Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan Read Free Book Online Page B

unrelentingly happy.
    “My parents softened a little,” Dan said to Chauncey now, “but when I need to count on someone, it’s Lacy.”
    From across the room, Dan caught my eye, and we exchanged a knowing smile. When Grant was born, Dan’s parents sent a sterling silver baby spoon from Tiffany’s — but never called. We put it in a drawer, used baby-safe plastic utensils, and always understood that our real family was each other.
    Chauncey jotted a few notes and glanced up at me. If he noticed Dan’s gaze locked with mine, the warmth of the connection didn’t register.
    Chauncey fired off a few more questions and Dan offered careful answers. I squirmed impatiently on my chair, not sure how discussing sex, social life, and surgery could solve the murder of Tasha Barlow.
    When Chauncey finally finished and put down his pen, he walked us out to the lobby, saying he’d call later. He left and I tossed Dan my car keys.
    “Let’s go home,” I said.
    “Home?” Dan looked as surprised as if I’d just nominated Clarence Thomas for an honorary membership in the ACLU.
    “Home. You remember the place. Spanish roof that pings when it rains. Pool in the backyard. Two flat-screen TVs with Dolby digital stereophonic surround sound, so you can watch Star Wars day or night.”
    Dan smiled. “I definitely like the place, but I thought I’d head to my office.”
    “Your office ?”
    “Come on, Lacy, I had to cancel my surgeries this morning, but I have to catch up on a lot of paperwork. And I need to check my files for any mention of Tasha Barlow. No reason for me to miss a whole day of work.” He fingered the keys. “I guess I’ll drop you off and then pick up my own car.”
    Here’s what I’ve learned from almost two decades of marriage: Telling your husband he’s being ridiculous (even when he’s being ridiculous) doesn’t do any good. Dan had gone to work in the midst of Malibu mud slides and a Richter-rocking earthquake, so a minor murder charge wasn’t going to stop him — no matter what I said.
    On the car ride home, we made slightly stilted conversation, sticking to safe topics that didn’t involve prison, perps, or dead actresses. When we got to the house, I noticed black scuff marks on the otherwise smooth, highly polished front foyer floor and I felt a little chill. The heavy-footed cops had left their mark. What would it take to get rid of the gashes and restore the flawless finish — to our lives, never mind the floor? No amount of scraping and waxing would undo the collateral damage.
    Seemingly oblivious to the metaphoric mess, Dan came over to kiss me.
    “I’m off, sweetheart,” he said blithely. “Thanks for being such a champ.”
    A champ? Right now I felt more like a chump. “I wish you’d stay home this afternoon,” I said, trying not to whine.
    “It’s a workday,” he said. “I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t work.”
    “Should I give you a whole list?”
    “Nope,” he said and ducked for the door.
    Four years dissecting corpses in medical school, five years treating the mauled and maimed during round-the-clock residency, and nearly two decades in private practice had given Dan a certain detachment. Clinical distance was necessary in an operating room, I suppose. But right now the ice water in his veins made my blood boil.
    I changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt and puttered around the house for the rest of the afternoon, trying to distract myself by paying bills and making out invoices to clients. Grant got home from school and tennis practice a little before five, called out, “Hi, Mom, I’m home!” and disappeared into the kitchen. I joined him a moment later as he wolfed down a leftover piece of cheesecake then dug into a two-pound package of cherries.
    “I did okay on the physics test, but I made a couple of stupid mistakes,” he said, spitting a pit into his hand. “One question on quarks got me crazy because I couldn’t remember if a proton has