Everything and More [antikvár]

PROLOGUE The gun was jarringly out of place. This sunlit morning lacked the climate of violence. A breeze fragrant with citrus blossoms rippled through the small Beverly Hills back garden, while from beyond the tall redwood fencing came the peaceful racket of a suburban Sunday: a lawn mower's roar, toddlers' shrill cries, the masculine voices of Dodger warm-up coming from transistors—the home team was on a winning streak this June of 1970. The two women facing each other across the handgun looked more as if they should be lunching together at the Bistro: both were in their early forties, handsome, and obviously well-to-do. One wore slacks with a smartly cut taupe blazer, the other a Chanel blouse and skirt. There was a small click as the safety catch was released. "This is all crazy," said the woman in slacks. Because she had known her attacker for so many years, she ventured a step closer. "Stop!" The intended victim halted. As she stared at the muzzle, her disbelieving expression hardened to horror. Her pupils contracted. Then, flexing her knees, she sprang, a clumsy, non-athletic leap, to grip the arm aiming the improbable weapon. For a long moment that seemed an eternity, the pair remained locked in an outlandish wrestlers' hold. The sharp sound rang out like a car backfiring. One woman slumped to the ground. A heartbeat later, she died in the other's arms. That gunshot would echo endlessly in print, on television, in people's hearts, for these two, together with another woman equally involved, led the sort of lives of which dreams are