Die By, I found out that Ray Krone was in prison for ten years before DNA evidence proved him innocent. What about the cases when DNA evidence isn’t available? Do you think the courts get all those right? You need to look at this realistically and prepare to fight the accusations that are going to come your way.”

      In one fluid movement Leah picked up an empty coffee mug and threw it across the room. It exploded against my cabinet door in a burst of ceramic. “I didn’t do it!”

      I stood motionless, looking at the remnants of the cup. I had a long history of throwing things, but that’s because I have no self-control. Leah, on the other hand, had always managed to be on the verge of a breakdown without ever actually having one—until now.

      Her action must have surprised her, as well, because she had become completely still. Then she slumped against the counter. “I know it looks bad, but I honestly never wished him dead. I wanted the chance to make it work. Why wasn’t I given that, Sophie? Why would anyone do this?” She slid down to the floor, buried her face in her hands and cried.

      I reluctantly crept forward and sat down beside her, careful not to get shards of ceramic stuck in my butt. I understood where Leah was coming from. I’m not sure she valued Bob the individual all that much, but she did value their union and the life they had made together. Her choices were not ones that I would ever have made for myself, though they apparently worked for her. But Bob’s extramarital affair had not been one of her choices, nor had his murder. At least I hoped it hadn’t been. Now, after spending years perfecting her role as Mrs. Bob Miller, she was forced to redefine herself, and she had no clue how to do it.

      I put my arm around her shoulders. “I’ll ask Mary Ann about the black,” I said, referring to my friend who worked at Neiman Marcus. “She’ll know what you should wear.”

      Leah choked back a sob.

      “Do you want to cover the mirrors?” I asked.

      Leah lifted her tear-stained face. “Cover the mirrors? Bob would have hated that. He wasn’t even Jewish.”

      “Look, God’s got Bob covered, so now we’ve got to do what’s necessary to get you through this. The rabbis wrote out some pretty clear instructions on what we Jews are supposed to do when we lose a family member, and you need guidance, soooo…”

      Leah nodded and chewed on her lip. “I guess it’s not such a bad idea, but do you think…perhaps just for this morning…?”

      “You want to wait until you’ve finished with your makeup and hair.”

      “Am I completely shallow and horrible?”

      “Maybe, but if so, it’s hereditary, because there’s no way that I’m going to go through the day without my undereye concealer.”

      Leah rested her head against my shoulder, which required some contortionist moves on her part, but the gesture was irresistibly sweet. “If you ever try to remind me that I said this I’ll deny it, but honestly—I don’t know what I would do without you.”

      “You’re never going to have to find out,” I said, then reached forward and patted her knee. “And you can count on me reminding you.”

      

      If anybody else had lost her husband I would have had the courtesy to let them shower before me. But it was an undisputed fact that Leah’s particular bathing rituals were the primary reason for California’s water shortage, so I made it a point to sneak in first. When I had finished making myself beautiful, I searched the apartment for something appropriate to cover the mirrors with. It took about five minutes for me to figure out that I had nothing. My downstairs neighbor Nancy sewed. She’d probably have some spare fabric. But there were so many things I’d rather do than ask her for a favor—like go snorkeling in a tanker full of plutonium.

      I heard Leah turn off the shower. She’d be done in forty-five minutes max. I had promised her I’d cover the mirrors and I didn’t want to renege on that, especially since it was the only thing that seemed to perk her up. I opened one of my dresser drawers for the eighth time and glared at its contents. Of course there was nothing of use in there. Gym clothes, bathing suits and…

      My hand reached in and pulled out the first of my many sarongs that I had collected over time to use as bathing suit covers and skirts during the years that it was fashionable. I shook it out and held it up to the full-length mirror fastened to the closet door. It was the right length. I had seven sarongs and five mirrors. Perfect. I hurried around