Fic: Blue Alibi, Part III
The Kitchen
The father joined them for dinner, taking up all the oxygen in the big kitchen.
Anthony Nix sat at the head of the table, his old black-and-white dog Shep lounging at his feet. The two male guests occupied the center of each flanking bench with a daughter at each elbow. Reese was bracketed by Morgan and Ondine, Fusco by Allison and Vivienne.
The four women wore matching long dresses in thin cloth with colors so pale Fusco had to look twice to realize they weren’t actually just white. Green, pink, blue, yellow: the faint shades made the skin of their arms and necks look watery and fresh, like they had never been in the sun in their lives.
Allison wore the palest green shade, something like the undersides of new leaves, a color that made her eyes take on a matching mint green that stirred Fusco’s heart.
All of them wore the same dangling silver earrings, which Fusco recognized as one of Allison’s graceful vine-covered designs.
The conversation coiled around in a design so complicated and deep that Fusco felt he could only see its shadowed outline.
He sensed that although the father was directing the talk, dominating it as he had on previous evenings, it was actually Reese at the center of attention. His fake real estate business, his international travels, his hobbies and cars and houses.
By some mysterious force, every line of conversation returned to Reese.
Fusco wasn’t surprised that the women were drawn to his friend. After almost two years of working together, he figured this was just the way of the world. He imagined that women threw their panties at Reese on a daily basis. Usually Reese figured out a way to disguise his magnetism, sinking back into the crowd to avoid drawing attention.
It was a magic trick that Fusco had seen him pull off on many occasions when it served his mission to blend into the background.
But now, it felt different.
Perhaps spurred on by the women or by rivalry with their father, Reese seemed to glow from within, his face shining, his eyes sparking with a concentrated energy Fusco had never seen before.
Fusco knew this heat was sexual and reciprocal, flaring in all directions, firing the air around the kitchen so that everyone in it was on edge.
The meal in front of them was almost forgotten.
Steaming salmon slabs stretched on wooden planks down half the length of the table, slathered in butter and herbs picked from the raised garden plots next to the backdoor; mounds of roasted potatoes with their red skins still on; fresh green beans; pickles Morgan had put up earlier in the year. Bunches of black grapes from vines crawling over the back porch were scattered down the table like gem stones.
Even the plates they used were home-grown. Fusco thought Ondine’s handiwork was beautiful. Heavy and white, like country cream frozen into solid shapes, the swirls of her fingers were faintly traced along the rim of each bowl, mug, and platter. Sunflowers cut from the garden drooped in wide necked vases that matched the plates.
The only foreign element in the meal was the frozen corn, used because it was too early for the crop growing in the south field. Morgan insisted that Reese make a plan to return to Ionia Plaisance in August when the corn was harvested.
To Fusco’s surprise, he promised her he would come back to the farm if he could.
Scowling at the invitation, probably because he hadn’t offered it, Anthony Nix looked nothing like his daughters.
Where they were slight and sinewy with fine long fingers and pointed ears and chins, he was square and taller than Reese by a head.
He propped his elbows on the table, showing scarred hands like blocks of wood sticking out of the rolled up sleeves of his blue work shirt. His stringy gray hair was gathered at the nape with a leather cord.
The only other personal decoration he wore was an intricate silver ring where a wedding band would have been.
Half way through the fifth bottle of red wine, Anthony Nix’s talk turned as blunt as his fists. He wasn’t used to being ignored and he wanted the full attention of his audience again.
“Should have named you three Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia! Would have served notice to the unsuspecting world, wouldn’t it? Treacherous daughters ahoy! Sailors and naïve bachelors beware!”
He glared down the table, his light blue eyes shifting from one side to the other to see if anyone objected to the accusation.
Catching sight of his youngest child, Anthony added, “And my little Ondine, mother- murdering Ondine. You could’ve stayed Ondine, for all I care.”
Fusco didn’t miss the whimper that seeped out of the girl at this cold statement.
Anthony’s words were crisp, though Fusco assumed the man must be drunk as a sailor to rag on like this. He ducked his head, not wanting to provoke a confrontation so early in the evening.
So he was surprised when Anthony directed the next barb in his direction.
“That was a Shakespeare reference, Lionel. In case you can’t keep up with the class.”
Fusco felt his neck grow hot, so he was glad when Allison curved her fingers into his palm. It was good to have her beside him, willing to touch him even here in front of the others.
“And no, Lear I most decidedly am not. As sane as they come, never doubt it.”
Thundering now: “Never doubt it! Any of you!”
A pause, then in soft wheedling tones: “Mr. Randall, may I call you John?”
Reese nodded and looked the old man straight in the eye but said nothing.
“John, it is then. Reeling in a commission of one point eight million on your last sale is quite impressive, I must say. Operating at the high end like that, you must have weathered the recent economic downturn in fine style.”
This was a lecture, not a conversation, so the pause was only to catch his breath.
“Always say, the wealthy won’t stop needing shoes or houses, no matter how tough times get for the rest of us. Cheap pots, pictures, paintings, jewelry - frippery like that - the rich will give it up when finances flounder.
“But shoes, beautifully crafted shoes, will always be in demand.”
Reese was in an accommodating mood. “You may be right, Mr. Nix. I certainly know Manhattan real estate has been good for me.”
Anthony’s mood seemed to inflate then, as if he had won a great debate. He spread his arms wide, to indicate both sides of the table and turned his large face fully toward Reese.
“So tell me, which of my lovely daughters have you picked out, John? All of them are available, as I am sure they have made abundantly clear. Not a shy pussy in the litter, I’ll give ‘em that.”
“Daddy!”
The squeal came from one of the sisters, but Fusco couldn’t tell which, they sounded so much alike.
Anthony raised his voice to shut down the objection.
“All four of them are available, like I say. And all are desirable, you can be sure of it, John. Morgan’s a spitfire. Ondine employs that Oriental passivity to great effect. Even poor Allison has her beguiling moments before the druggy stupor descends again.
“Yes, John, each of my girls is delectable in her own special way. Except perhaps, Vivienne I suppose. But oh well, what can one say? The advancing years have been kind to all my children, even dearest Vivie.”
“That nastiness just never gets old, does it, Daddy?”
Vivienne’s voice dropped lower at the end of the sentence. Fusco cringed to see the way color drained from her already pale cheeks as she looked at her father.
“Not as ancient as your suitors, Vivienne. What was the absurd name of your last one? DeSoto Khan? What kind of godforsaken name is that?”
“A good one, Daddy. A very good one.” Her growl was soft now, giving up the fight, handing him the victory again.
Reese’s voice rumbled into the sad quiet after Vivienne stopped speaking.
“I don’t make a practice of letting other men choose my women for me, Mr. Nix.” Stiffly, like he wanted to hit the man, but couldn’t because of etiquette rules or something.
Anthony roared as if Reese had shared a great joke.
“No, good-looking fellow like you. Don’t imagine you do, John.
“Although that free-booter approach can get you into trouble if you’re not careful. Lots of gold-diggers out there, John. Advice from a jolly old pirate like me could come in handy, even in matters of the heart. Or the bed.”
Before Reese could respond, Anthony rose from the table, announcing by this abrupt gesture an end to the meal.
Shep trotting at his heels, he moved to the parlor and with a loud bang, flipped up the hinged cover over the piano keys.
This seemed to be the signal for his daughters to leap into action: clearing the plates from the table, pouring the remaining wine into a pottery jug, pulling out a battered leather trunk from behind the sofa.
In a just a few minutes the women were gathered around their father, each with an instrument in hand. Fusco had heard Allison doodling on the guitar before, but he had never realized that she could play the violin too. Her sisters took up a flute, a guitar, and another violin.
Led by Anthony’s light touch on the piano, the family started in on a round of classical music. Fusco didn’t recognize the tunes, but the sounds were soothing and complicated. Watching them from across the room, Fusco felt like he didn’t belong in this fierce little circle of talent and strife.
He needed to clear out for a while.
The Lawn
He looked around for Reese. The Shadow had slipped away again. Probably gone off to check in with Finch or Carter or both.
Glancing through the front windows, Fusco was surprised to see how deeply the night had fallen, like a thick blue blanket around the farm house.
He caught sight of his friend striding down the lawn toward a set of four Adirondack chairs clustered in a shallow bowl about one hundred yards below the front porch.
Beer and debriefing seemed like the next logical move.
So Fusco fished four long-necked bottles of Yuengling from the refrigerator and, not bothering to excuse himself to his hosts, he ambled toward the chairs.
In the gloom, he could barely make out the shape of Reese’s dark head over the slatted chair back, but he could hear the low voice, soft and confiding. He figured he would give the man a little privacy so he slowed his pace.
Rather than surprise his friend, Fusco walked completely around the circle of chairs, approaching Reese from the front. The phone call was over, so Fusco wordlessly handed over two beers and settled in the seat beside Reese.
They sat that way in the dark, side by side staring off into the black clutch of trees at the bottom of the lawn. The liquid murmur of the little stream wafted up towards them on the humid night air.
Maybe ten minutes, maybe more, just silent.
So quiet Fusco could hear the faint click of glass hitting teeth and the gurgle of liquid draining down the throat. The distant notes from the farm house tinkled behind them like fairy music.
The men were quiet so long that when he finally spoke Reese’s words startled even though they were soft.
“I miss her.”
Just like that, veering into new territory: family, connection, possibility. Maybe this was another subject. Or maybe simply continuing the same topic, but from a different angle.
“I know you do.”
Then more silence as Fusco set an empty bottle on the grass and lifted the second one to his mouth. He figured if he didn’t talk Reese would, which he did eventually.
“She’s been down in Virginia for five days now. Her aunt’s funeral is tomorrow."
“When does she come back?”
Fusco knew the answer of course. But he figured it was better to disguise exactly how much he knew about their lives. Giving them a sense of privacy, a feeling of unbroken boundaries was important to the work and to the friendships, so he kept up the fiction whenever he could.
“Next Saturday.”
Reese paused, but the rise in his voice implied there was more he wanted to say.
“Sometimes, you know, I try to picture what it would be like for us. How she and I could make a life together. Given who we are, what we do. I see little glimmers of the picture sometimes. Bright shapes and lines that suggest something bigger.
“But the whole never comes into focus.”
Fusco thought he could hear a catch in his voice then, a hitch over the last word, or maybe just a dryness in the mouth that required another long swallow of beer.
He took one himself before trying out a response.
“The family you two are gonna make together won’t look like anyone else’s. Not like the one you were born into, not like mine.
“And God forbid, not like the fucking awful one up there in that house.”
Reese grunted but said nothing. The white of his shirt front glowed as he turned in the chair so Fusco knew he was following along closely.
“Your family will look like you and her together. Something completely new. That’s why you can’t quite see the picture clear right now. I think you won’t really see it complete until just at the end, looking back at your life after a long while.”
It was easier to talk this way in the dark, inhaling the clean air, listening to his friend’s steady breathing under the bubbly sounds of music and water drifting all round them.
“I think that’s when you’ll see the whole picture.”
Reese didn’t say anything for a moment. Fusco couldn’t tell in the dark what his silence meant. Then softly:
“Thank you.”
Reese said it in a way that seemed to express many gentle things, rich feelings too complicated to put into words. Fusco felt a warmth spread through his chest, like the day’s heat was expanding inside him even at this late hour.
But Reese’s tone also called a firm halt to the line of conversation.
Reese twisted off the cap on his second bottle with a jerk. And his next words reflected the switch in mood.
“So did the Nix sisters seem in imminent danger to you?”
“You mean, aside from being bulldozed over and left buried alive by that monster?”
“Yes, aside from that.”
Fusco shrugged although he knew Reese couldn’t see the movement in the dark.
“Nah, those girls seemed to take it in stride, from what I could tell. I mean, I was itching to punch his lights out at least three different times tonight. Bastard acts like he’s Captain Jack Sparrow of the Good Ship Lunacy or something.
“But they just sat there taking it like it was nothing special. Just like water splashing over their heads or something.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. What I told Finch too. Psychological abuse isn’t usually something our sources warn us about. Not something we can do much about really.”
Reese took another swig of beer over what sounded like a sigh.
“But he insisted. Said he was reading their blogs, emails, texts, even some phone traffic between them. And he said the sisters sounded frightened.”
This felt like a little bit of an opening, so Fusco took it.
“Your spy sources are pretty thorough, aren’t they? Mr. Glasses own Google? Or maybe he’s got an inside track with that NSA program or something like that?”
Reese ignored the question and kept Fusco on the case.
“I’ll stay here tonight, keep a close watch. If nothing more develops, I’m heading back to the city tomorrow unless Finch comes up with a new lead.”
“Yeah, this country night life is way too quiet. So creepy and quiet, you don’t even hear crickets out here.”
Fusco laughed and Reese leaned forward to clink their bottles together in a comradely salute to city pleasures.
Then a hellish scream split the night.