Who Kissed Charlie Fine?

Chapter 8

Creed scribbled his name onto the notepad.

"You two going to be in town all week?"

"Yes. We're staying for the anniversary."

"Good. In case I have any other unnecessary questions."

"What are you going to do?" Charlie asked incredulously. "Stick him in a line up with other lightning bolts?"

"You're funny," Creed said dryly. "But while you boys are shaking your heads and making jokes, I'll be breaking the news to the girl's family that she's dead. Criminally, Mr. Shields, you may be clean, but the Warner's might want a civil suit. Since it's my job to be thorough for everybody's sake, maybe you should come around to the station in the morning. Then I can let you know what her parents have to say about that lineup."

After a deliberately long look slid from one man to the next, Creed flapped his notepad shut and stalked off.

"Jeezuz!" Martin said after the coast was clear. "What has Clint Eastwood done to his face?!"

"Why would a detective show up to an accident?" Charlie wondered aloud.

"I've never wanted to say, 'Aye-aye, Captain' so bad in my entire life."

"What do you want to do about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, we'll humour him. Tonight we go home and get plastered."

Later, in Sterling's living room, having changed into less formal attire, Charlie and Martin settled into a glum silence as each tried to process what he had experienced. Martin was restless. Up and down he went from his seat on the couch to the bar to fill his glass with whisky without ever thinking it might be easier to just take the bottle with him. While not exactly a futile Sisyphean task, it broke Charlie's still reflection from the sunken seat of his armchair as he began to feel drained watching him. "Pour me one while you're at it," he said eventually. Martin filled two tumblers this time, polishing off a bottle. He served Charlie his drink on the way back to the couch where he eyed the liquor cabinet almost immediately wondering what to drink next.

"What a pity," Charlie said at last, the good burn of alcohol in his throat mellowing to a therapeutic warmth "What a horrible shame."

"That such an awful thing should happen to such a lovely woman," Martin sighed.

"She really was, Martin. She really was."

"And she was going to sleep with me too," Martin said shaking his head.

Charlie's breath stalled behind an astounded lour.

"I could've found out if she was the one who kissed you," Martin went on ruefully. "She probably would've just told me. Or maybe she wouldn't have because we're friends and she might've thought I'd get upset. Still, pillow talk and all. I dunno. Maybe it's for the best."

"That she died?!" Charlie paled in disbelief.

"That's not what I meant," said Martin in a shaming tone without offering an alternate translation. He waited for Charlie to unclutch the arms of the chair. "Do you think we'll have to go to her funeral?"

"If one happens while we're here, how can we not?"

"Do you think they'll have an open casket?" Martin asked taking a deep breath and holding on to it.

"If they can get the grass stains out, sure," Charlie said, realizing after the fact how bad it sounded.

Struck by a thought, Martin stared out blankly under a raised eyebrow. "Think that when we're at the viewing you might be so overcome with grief that you might decide to pay your respects by leaning into the casket and...kissing her?"