Murder Never Forgets Read Online Free

square baby’s chin. “Carla, no wonder he’s reacting. They, here, are so cheerful and glossy, and underneath that the atmosphere is tense—know what I mean?”
    Sure, you already told me about it, on X Files where the woman agent whispers, “Watch it,” to the man agent, and the computerized music synthesizes away in the background, and the TV screen glows darkly film-noir. Poor Mrs. Dexter. I smile down at her.
    “And I’ve listened ,” she goes on, “and I’ve learned.”
    “All of us can learn,” my father says reasonably. “Did you say oysters, Miss . . .”
    Mrs. Dexter tells him Dexter , and he says, “Oysters,” and I excuse myself and go off toward the restroom.
    Mrs. Dexter’s paranoia bothers me. I stand in the rococo marble and gilt bathroom with my hands on the edge of the washbasin and scowl at the mirror.
    My ex-boyfriend, the one that ran Habitat for Humanity in Baker’s Landing, told me an only child always thinks well of herself. He didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I decided to remember it that way. I am tall and have reddish hair that gets brighter when the sun hits it, and I look younger than my age. The Habitat boyfriend used to say I looked radiant and lusty; Susie’s son Robbie just said I was pretty. Today I’m wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt and a black jacket on top of that for respectability. I stick my tongue out at my reflection. That seems a corrective gesture and I’m imitating the faucet handles, which are shaped like those medieval decorations high up on the cathedral, the ones with griffin heads or lion heads and long, lolling tongues.
    When I get back to the dining room, Daddy and Mrs. Dexter are sitting at a table in the corner. The walker rests beside the table; Mrs. Dexter has hung her pocketbook on it. She and my father are talking about the food.
    “Oysters are interesting to eat,” she is saying. “My uncle, long ago, taught me.” She demonstrates with an imaginary shellfish, holding it by its edge and slurping. “It seemed barbaric at first, and then it seemed the height of sophistication. Did they have oysters in ancient Egypt, Ed?”
    I think, oh, Jesus, now he’ll start again about fishing nets; that’s his phobia for today, but he doesn’t. He answers perfectly rationally, describing a search he once made among Egyptian banquet paintings for “not oysters exactly,” he says, “but shellfish. And I didn’t find any! Perhaps the shells were too small to look good in a tomb painting.” He sounds exactly like his old self, Edward Day, Professor of Egyptology, Head, Department of Near Eastern Studies. Thank you, Mrs. Dexter, for treating him like a real person.
    “But I won’t have oysters today,” Daddy says. “They’re special, aren’t they? I’ll sit here and admire yours.”
    I also don’t want oysters. They were a favorite with my mother, Constancia, and I don’t want to think about Constancia just now.
    So Daddy and I are involved in spearing bits of salad lettuce and aren’t watching when Mrs. Dexter begins making the noises.
    She holds an oyster out in the air and coughs out the half-choked, half-explosive sounds that go with having something stuck in your throat. Then she drops the oyster and puts a hand to her collarbone and leans forward. Her face screws up, her eyes bulge.
    And liquid begins to run down her chin. A juice that looks red, almost like blood, at first runs in a narrow glaze below her lip, then in two angry rivulets, one from each corner of her mouth. And yes, it is blood. Definitely.
    She puts a hand to her collarbone and leans forward, eyes bulging.
    A red puddle drips from her chin onto the oysters that still sit in front of her.
    I stand up and run around the table, knocking my chair over. I’m trying to remember the details of the Heimlich maneuver. And saying to myself, No, not Heimlich, she’s bleeding . And then telling myself, Yes, but something’s stuck there . So what I finally do is part