Magic Hour Susan Isaacs (best books to read for self development txt) 📖

necessary to say that.” Her voice quavered; it was costing her to fight back.

“Did anyone see you while you were at Sy’s?”

“Mrs. Robertson. She’s the cook.” She spoke to the green blanket.

“Did you have any conversation with her?”

“Yes. Sy went to call California for a minute, to make sure all his meetings were in place. She and I talked.”

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“What about?”

“About our families, Sy’s family. She’d begun working for us the second summer we were married. I hadn’t seen her since the divorce.”

“Was that before or after you got laid?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Before or after? Hurry up, Bonnie. There’s a time bomb ticking. Robby Kurz is out there looking for you.”

“Before.”

“So you talked with Mrs. Robertson, went upstairs, had sexual intercourse…Is that better?” She didn’t answer. Just then I got another picture of Sy, with his tight cap of short gray hair, climbing all over her, petting, fondling, squeezing, feeling her skin. “And then what? Come on. Any conversation?”

“Only about the three actresses he was seeing. Who I thought would be best for the part, and why. He said he’d call me from L.A. and give me a report.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty near.”

“What else?”

“He said he loved me.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I believed he believed it for that second.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No.”

“Any signs he was under pressure?”

“Not really.”

“So you kissed goodbye, and what?”

“He went to shower and pack, I guess. I went down to say goodbye to Mrs. Robertson, but she wasn’t in the kitchen.

So I went home.”

“Did you speak to Sy again?”

“No. Never again. The next thing I know, I was out in the backyard, cutting some dahlias. The phone rang and it was Mrs. Robertson, telling me what had MAGIC HOUR / 303

happened, that the police were there. I was just…I don’t know what I was. What she was saying wasn’t making any impact: it was like dialogue that doesn’t ring true. Then Mrs.

Robertson said, ‘They asked me if he had anyone with him, and I told them no. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, so keep your lip zipped.’ And I thanked her.”

“That was some favor.”

“She meant it to be. Please, don’t hold it against her.”

Like I’d really arrest Mark Robertson’s mom, impound her rolling pin, throw her into a cage with a bunch of hookers and crack dealers. But I just said to Bonnie: “Go on.”

“I was too upset to cry. I put on the news. And then I began to think: What if the cops question me? I read police procedurals. I’m a natural: the ex-wife. I didn’t sit down and plan anything, but during the night—I couldn’t sleep—I realized my fingerprints would be in his house and his in mine, so I shouldn’t lie about that. And also to say I’d been to the set—although I didn’t realize anyone had heard me mouth off to him.”

“So you decided to tell the truth and just fudge a little on the details.”

“Yes. That’s right. I thought I’d be smart, not mention that I’d been sleeping with him, avoid a lot of embarrassing questions. But I wasn’t sure about saying I hadn’t been in his house that afternoon. There was no reason not to admit it: I certainly had no motive to kill him; I wouldn’t be a suspect. But Marian Robertson had already said I wasn’t there, so I thought: Well, if worst comes to worst, I’ll tell the truth, but if not, I’ll keep quiet—for her sake and mine.”

“But worst came to worst, and you didn’t tell the truth.”

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Bonnie stood, pulled the shade back about an inch so she could see out into the night. “I opened the door the next morning and…” She turned, leaned against the wall, faced me. “Please don’t interrupt now. It’s going to be hard for me to say what I have to say.” I nodded. “I only spent that one night with you, but it was significant. Well, significant is an understatement. I fell in love with you. When you didn’t call, I tried to call you. Your home phone is unlisted. And at your office, I left my name four times. I assumed the Homicide Squad is geared up so that its detectives get phone messages and either they answer them or…they don’t.

“I was in pain beyond anything I want to talk about. And so ashamed. It took me a long time to get over it. But I did.

“And then there you were, five years later, on my doorstep.

I didn’t recognize you for a second, or maybe I just couldn’t believe it, and then…I was so happy! I mean, Sy had been murdered the night before, a shocking, horrible thing. I’d lost a good friend, or at least an ex-husband, a lover, a producer. But all I could think was: Stephen is back! But instead of showing any…affection, you showed me your badge. It suddenly hit me why you were there. And you were so correct. So I got myself together. I figured this must be as awkward for you as it was for me. But the odd thing was, you didn’t seem awkward. You were businesslike but nice. Every once in a while I saw a flash of the man I’d known that night.

You have a wonderful smile, which you use to great effect.

And I…”

Again she turned to the window. I kept quiet, because she’d asked me to and because I didn’t know what to say.

“I wanted you to want me again. I wanted your good opinion; I didn’t want to be a tramp.”

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“You’re not.” I wished she would turn back again, but she just stood there, facing the drawn shade.

“It’s my turn. You agreed. Fact: You picked me up in a bar. I came on to you; to put it mildly, I wasn’t subtle. Fact: I brought you back to my house and, to use your termino-logy, got laid before I knew what you did for a living. Fact: I didn’t even