Precious Blood(62)

“Judy?” Stuart said.

Judy dumped an ice cube in each glass and opened the Scotch. “Just a minute,” she shouted: She had to shout. He couldn’t have heard her otherwise.

He probably didn’t, anyway. He said, “Come in here quick. I can’t believe what I’m seeing here.”

Because Judy knew what he was seeing—and could believe it all too well—she didn’t hurry. She filled both glasses two-thirds full with Scotch, drank half the liquor out of one of them, and then filled that one up again. Then she looked around the living room and wondered what she’d been thinking of when she’d furnished it. It was all glass and chrome and leather, all sharp edges and shiny surfaces. It looked expensively bought and expensively maintained, both of which it was. Its problem—in parallel with the problem of her reactions to Andy Walsh’s death—was that it didn’t look anything else. Like human. Or even real.

She drank another half glass of Scotch, refilled the glass again, then picked both glasses up and made her way down and around the little back hall to the television room. Stuart was sitting scrunched into one of her two Harmon high-tech chairs, glued to the set. He had his jacket off, his vest open, his shirt unbuttoned, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. None of that bothered her—it was a relief to know he was capable of relaxation—but the expression on his face did. He was happy as a clam.

“Look at this,” he said. “Just look at it. That damned place must have been like a circus.”

Judy handed him his drink. The picture on the screen now was of the goat, rearing and bucking against its rope. Melissa Morris Wayne, Judy’s least-favorite local anchor-woman, was making wild speculations about what Andy had intended to use it for. The picture was blurry and uneven, as if someone had smeared Vaseline on the lens. Judy remembered Tom Dolan at the back of the church, talking to the cameramen just after Andy Walsh had died, and smiled. Somebody probably had.

“They did at least two minutes on the Cardinal refusing to let the police have the wine for analysis,” Stuart said. “Can you beat that?”

“The Cardinal refusing or the two minutes?”

“Either. They talked to that man, too, the one the Cardinal brought up from Philadelphia. I keep thinking he’s somebody I ought to know about.”

If Stuart ever got to the House of Representatives, Judy thought, he was going to forget the name of the Speaker. Maybe she should start writing relevant information on the insides of his shirt cuffs, so he wouldn’t embarrass her in public.

She sat down in the other Harmon chair and said, “If you’re waiting to see my face on the screen, you can forget it. I managed to avoid it this afternoon.”

“Did you? That was very intelligent of you.”

“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. This is going to be a very big story, Stuart, and I am president of the Parish Council. Never mind the fact that I was the one who brought the goat. They’re going to want to talk to me sometime.”

“Sure they will. But if they’d talked to you today, you would have looked involved.”

“The man the Cardinal brought up from Philadelphia is Gregor Demarkian. He’s an expert on murders.”

Stuart tried to turn sideways in his chair. It was difficult in a Harmon. The seats were narrow and the arms were square cut-out pieces of soldered chrome. A pained expression crossed his face and Judy thought, He’s pinched himself again. Then she took a long draft of her drink.

“You’re mad at me,” Stuart told her. “I can tell. What are you mad at me for?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Judy said, “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. And Andy Walsh is dead.”

“You’re in mourning for Andy Walsh?”

“No.”

“You’re not making any sense, Judy.”

“Yes, I am. I’m not mourning for Andy Walsh, but I don’t want to gloat over all this, for God’s sake. It was horrible.”

“I’m not gloating over it. Well, it solves a lot of things, you know. You won’t have to associate with Andy Walsh anymore, because Andy Walsh won’t be around to associate with.”

“I wasn’t having any problems associating with Andy Walsh.”

“I was. I mean, I was having problems with you—”

“Never mind, Stuart.”

“Don’t tell me never mind,” Stuart said. “I don’t think you understand me at all, Judy. I really don’t. Sometimes I think you don’t even try.”

Judy Eagan looked down into the small puddle of Scotch and melted ice in her glass. It looked as forlorn as she felt, but muddier. She wasn’t muddy in the least. She put the glass down on the carpet at her feet and thought: My God. This man is an unmitigated and unrepentant ass. And I’ve always known it.