High Noon

her voice. “You only eat ice cream that way when you’re upset. Duncan’s barely out the door, so—”
    “I said I didn’t have a fight with Duncan. Duncan’s not the center of my universe. I don’t make men the center of my universe and I’m not about to…” She heard herself, could nearly see the nasty edge to the words slicing out like little shards of broken glass.
    “I’m sorry. I am upset.” She dropped down at the table, dug out more ice cream. “I haven’t got enough of this in me yet to calm down or get good and sick, and not take it out on someone else.”
    Essie walked to the drawer, got out another spoon. She sat, spooned some ice cream out of the carton for herself. “What happened?”
    “Roy called. He’s getting married again.”
    “Oh.” Essie took a second, bigger spoonful. “To anyone we know? So we know where to send our condolences?”
    “Thanks, Mama. He’s getting married to someone named Mizzy. Can you believe that? She’s twenty-four.”
    “A bimbo, no doubt about it. Poor thing.”
    “The bimbo comes from money, and they’re moving to Cannes, or maybe it was Marseilles. My ears started ringing by that point. Her family has interests there he’s going to help run. And he tells me all this as he doesn’t want my panties in a twist if the next couple child support checks are a bit late. Due to changing his location and banking and so on.”
    “He’s always been timely with that anyway.”
    “Yes, because it’s an automatic withdrawal from his account, so he doesn’t even have to think of it. Of her.” It wasn’t rage anymore in her voice, on her face. It was grief. “He never even asked about her, Mama. He never asked how she was, never thought to suggest he might tell his daughter himself, or invite her to the wedding.”
    “She wouldn’t go. And, baby girl, you wouldn’t like it if she did.”
    “That’s beside the point. It is. And I know I’m getting upset over something that isn’t any different than it was, really. Except the son of a bitch is marrying someone almost ten years younger than me, named Mizzy, and his daughter isn’t even an afterthought.”
    “What was it my grandmother used to say? A skunk doesn’t change its stink. It’s a little crude, but it fits. His life’s about as deep as a puddle of spit—and that’s crude, too. She won’t care, Phoebe. Roy isn’t so much as a bump against Carly’s heart. You shouldn’t let him be one against yours.”
    “You’re right. I know you’re right. She never had enough of him to miss any of it.”
    “But you did.”
    “I had the illusion.” Phoebe scraped more ice cream from carton to spoon, studied it. Ate it. “Maybe that’s worse. He can’t help being what he is. Even if what he is is a goddamn skunk. Thanks.”
    Roy wasn’t worth even her anger, Phoebe told herself as she went upstairs to shower. But the phone call had reminded her why romance was a slippery slope. Better, much better, to keep it all up front, keep it all simple. So no one got hurt.
    It might be time to slow things down just a little with Duncan. She’d already made another date with him while the dream of the day had been on her. But that was fine. She’d just explain to him that she wasn’t looking for anything more than friendship, companionship and sex.
    What man could argue with that?

19
    By her request, Phoebe received notification when Charles Johnson’s body was cleared for release. Noting the information, she contacted the funeral home regarding viewings.
    Controversy and public debate aside, she needed to pay her respects. She could do so discreetly, and briefly. It meant canceling her date with Duncan, but that might be for the best.
    A little cooling-off time there, she decided. A little stop-and-think-it-through.
    She made the call, and though it was cowardly, felt a trickle of relief when she got his voice mail.
    “Duncan, it’s Phoebe. I have to cancel tonight, sorry. Something came…” Not fair, she reminded herself. He’d done nothing to deserve the “something came up” brush-off. “Actually, they’re holding a viewing for Charlie Johnson tonight, and I need to go. So I’ll need a rain check. We’ll talk later, all right? I’m just about on my way to a meeting.”
     
    Ass-covering was de rigueur, and Phoebe couldn’t fault the department for going into circle-the-wagon mode. Or, she supposed, for looking for a reasonable scapegoat. She was fully prepared to defend her