The Pact by Jennifer Sturman Page B

get there, but I beat Jane and Luisa. Only Hilary was in the room, her nose pressed against the glass of the bay window that overlooked the pool. Where Mrs. Furlong’s sitting room was a perfect example of delicate femininity translated into décor—all light colors and smooth surfaces, serene watercolors and cozy sofas—Mr. Furlong’s study was, in contrast, archetypically masculine, from the wood-paneled walls to the worn leather furniture. It even smelled of pipe smoke. An original Furlong dominated one wall, its bold sweeping strokes and use of color marking the painting as unquestionably his. It could easily have fetched a price in the high six figures if Mr. Furlong was willing to part with it. A much earlier work hung on an adjacent wall, an abstract so different in style that it could have been painted by a different hand. I wondered if Mr. Furlong hung them together to remind himself of the dramatic evolution of his work over the path of his career.
    “What’s going on, Hil?” I asked.
    “You smell like Emma,” she said absently.
    “Her shampoo.”
    “Makes sense,” she answered, distracted by the scene below. “Come here and check this out. It’s just like the movies down there.” From her tone, you would have guessed that Richard’s death had been orchestrated purely for her viewing pleasure.
    I crossed the room to join her by the window. The technicians were still at work, and Matthew and Sean stood near the pool house talking to the detectives. “Who’s that guy?” Hilary asked.
    “Which one?”
    “The hot one, obviously. With the dark hair. Standing next to Matthew.” I followed her finger with my gaze. The man she pointed out was the detective who seemed to be in charge. He wore a gray suit that looked like it had seen better days, and the way he wore it suggested that he didn’t usually wear suits. He must have been well over six feet since he had a few inches on Matthew. He had close-cropped curly black hair and blue eyes that pierced even from this distance.
    “I don’t know, Hil. He’s one of the detectives, but I don’t know his name. You’ll get to meet him—they want to interview all of us.”
    “Goody,” she said, making no effort to hide how much she was looking forward to being interrogated by the police. Part of me was relieved.
    “Goody what?” asked Luisa, who’d materialized at my side.
    “Hilary’s just figuring out which cop she wants to hit on,” I explained.
    “Charming,” said Luisa dryly.
    “Isn’t it?” I responded.
    “Shut up. You’re both just jealous’ cause I’ve staked first dibs.” I didn’t point out that given Luisa’s sexual orientation, she was unlikely to be jealous. “Where’s Jane already?”
    “Right here,” said Jane, as she entered the room. She carried a tray with mugs and a carafe.
    “Is that what I’m hoping it is?” asked Hilary.
    “If you’re hoping for coffee then it is indeed what you’re hoping for.”
    “Caffeine,” cried Hilary, and swooped down on the tray.
    “You’re a mind reader. Bless you, Jane,” said Luisa, gratefully accepting a mug.
    “Don’t worry, Rach—I didn’t forget about you.” Jane handed me a can of Diet Coke.
    “You’re a goddess. Thank you.” I preferred my caffeine cold and carbonated, particularly in the morning. I popped the can open and took a satisfying swig. “Breakfast of champions.”
    “That’s disgusting,” said Hilary. “How can you drink that stuff so early in the day?” I shrugged and took another gulp.
    “What’s going on down there?” asked Jane. She peered out the window.
    “Standard crime scene stuff,” I answered. “Matthew’s the designated liaison.”
    “He must be psyched,” said Hilary. She had a unique gift for happily blurting out things that were both obvious and unspeakable.
    “Behave yourself,” admonished Luisa.
    I giggled. I couldn’t help myself. Even in these circumstances, it was nice to have all of my closest friends in one