Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,31

nebulous, though, and then I felt obliged to come up with a concrete reason to give Eileen.

The fifth house was the killer. There was nothing wrong with it. It was a three-bedroom with a pleasant yard, a small but adequate kitchen, and the usual number of closets. It was certainly big enough for one person. If toys were any evidence, it was not quite big enough for a couple with several children. It was very similar to its neighbors . .. the exterior was one of three or four standardly used in this subdivision. I was sure anyone on the street would have no trouble finding her way to any particular room or closet in any house.

“I hate this house,” I said.

Eileen tapped her fingernails absently on the imitation wooden-block Formica of the kitchen counter. “What is it you dislike so much, so I won’t waste our time showing you anything else with that feature?” A reasonable question.

“It’s too much like all the other houses on the street. And everyone else on this street seems to have little children. I wouldn’t feel a part of the neighborhood.”

Eileen was resigning herself to the fact that I wasn’t going to be the easiest sell she’d ever had.

“This is just the first day,” she said philosophically. “We’ll see more. And it’s not like you have a time limit.”

I nodded, and Eileen dropped me back at my place, thinking out loud the whole time about what she could line up to show me in the coming week. I listened with half my attention, the other half wrapped up in my date tonight. I was trying to keep my mental screen absolutely blank, trying not to imagine any scenes from the evening, trying not even to conjecture on its outcome.

Of course, I still had time to kill when I got home, and with the house clean and my clothes selected, nothing to kill it with. So I turned on the television, and when that failed, I tried to concentrate on an old Catherine Aird, counting on her never-failing blend of humor and detection to get me through a couple of hours. After ten minutes of concentrated effort, Aird worked, as she always did. I even forgot to look at my watch for minutes at a time.

Then I remembered I hadn’t done my exercise video that morning. Madeleine came to watch with her usual amazement, and I worked up quite a sweat and felt very virtuous.

Finally it really was time for a shower.

I hadn’t scrubbed myself this much since my senior prom. Every atom of my skin and inch of my hair was absolutely clean, every extra hair was shaved from my legs, and when I emerged I slapped everything on myself I could think of, even cuticle cream on my messy cuticles. I plucked my eyebrows. I put on my makeup with the care and deliberation of a high-fashion model, and dried my hair to the last strand, brushing it afterward at least fifty times. I even cleaned my glasses.

I wiggled into my incredible underwear without looking in the mirror, at least not until I pulled the black slip over my head. Then, very carefully, the teal dress, which I zipped up with some difficulty. I switched purses, put on my high-heeled pumps, and surveyed myself in Jane’s mirror.

I looked as good as I possibly could, and if it wasn’t good enough ... so be it.

I went downstairs to wait.

Chapter Seven

THE DOORBELL rang exactly on the dot.

Martin was wearing a gorgeous gray suit. After a moment I stepped back to let him in, and he looked around.

Suddenly we realized we weren’t observing the amenities, and both of us burst into speech at once. I blurted “How’ve you been doing?” as he said “Nice apartment.” We both shuddered to a halt and smiled at each other in embarrassment.

“I reserved tables at a restaurant the board of directors took me to after they’d decided to hire me for the job here,” Martin said. “It’s French, and I thought it was very good. Do you like French food?”

I wouldn’t understand the menu. “That’ll be fine,” I said. “You’ll have to order for me. I haven’t tried to speak French since high school.”

“We’ll have to rely on the waiter,” Martin said. “I speak Spanish and some Vietnamese, but only a little French.”

We had one thing in common.

I got my black coat from the coat closet. I slid it on myself, not being ready for him to touch me. I