A Perfect Crime Read Free Page A

Em.”
    “I recognized the voice.”
    “You think you’re so funny. Where are you?”
    “On my way.”
    “There’s no dessert.”
    “What would you like?”
    “Rocky road.”
    “Consider it done. Love you.”
    “Love you, too, Dad.”
    Ned stopped at a grocery store near his house, bought two pints of rocky road, a jar of chocolate sauce, almonds. At the cash register, he noticed some nice fresh flowers: irises, always a safe choice. He bought some for his wife.

2
    H is mind on those moans and cries that Francie made, Ned parked in the garage beside his house, sat for a few moments in the darkness. There had to be some evolutionary purpose for those female sounds, some reason important enough to outweigh the risk of attracting predators in the night. Did it have anything to do with the bonding of the couple, its positive consequences for the next generation? Ned rubbed the spot on his forehead, an inch above the right eyebrow where the headaches began, as one was beginning now, picked up the grocery bag, went into the house.
    Em was at the kitchen table in her pajamas, busy with her paint set. The next generation. “Guess what this is going to be.”
    “The solar system.”
    She nodded. “Guess how many moons Saturn has.”
    “A lot. Ten, maybe.”
    “Eighteen. Which one’s the biggest?”
    “That’s a tough one. Triton?”
    “Triton, Dad? Triton belongs to Neptune. I’ll give you one more chance.”
    “Rocky road?”
    “You’re not funny.”
    Ned scooped ice cream into two bowls—three scoops in his, he was so hungry—spooned out chocolate sauce, sprinkled on almonds. He raised his first spoonful.
    “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
    Em rolled her eyes. “Why do old people always fall for that stupid movie?”
    “Old people?” He took a bite and almost winced at the pain; ice cream was the fuel his headache had been waiting for.
    Anne came into the room, carrying an empty laundry basket. “You’re late tonight.”
    “It’s Thursday, Mom,” said Em, before he had to reply.
    “When Dad stays late to plan next week’s shows.”
    “I forgot,” said Anne.
    Ned turned to her. “You look tired.”
    “I’m all right. How was the show?”
    Did she never listen to it? “Not bad.” He reached into the grocery bag, handed her the irises.
    “These are lovely,” said Anne. “What’s the occasion?”
    “No occasion.”
    “For God’s sake, Mom,” said Em, “where’s your sense of romance?”
    Ned flossed his teeth, brushed them, took two ibuprofen and a Nembutal, and went to bed. His brain shut down, compartment by compartment, until finally there was nothing but the headache between him and sleep. Then it was gone, and he sank into a dream. A cottage dream: he was lying in the red boat but somehow looking out the window of the little bedroom; Francie reached around him, ran her fingers, those soft, beautifully shaped fingers, up the front of his thigh, higher. He was hard at once, groaned, rolled over, reached for her, almost said, “Francie.” But it was Anne; his hands had known right away, had saved him. The dream broke up in fading pieces, the image of the red boat last of all.
    She fondled him. It was nice, familiar, homey. But Anne coming on to him? This was unusual. He tried to remember the last time—her birthday? his?—but couldn’t. As though reading his mind, she said, “I do have a sense of romance, you know.”
    That got to him. “I know.” The words thickened in his throat; he almost confessed everything, right there. But he mastered himself, said no more; she misinterpreted the catch in his voice, taking it for lust; slipped him inside herself without ceremony; moved her hips in lithe comma-shaped motions, efficient and pleasing; ended in a silent shudder, like an express elevator reaching the top floor.
    She lay on his shoulder. “Was that good?” she said.
    “Of course.”
    And after a minute or two: “Did you come?”
    “What do you think?” He squeezed