Do Unto Others

This girl couldn’t have poisoned a rabid rat, I thought, then pulled on the mental reins. Keep actions related to mind, I told myself. I’m a weak man in some regards and Ruth sapped my strength. “Let’s not talk about that right now.” I made my voice purr as best I could. “How about an appetizer?” We made it through the meal without mentioning any bodies I’d recently discovered. The conversation stayed safely within limits: the hopes for next season’s Mirabeau Bees high-school football team, Ruth’s life in the coastal city of Corpus Christi before she’d come to Mirabeau, my life in Boston amidst all those Yankees. It was a nice dinner: quesadillas stuffed with jalapenos and cheese, chicken flautas for her, beef enchiladas smothered in cheese and chili con carne for me, Spanish rice and refried beans for both, and margaritas served in blue-rimmed glasses that could have doubled as goldfish bowls. I finished one, feeling tip top, and hardly noticed when Ruth poured me another. Beta didn’t rear up from the grave until we were filling our powdered, sugary sopapillas with honey. “It must have been”-Ruth finished loading the hollow pastry with honey-“horrendous, finding her body. Terrible shock for you and poor, dear Candace.” “More for me, I guess. Candace was a rock.” “Yes, I would think so,” Ruth bit into the bottom of her sopapilla, pulled it away from her mouth, and let the honey drip onto her tongue. And yes, I watched. It was downright fascinating. She swallowed the honey, then sipped at her margarita. “Candace seems to be quite strong where you’re concerned.” I felt a need to explain. “Candace is my friend and my assistant. We have a professional relationship.” “Really? I think if you were a library book she’d have you checked out constantly.” I smiled thinly. “Let’s not talk about Candace.” She gave a quick cut of her hand over her glass. “Fine. It’s a dull subject anyway.” I didn’t let that pass. “You brought her up. Why do you care if she’s interested in me?” I normally wasn’t so forward, but I didn’t like her picking on Candace. And the margarita felt like liquid bravery. “What makes you think I care?” she asked. “You invited me to dinner, Ruth.

Not the other way around.” I shrugged. “I figured that Beta Harcher was the proposed topic.” She laid her fork down, as though in surrender. Her eyes, dark with smoke, met mine and for the first time I felt a little afraid of her. She’d poured the margarita for me and now I wondered if it didn’t have the slightest lethally chemical taste. “ Touche. And I’m sorry I picked on your”-her mind searched for an appropriate term for Candace-“little friend.” “So what about Beta?”

I asked. “Who killed her?” “I don’t know. Who do you think did it?”

Ruth leaned forward. “Not you. I’m not saying that out of any sort of fear toward you.” “Gee, thanks. That’ll keep me from cutting your throat later.” Unexpectedly, she broke into raucous laughter. Other tables glanced our way, saw the empty pitcher, and lost interest. I couldn’t keep from smiling at her despite feeling that the joke just wasn’t funny. She poked my arm with short painted fingernails. “I like you, Jordy. You’re on the edge.” “Thanks. I think.” “I mean it, Jordy.

You’re so different from most people in Mirabeau. God, the entire town’s a bore.” I stiffened, the margarita glass halfway to my lips.