The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(31)

Entering the hotel lobby, Joan saw Jessica, normally behind the front desk, setting out chairs in the alcove where the piano was located. Joan walked over and said, “Hey.”

“Oh, hi,” Jessica said.

“What’s going on?”

“‘Afternoon Oldies,’” she said. “Every Saturday afternoon in July and August. This old guy, Mac Kierney, comes in and sings Frank Sinatra songs and things like that. He’s friends with Frank, the owner, but he draws a serious crowd.”

Joan didn’t know if Jessica was joking or not, and said, “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a scene. You should save your front-row seat now.”

“Maybe I’ll pass.”

“Your tan’s looking pretty good,” Jessica said.

“Thanks. My mom is convinced I’ll get cancer.”

Jessica was looking at the row of chairs she’d just set out, and said, “Does that look straight to you?”

Joan altered a few of them until they lined up properly. “Sorry,” Jessica said. “Didn’t mean to put you to work.”

“It’s okay. I have no idea what I’m going to do all afternoon, anyway. I’m sick of the beach. I wish I was working here, like you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to get a job and make some money.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . Remember when you pointed out that guy Duane to me, and then you called him a creep?”

“Yeah.” Jessica made a face, pulling down one side of her mouth. “Avoid him at all costs.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Why? Are you, like, hanging out with him now?”

“No, not really, but I’ve talked to him a few times, and I had a beer down at the beach with him two nights ago. Him and Derek—”

“Ugh, Derek,” Jessica said. Then quickly added, “Actually, Derek’s not so bad. He’s an asshole, or whatever, but Duane is not a good guy. I’m sorry. You’re probably into him or something, but the second night he was here there was a party at Derek’s house because his parents were away, and Duane nearly strangled me.”

“Seriously?”

“I stupidly went up to Derek’s bedroom with him, and he was super drunk and all over me, and when I went to leave he grabbed my throat and squeezed. He also called me a fat slut but that was a little later.”

“‘Ugh’ is right.”

“Anyway, there’s always someone like him around here. I would avoid him unless that’s your kind of thing.”

“Hey, you need help putting out the rest of these chairs?” Joan said.

“No, please. I’m not sure how Frank would feel if he saw me enlisting one of the guests to help me.” She laughed.

Joan went to her room, happy to see that it had been cleaned and the beds made since she’d left that morning. She put the air conditioner on high and lay back on the bed, running her fingers along the bumps of the chenille spread, staring at the ceiling and imagining what tonight was going to be like. She was nervous and excited at the same time. I’m going to kill someone, she thought, and rolled that idea around in her mind. Then she told herself: No, we’re not going to kill Duane. We’re just going to teach him a lesson, throw him in the ocean and see if he can swim. She thought about that for a while and decided she liked the idea of killing him more.





Chapter 13





Kimball


“Wine okay?”

I was sitting on Pam O’Neil’s white couch, feeling that familiar sense of dislocation that happens when you are suddenly in someone else’s private space. I knew it was a mistake the moment I followed her into her one-bedroom apartment. I stood there as she turned on the two lamps in the living area, then went to the alcove kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting, then dimming them. She lit a candle and placed it on the blond-wood bar that separated the living room from the kitchen area. “Have a seat, and then I’ll get you a drink,” she’d said. “I desperately need to pee, and then I’m going to change out of these work clothes, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” I said, and she disappeared into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

I looked around. It was immaculate but a little sterile, two of the walls entirely bare. She had a small television on top of a black bureau. Behind the sofa was a desk with a computer, and above the desk was a framed print that I recognized as a Cézanne. There was also one of those framed collages of photographs, plus another framed photograph large enough I could make it out as a graduation picture, Pam in mortarboard with a parent on either side. For no good reason, it all made me sad.

Pam came back into the living room. I was a little nervous she’d be wearing a silk robe and nothing else, but she was wearing a pair of jeans, the denim thin at the knees, and a black T-shirt with the Rolling Stones lips on it. Her hair was pulled back. She went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of white wine, both filled to the brim, then she flipped on her stereo system, hit a few buttons, and the room filled with music I couldn’t identify but had heard on the radio.

She sat down across from me on the sofa and sighed.