A Ticket to the Boneyard Read Online Free Page A

buy a lot of houses. But I thought I was crazy, paying all that money for a painting.”
    “Look at the pleasure it’s brought you.”
    “More than pleasure, honey. You know what it’s worth now?”
    “A lot, evidently.”
    “Forty thousand, minimum. Probably more like fifty. I ought to sell it. Sometimes it makes me nervous, having fifty grand hanging on the wall. For Christ’s sake, when I first hung it I got nervous having twelve hundred dollars on my wall. How’s the coffee?”
    “It’s fine.”
    “Is it strong enough?”
    “It’s fine, Elaine.”
    “You really look great, you know that?”
    “So do you.”
    “How long has it been? I think the last time we saw each other must have been about three years ago, but we haven’t really seen anything much of each other since you left the police department, and that must be close to ten years.”
    “Something like that.”
    “You still look the same.”
    “Well, I’ve still got all my hair. But there’s a little gray there if you look closely.”
    “There’s a lot of gray in mine, but you can look as close as you like and you won’t see it. Thanks to modern science.” She drew a breath. “The rest of the package hasn’t changed too much, though.”
    “It hasn’t changed at all.”
    “Well, I’ve kept my figure. And my skin’s still good. I’ll tell you, though, I never thought I’d have to put so much work into it. I’m at the gym three mornings a week, sometimes four. And I watch what I eat and drink.”
    “You were never a drinker.”
    “No, but I used to drink Tab by the gallon, Tab and then Diet Coke. I cut out all of that. Now it’s pure fruit juice or plain water. I have one cup of coffee a day, first thing in the morning. This cup’s a concession to special circumstances.”
    “Maybe you should tell me what they are.”
    “I’m getting there. I have to sort of ease into it. What else do I do? I walk a lot. I watch what I eat. I’ve been a vegetarian for almost three years now.”
    “You used to love steak.”
    “I know. I didn’t think it was a meal unless there was meat in it.”
    “And what was it you used to have at the Brasserie?”
    “
Tripes à la mode de Caen
.”
    “Right. A dish I never liked to think about, but I had to admit it was tasty.”
    “I couldn’t guess when I had it last. I haven’t had any meat in close to three years. I ate fish for the first year, but then I dropped that, too.”
    “Ms. Natural.”
    “
C’est moi
.”
    “Well, it agrees with you.”
    “And not drinking agrees with you. Here we are, telling each other how good we look. That’s how you know you’re old, isn’t that what they say? Matt, I was thirty-eight on my last birthday.”
    “That’s not so bad.”
    “That’s what you think. My last birthday was three years ago. I’m forty-one.”
    “That’s not so bad either. And you don’t look it.”
    “I know I don’t. Or maybe I do. That’s what somebody told Gloria Steinem when she turned forty, that she didn’t look it. And she said, ‘Yes I do. This is what forty looks like now.’ “
    “Pretty good line.”
    “That’s what I thought. Sweetie, you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve been stalling.”
    “I know.”
    “To keep it from being real. But it’s real. This came in today’s mail.”
    She handed me a newspaper clipping and I unfolded it. There was a photograph, a head shot of a middle-aged gentleman. He was wearing glasses and his hair was neatly combed, and he looked confident and optimistic, an expression that seemed out of keeping with the headline. It ran across three columns, and it said, area businessman slays wife, children, self. Ten or twelve column inches of text elaborated on the headline. Philip Sturdevant, proprietor of Sturdevant Furniture with four retail outlets in Canton and Massillon, had apparently gone berserk in his home in suburban Walnut Hills. After using a kitchen knife to kill his wife and three small children, Sturdevant had