LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER 5

      Louis stripped off his jacket, taking a second to stand under the ceiling vent to warm up. When he reached back to take Phillip’s coat to hang it on the peg next to his, Phillip was already heading to the kitchen.

      Louis followed him. Still wearing his coat, Phillip veered off into the dark dining room. He opened a breakfront, pulling down a glass. He popped open a lower cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Frances came in from the kitchen just as he was pouring the drink.

      Her eyes went to the glass and then to Louis. “I was getting worried about you. How was the trip?” she asked.

      Louis waited for Phillip to answer. When he didn’t, Louis gave it a shot. “Fine. It was very cold.” Louis nodded at the bottle still in Phillip’s hand. “Phillip, pour me one. I could use some warming up, too.”

      Phillip took out another glass, poured a shot, and handed it to Louis. Louis didn’t like bourbon, but he hid his grimace as he took a drink.

      “So where did you go?” Frances asked, her eyes still on her husband.

      Phillip took a slow drink.

      “Did you go visit your friend?” Frances asked.

      “Yes,” Phillip said. “Louis and I were talking about him last night and I thought I’d take him out there.”

      Louis looked down into his glass.

      “Maybe I should come with you sometime,” Frances said.

      “It’s an old army buddy, Frances. You know I don’t talk much about that.”

      “You’ve never even told me his name, Phillip.”

      Louis took a drink, wishing he was somewhere else. Jesus, this was awkward. Here they were, standing in a dark dining room, not able to look into each other’s eyes, pretending everything was normal.

      “Where is this cemetery?” Frances asked.

      Phillip turned the glass slowly with his fingers. He wasn’t going to answer.

      “Irish Hills,” Louis said.

      “Really? I’ve been there,” Frances said. “My parents took me out there once or twice. Is it still nice?”

      No answer from Phillip again.

      “We didn’t see much of it,” Louis said finally. “What we did see looked, you know, kind of run-down. An old amusement park, some old motels. All closed right now. Not much to see really.”

      Frances was watching Phillip. “I would have liked to go anyway,” she said. “It’s been so cold and I’ve been stuck in this house all week. I’d like a nice drive.”

      Phillip set the glass down carefully on the polished dining room table. “I better go get cleaned up,” he said quietly.

      Frances’s eyes followed him out of the dining room. They heard the close of the bathroom door. Frances looked at Louis, and he saw something register in the bland prettiness of her round face, a slight tightness around her mouth. She picked up the empty glass, wiping the water ring with her sweater sleeve. She went back into the kitchen.

      Louis stayed in the dark dining room. She knew. Wives always knew. Maybe Frances didn’t know what was wrong, but she knew something was. And it occurred to him that Phillip was probably oblivious of all the vibrations his wife was putting out.

      Thirty-one years . . . that was how long they had been married now. Moods and quirks had become second nature, as easy to read as a children’s book. If Phillip had been behaving like this for several weeks, Frances would have to be blind not to know something was wrong.

      Louis’s mind tripped to Joe, and he let the image of her face come, welcoming it even, as something to dwell on instead of Phillip’s secret. The chemistry born of their working a case together had deepened into something he had never expected. Was it love? He had no idea. Sometimes weeks could go by when he didn’t see her, yet as soon as he did, it was as if she had always been there.

      Almost ten months . . . that’s how long he had been with Joe. And then, only on weekends, if they were lucky. But he always knew when something was bothering her. He could hear it in her voice. It would go just a hair huskier, and her speech just a beat slower. He never mentioned to her that he noticed. But he liked being able to tell.

      Louis could hear Frances in the kitchen. He had to go in there. He just hoped she wouldn’t ask something he couldn’t answer.

      The kitchen was bright after the gloom of the dining room. He went to the sink, poured out the bourbon, and rinsed the glass. He could feel Frances’s eyes on him as he went to the refrigerator and got a Heineken.

      “Do you have plans for tomorrow?” Frances asked.

      Louis heard the slight edge in her voice. Suddenly he was getting tired of playing word games that skipped along the edges of the truth.

      “Not really,” he said, leaning against the counter.

      Frances opened the oven and pulled out a pie. The kitchen was filled with the smell of pumpkin. “Will you be here for dinner?” she asked, without looking up.

      Louis hesitated. He and Phillip had barely talked on the ride back from the Irish Hills. Phillip had pulled inward and had just sat there, head back, eyes closed. Louis had wanted to ask him questions, questions he needed answers to if he was going to figure out where to go next. But Phillip had deflected all his attempts to talk.

      Frances set the pie down on the counter and turned toward Louis, clasping her arms across her chest, holding herself like she was cold.

      “Louis, what’s going on?” she asked.

      “Pardon?”

      “With Phillip. What’s wrong?”

      Louis struggled to keep his eyes on hers. “Nothing’s wrong.”

      “Don’t tell me that. Is Phillip sick?”

      “What?”

      “That’s it, isn’t it? Is it something awful that he can’t tell me? Is that why he asked you to come home?”

      Louis almost let out a breath of relief. “No, he’s fine. Please don’t worry about that.”

      “Then what is it?”

      Louis gave her a shake of his head. “It’s not my place, Frances.”

      She turned away, toward the sink, head bowed. Louis heard the sound of running water and when he looked up, Frances was rinsing bowls, her arms pumping. Louis left the kitchen, going out to the den. He paused to switch on a lamp and when he looked up he saw Phillip outside on the back patio.

      Louis opened the sliding glass door and stepped out into the cold. Phillip was smoking a cigarette, dressed in a clean shirt and an old sweater, his hair wet from his shower.

      “Frances thinks you’re sick,” Louis said.

      “What?”

      “She knows something is bothering you and she told me she thinks you are sick and afraid to tell her.”

      “Good God,” Phillip said softly.

      Louis looked off into the bare trees of the backyard. He let out a long slow breath that spiraled up into the cold air. “Look, Phil, I appreciate what you’re going through here, but please don’t ask me to lie for you.”

      “I shouldn’t have done that,” Phillip said. “I apologize.”

      They were quiet. Phillip took a long drag on his cigarette, then bent down to snuff it out in the pail of sand that Frances always had kept on the patio as her one concession to his habit.

      Phillip’s eyes went to the sliding glass door. They could just see Frances’s

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