unattractive fact remains that he did indeed kill her, and that’s what we’re interested in here. Am I right?"
Collins said nothing.
~ * ~
It is ten years later and Maude and Peter are talking, filling the air with chitchat that is better than discussing their love life, which has become nonexistent in the last few weeks, though neither can pinpoint why.
Maude says, in answer to a question Peter asked her hours before, "No, they never really found her murderer." She turns her back to Peter so she can put on a blue negligee. She believes that his eyes are on her, and she resents it.
From the bed, with the blankets pulled up to his chin against the cold, early winter night, Peter says, "Someone confessed. I was talking to Lynn today"—the house’s previous owner; she’s holding the mortgage and keeps in regular touch—"and she said that someone confessed."
"I know that." Maude turns, faces him.
"You look very nice," Peter says, and smiles appreciatively.
"Thanks," she whispers, as if not wanting to acknowledge his remark.
"Really," he says with enthusiasm. "You look very fetching. Do you wear that every night?" He pauses, though not long enough for her to answer, then goes on, frowning a little, "Yes, I guess you do."
She nods slightly, as if embarrassed. She indicates the negligee. "It’s getting too cold for this thing."
"I’ll keep you warm," he says with a leer.
"Sure, thanks," she says without enthusiasm, and comes to bed, climbs in next to him, but lays on her back and puts her hands behind her head. "I still hear her," she says.
"Our ghost?" he says.
She nods.
"Same time, same place?" He grins.
She looks sharply at him. "Don’t joke about it. Please."
He looks at her a moment, decides she’s being serious, then says, "Sorry. It’s just that I’ve never heard her—"
"So you think I’m crazy?"
"No." Silence.
"That was a very unconvincing negative, Peter."
Silence.
She glances at him. His gaze is on the ceiling. She says his name. He looks at her, grins. "Let’s make love," he says.
She looks away. "I can’t. I’m sorry."
He sighs loudly. "Can you give me a reason?”
“Do I need to?"
"I asked for one."
A short pause, then, "I don’t have one, I guess." Another pause. "I’m just not in the mood.”
“Headache?"
"No."
"Maybe you don’t find me attractive anymore?”
“No."
"No?"
"Yes, I find you attractive—"
"It’s her , isn’t it? It’s your ghost."
Silence.
"She’s made you . . . shy, or something.”
“That’s absurd."
Peter shakes his head quickly. "I understand now. I understand completely. You think she’s watching us." He smiles, though he realizes it’s a mistake; he can’t help himself. "You think some woman who was murdered ten years ago is going to watch us making love so you . . . just don’t make love. My God, my God, that’s—"
"She was murdered here , dammit. In this house. In this very room , for all we know—"
"Not true. She was murdered downstairs. That’s what Lynn told me."
"Oh, fuck Lynn!"
"I may have to." Peter closes his eyes. He’s put his foot in it now, he realizes. He whispers, eyes still closed. "Sorry. That was stupid."
Silence.
He looks at Maude. She’s crying softly. He sighs. "Really," he says. "I didn’t mean it. It was a real, real stupid thing to say."
Maude shakes her head.
"That’s not why you’re crying?" Peter guesses. Maude nods. She manages, "I’m crying because of her."
"Lynn?"
"No, for God’s sake! Will you shut up about her. I’m talking about Anne Case. I . . . feel her in the house. I feel that she is very sad, and that she needs someone. A friend."
"You?"
Maude shakes her head."I couldn’t, even if I wanted." A pause. "And I do want—"
"Now you’re spooking me."
She says, as if in sudden revelation, "Let’s make love. Now. Right now!"
Peter pulls back from her. His brow furrows. "What an invitation to a hard-on."
"But . . . I mean it. Let’s make love. You don’t want to
Collins said nothing.
~ * ~
It is ten years later and Maude and Peter are talking, filling the air with chitchat that is better than discussing their love life, which has become nonexistent in the last few weeks, though neither can pinpoint why.
Maude says, in answer to a question Peter asked her hours before, "No, they never really found her murderer." She turns her back to Peter so she can put on a blue negligee. She believes that his eyes are on her, and she resents it.
From the bed, with the blankets pulled up to his chin against the cold, early winter night, Peter says, "Someone confessed. I was talking to Lynn today"—the house’s previous owner; she’s holding the mortgage and keeps in regular touch—"and she said that someone confessed."
"I know that." Maude turns, faces him.
"You look very nice," Peter says, and smiles appreciatively.
"Thanks," she whispers, as if not wanting to acknowledge his remark.
"Really," he says with enthusiasm. "You look very fetching. Do you wear that every night?" He pauses, though not long enough for her to answer, then goes on, frowning a little, "Yes, I guess you do."
She nods slightly, as if embarrassed. She indicates the negligee. "It’s getting too cold for this thing."
"I’ll keep you warm," he says with a leer.
"Sure, thanks," she says without enthusiasm, and comes to bed, climbs in next to him, but lays on her back and puts her hands behind her head. "I still hear her," she says.
"Our ghost?" he says.
She nods.
"Same time, same place?" He grins.
She looks sharply at him. "Don’t joke about it. Please."
He looks at her a moment, decides she’s being serious, then says, "Sorry. It’s just that I’ve never heard her—"
"So you think I’m crazy?"
"No." Silence.
"That was a very unconvincing negative, Peter."
Silence.
She glances at him. His gaze is on the ceiling. She says his name. He looks at her, grins. "Let’s make love," he says.
She looks away. "I can’t. I’m sorry."
He sighs loudly. "Can you give me a reason?”
“Do I need to?"
"I asked for one."
A short pause, then, "I don’t have one, I guess." Another pause. "I’m just not in the mood.”
“Headache?"
"No."
"Maybe you don’t find me attractive anymore?”
“No."
"No?"
"Yes, I find you attractive—"
"It’s her , isn’t it? It’s your ghost."
Silence.
"She’s made you . . . shy, or something.”
“That’s absurd."
Peter shakes his head quickly. "I understand now. I understand completely. You think she’s watching us." He smiles, though he realizes it’s a mistake; he can’t help himself. "You think some woman who was murdered ten years ago is going to watch us making love so you . . . just don’t make love. My God, my God, that’s—"
"She was murdered here , dammit. In this house. In this very room , for all we know—"
"Not true. She was murdered downstairs. That’s what Lynn told me."
"Oh, fuck Lynn!"
"I may have to." Peter closes his eyes. He’s put his foot in it now, he realizes. He whispers, eyes still closed. "Sorry. That was stupid."
Silence.
He looks at Maude. She’s crying softly. He sighs. "Really," he says. "I didn’t mean it. It was a real, real stupid thing to say."
Maude shakes her head.
"That’s not why you’re crying?" Peter guesses. Maude nods. She manages, "I’m crying because of her."
"Lynn?"
"No, for God’s sake! Will you shut up about her. I’m talking about Anne Case. I . . . feel her in the house. I feel that she is very sad, and that she needs someone. A friend."
"You?"
Maude shakes her head."I couldn’t, even if I wanted." A pause. "And I do want—"
"Now you’re spooking me."
She says, as if in sudden revelation, "Let’s make love. Now. Right now!"
Peter pulls back from her. His brow furrows. "What an invitation to a hard-on."
"But . . . I mean it. Let’s make love. You don’t want to
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