The upstairs master suite bath had been remodeled to serve as a retreat, and it was here Rickie sought peace for her soul, the neutral color scheme surrounding the spacious whirlpool tub creating the sense, for the moment, of a true haven. She parked Just Plain Dot on a heavy terry towel beside the swirling waters and began preparations for her bath. The room, awash in natural sunlight, its overall ambiance inspired by Japanese bathhouse design, was full of colorful glycerin soaps and other delightful sources of aromatic scents which temporarily becalmed her as she buried her toes in the super thick floor mats. While waiting for the whirlpool to fill, she felt her nerves begin to steady as its heady mix of soothing oils, healing salts, and aromatic bubbles held forth the promise that, even on the coldest, rainiest day in Beverly Hills, Rickie need never feel chilled or abandoned again.
At which point her eye caught sight of an unfamiliar pair of black nylons lying on the floor under the vanity chair. She studied the nylons in disbelief, their casual shapelessness slithering into her psyche like a pair of soft, unwelcome pythons. Another woman, the pythons hissed. Her body reacted first before her mind had a chance to, throwing her heart into overdrive, her breath sucking in sharply as she vainly sought an equilibrium which would prove unobtainable.
She felt the breakdown coming and sat down before she fell down, hearing herself from far away emit a single yowl. She tried to think, couldn't, and at that instant Hirschfeld appeared in the doorway.
"I heard you scream," he said. His eyes, following her pathetic downward stare, locked on the stockings. He stepped forward to retrieve them, thought better of it, and stumbled backwards awkwardly, his face reddening under the confusing welter of emotions the tangible evidence of his adultery presented. His hand moved toward her shoulder.
"Rickie, I--"
"No," she said, spitting the word out, its echo clear above the roaring of the tub. "No. Don't talk. Don't touch."
They were both still staring at the stockings, the incriminating evidence so soft, yet so firm a wedge between them.
"You better go downstairs," she said, and he did so, leaving the room softly, carefully, as though his guilt weighed a hundred thousand pounds and to tread otherwise might possibly precipitate a collapse of the upstairs landing.
She took a deep breath and felt a strange sense of calm rising inside, displacing her initial shock. She went to the bedside table and got out the gun, the one Hirschfeld jokingly referred to as her "pea shooter", a tiny stainless steel Accu-Tek .32 caliber semi-automatic, and went downstairs.
He stood in the breakfast nook beside their pitcher of Bloody Mary's, staring out the window, drink in hand, sipping the blood-red concoction slowly through a straw. Somewhat clumsily, she thumbed back the hammer and raised the peashooter level with his chest. The metallic click of the hammer going back woke Hirschfeld from his dark reverie, bringing him fully around, his face going tight and white at the sight of the gun.