The Best American Mystery Stories 2012 by Otto Penzler Read Free Book Online Page A

Mattie said. “I am, Ginny, honestly.” But her voice was shaking as much as her hands, and she made her escape from the Group as soon as she could trust her legs to support her. She was grateful on two counts: first, that no one sat next to her on the bus; and, secondly, that Don would most likely not be home yet from the golf course. She did not look forward to Don just now.
    Rather than taking to her bed, despite Virginia’s advice, she made herself a healthy G&T and sat in the kitchen with the lights on, going over and over everything she knew of Olivia Korhonen. The woman was apparently single or widowed, like most of the members of the Moss Harbor Bridge Group, but judging by the reactions of the few men in the Group she gave no indication of being on the prowl. Seemingly unemployed, and rather young for retirement, still she lived in one of the pricey new condos just two blocks from the harbor. No Bridge Group member had yet seen her apartment except for Suzanne and Eileen, who reported back that it was smart and trendy, “without being too off-puttingly posh.” Eileen thought the paintings were originals, but Suzanne had her doubts.
    What else,
what else?
She had looked up “Korhonen” on the Internet and found that it was a common Finnish name—not Jewish, as she had supposed. To her knowledge, she had never met a Finnish person in her life. Were they like Swedes? Danes, even? She had a couple of Danish acquaintances, a husband and wife named Olsen . . . no, they were nothing at all like the Korhonen woman; one could never imagine either Olsen saying
I will kill you
to so much as a cockroach, which, of course, they wouldn’t ever have in the house. But then, who
would
say such a thing to a near stranger? And over a silly card game? It made no sense, none of it made any sense. She mixed another G&T and was surprised to find herself wanting Don home.
    Don’s day, it turned out, had been a bad one. Trounced on the course, beaten more badly in the rematch he had immediately demanded, he had consoled himself liberally in the clubhouse; and, as a consequence, was clearly not in any sort of mood to hear about a mumbled threat at a bridge game. On the whole, after sixteen years of marriage, Mattie liked Don more than she disliked him, but such distinctions were essentially meaningless at this stage of things. She rather appreciated his presence when she felt especially lonely and frightened, but a large, furry dog would have done as well; indeed, a dog would have been at once more comforting and more concerned for her comfort. Dogs wanted their masters to be happy—Don simply preferred her uncomplaining.
    When she told him about Olivia Korhonen’s behavior at the Bridge Group, he seemed hardly to hear her. In his usual style of picking up in the middle of the intended sentence, he mumbled, “. . . take that damn game so damn seriously. Bud and I don’t go yelling we’re going to kill each other”—Bud Gorko was his steady golf partner—“and believe you me, I’ve got reason sometimes.” He snatched a beer out of the refrigerator and wandered into the living room to watch TV.
    Mattie followed him in, the second G&T strengthening a rare resolve to make him take her seriously. She said, “She did it twice. You didn’t see her face.” She raised her voice to carry over the yammering of a commercial. “She
meant
it, Don. I’m telling you, she
meant
it.”
    Don smiled muzzily and patted the sofa seat beside him. “Hear you, I’m right on it. Tell you what—she goes ahead and does that, I’m going to take a really dim view. A dim view.” He liked the phrase. “Really dim view.”
    â€œYou’re dim enough already,” Mattie said. Don did not respond. She stood watching him for a few minutes without speaking, because she knew it made him uncomfortable. When he got to the stage of