Murder in the Tea Leaves

By the time Mooney arrived, Finley had rummaged the closet for an outfit and turned up with only a pair of black skinny jeans, a black cashmere turtleneck, and some dressy black boots. Granted the boots were Jimmy Choo’s from three seasons ago, but she had to admit that she could just as easily have gone grocery shopping at Dag’s as gone to drinks at Cork in this. She grabbed a pair of large Berber earrings and some bangles when the doorbell rang.

“I’m trying to decide whether I like it or not.” Mooney had stepped in and then held Finley at arm’s length to determine whether she approved of what she was wearing.

“I haven’t done my hair yet.” Finley pulled at the hair tie that was holding her mass of curls back. She had kept it pixie short for almost four years but was now letting it slowly grow out. It wasn’t to her waist as it had been years ago, but it had grown down to her shoulders and was thick and heavy .

She headed to the bathroom and finished her makeup before she started detangling her curls with her fingers. The hair around her temples and brow fell into soft tendrils that framed her face. She added a bit more blush to meet the delicate wisps that played close to her dark green eyes and then added a pop of brick-red matte lipstick to break up the blackness of her clothes.

“You know, I love that on you.” Mooney was standing at the bathroom door, watching as Finley put the final touches on her makeup. “It isn’t me, but it is so understatedly you.”

The contrast between them was indeed marked. Finley in her black-on-black outfit, alligator-green eyes and matte-red lips—the only flashes of color—and Mooney, all brightness and light with her ash-blond tresses catching the beams from the hall and reflecting it back in her crystalline-blue eyes. Finley smiled at their yin-yang looks. She grabbed her long Kashmiri-embroidered duster, cut the lights, and they were out of the door.