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

demanding, “What? What?” she walked out of the room and into the guest bedroom, where she lay down. She had been sleeping there frequently enough in recent months that it felt increasingly like her own.
    She had thought she would surely dream of Olivia Korhonen, but it was only in the sweet spot between consciousness and sleep that the woman’s face came to her: the long mouth curling almost affectionately, almost seductively, as though for a kiss, caressing the words that Mattie could not hear. It was an oddly tranquil, even soothing vision, and Mattie fell asleep like a child, and did not dream at all.
    The next morning she felt curiously young and hopeful, though she could not imagine why. Don had gone off to work at the real estate office with his normal Monday hangover, pitifully savage; but Mattie indulged herself with a long hot shower, a second toasted English muffin, and a long telephone chat with a much-relieved Virginia Schlossberg before she went to the grocery store. There would be an overdue hair appointment after that, then home in time for
Oprah
. A
good
day.
    The sense of serenity lasted through the morning shopping, through her favorite tea-and-brioche snack at La Place, and on to her date with Mr. Philip at the salon. It ended abruptly while she was more than half drowsing under the dryer, trying to focus on
Vanity Fair,
as well as on the buttery jazz on the PA system, when Olivia Korhonen’s equally pleasant voice separated itself from the music, saying, “Mrs. Whalen—Mattie? How nice to see you here, partner.” The last word flicked across Mattie’s skin like a brand.
    Olivia Korhonen was standing directly in front of her, smiling in her familiar guileless manner. She had clearly just finished her appointment: the glinting warmth and shine of her blond hair made that plain, and made Mattie absurdly envious, her own mouse-brown curls’ only distinction being their comb-snapping thickness. Olivia Korhonen said, “Shall we play next week? I look forward so.”
    â€œYes,” Mattie said faintly; and then, “I mean, I’m not sure—I have things. To do. Maybe.” Her voice squeaked and slipped. She couldn’t stop it, and in that moment she hated her voice more than she had ever hated anything in the world.
    â€œOh, but you must be there! I do not know anyone else to play with.” Mattie noticed a small dimple to the left of Olivia Korhonen’s mouth when she smiled in a certain way. “I mean, no one else who will put up with my bad playing, as you do. Please?”
    Mattie found herself nodding, just to keep from having to speak again—and also, to some degree, because of the genuine urgency in Olivia Korhonen’s voice.
Maybe I imagined the whole business . . . maybe it’s me getting old and scared, the way people do.
She nodded a second time, with somewhat more enthusiasm.
    Olivia Korhonen patted her knee through the protective salon apron, plainly relieved. “Oh, good. I already feel so much better.” Then, without changing her expression in the least, she whispered,
“I will kill you.”
    Mattie thought later that she must have fainted in some way; at all events, her next awareness was of Mr. Philip taking the curlers out of her hair and brushing her off. Olivia Korhonen was gone. Mr. Philip peered at her, asking, “Who’s been keeping
you
up at night, darling? You never fall asleep under these things.” Then he saw her expression and asked, “Are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine,” Mattie said. “I’m fine.”
    After that, it seemed to her that she saw Olivia Korhonen everywhere, every day. She was coming out of the dry cleaners’ as Mattie brought an armload of Don’s pants in; she hurried across the street to direct Mattie as she was parking her car; she asked Mattie’s advice buying produce at the farmers’ market, or broke off a conversation