Everything was so muddled … At fifteen I already knew that Jim’s was going to be the important work, and, loving him, I gave every atom of my being to advancing his career, from my money to my right arm. I never grudged it, never! I never thought of myself as Jim’s inferior, as his uncomplaining servant, but clearly that is how Davina sees me — as a kind of up-market Uda. I never saw a shred of evidence that Jim thought me his inferior — we were too close, too much a team. That’s what Davina hasn’t understood. If she esteemed me, she would have spoken to both of us together; as it was, she spoke to Jim alone as the arbiter of my destiny as well as his own. It’s not like that! How many of our decisions did I make? Answer: about half. Jim and I are both biochemists, this has never been about my career versus his, it’s always been about our joint career, even if the name on it is Jim’s, not mine. I always thought Jim understood that my turn would come, now I’m not so sure, and that’s a source of deep hurt. Of anger. When our eyes met at fifteen, it was the exchange of two equals, and all the battling since has seen us equals. Can I honestly be an Uda to my man of eighteen years?
No, I refuse to believe it! Without me, Jim couldn’t have gotten there. He knows it as well as I do. That we’ve never discussed it is immaterial: it’s a core fact. Now here he is, the pawn of an ambitious, utterly self-centered woman who flirts with him or any other personable man she meets — is that all it is, flirtation? Yes, yes! Everything she does is to feather her existing nest, not make a new one, and she’s not privy to any of Jim’s less admirable qualities. I hate her, I hate her! She’s a blowfly lays its maggots in the juiciest substrate, and Jim’s book means a lot to her and Max. Jim’s book, Jim’s book …
The rage was entirely gone. On this Saturday morning, Jim had entirely lost sight of Millie the equal. What was success going to do to him? And, more importantly, to his marriage? Could she continue to summon up the strength to deal with him? I am the only person who knows his secrets, his insecurities, his nightmares, his ghosts.
She got up and returned to the bus stop. As usual, the bus was late; she caught it by the skin of her teeth at the end of a sprint, and sat, gasping for breath, with a smile for her fellow travelers, all of whom she knew. As she sometimes joked to Jim, she was the only white person on board with an intact brain; the bus was for black people full of intelligence and vigor, and white people who were either physically or mentally handicapped.
By the time she walked through her parents’ back door she was smiling, looked happier than in years.
“Dad,” she said to Patrick, buried in the New York Times, “are there any houses for rent in East Holloman, perhaps with a view to buying later on? Jim and I are joining the fleshpots.”
When Val sidled through his office door, Max Tunbull looked up in surprise. Val wasn’t the sidling type.
“What’s the matter? Why the skulking?”
“Chester Malcuzinski is here.”
The pencil fell from Max’s hand; he went pale. “Christ!”
“We’ll be calling on the Name of the Lord a lot. He wants to know why Emily was murdered,” Val said, subsiding into a chair.
“How did he find out?”
“Saw some cable TV news program that’s made a big production out of the mystery poison. You know, undetectable, sinister, some poisoner on the loose, cops stymied, the usual bullshit.”
“Did Lily stock your kitchen again?”
Val’s face softened. “Yes. Good girl, my daughter-in-law. Never even cheated on the bills for the insurance company.”
“More than you could have said for your brother-in-law.”
“Tell me about it, the bastard!”
“How’s he cheating the world these days?” Max asked.
“He’s in real estate in Florida — the Gulf side, Orlando. More and more northerners are moving to Florida to retire, and Chez helps them spend their money. He builds luxury apartments, so he has people going and coming.” Val shivered. “I bet there are a few corpses in the foundations.”
“How old is Emily’s little brother now?” Max asked.
“Early forties. He adored Em, I have to give him that, but I had a hard time convincing him that I didn’t let him know she was dead because I didn’t have any idea where he was. I guess what made him believe me in the end was that no one in his right mind would offend Chez Malcuzinski.”
“How long is he staying?”
“Until Em’s killer is caught, he says. He’s moved into Ivan’s old room and taken the spare bedroom next door to it as a kind of office and sitting room.” Val waved his hands around. “He arrived at seven this morning, and by nine the cable guys were giving him his own feed to a huge TV set. They hadn’t gone when the phone guys turned up to give him his own phone line and telex. He moved a table out of the basement to use as a desk — all by himself, can you imagine? He’s fit, Max, very fit.”