Part 17 (2/2)

”Just the two of us?”

”In our condo, yes. For the weekend, no.” I sat waiting for the obvious catch.

”We'll be the guests of Sylvia Breslin and Robert Morris.”

”Oh,” I said, then realizing I should appear more excited, added, ”well that's wonderful. We'll have a great time. They want me along?”

”Of course. You've met Bob. I know you don't remember him, but you might when you see him again. He remembers you.”

”At Linda's party. I remember you said I did, but I don't remember him. Short guy?”

”Hardly. He's six-two. Dark hair, wavy. Skin a little craggy. About forty years old. Always has a good-looking woman at his side.”

”Not married?”

”Divorced some years back.”

”Where will they be staying?”

”In another condo, same complex.”

”Together?”

”Yes, but there's nothing going on between them. They're business partners. Actually, partners isn't the right word. It's more like-what benefits one benefits the other. a.s.sociates, I guess.”

”And they ski?”

”Yes, they ski. I don't know how well, enough that we can ski together. It will be fun.”

I smiled. Sure, a weekend with the woman who was after my husband. Of course, what could be more fun? And if Trevor were lying, it might have progressed far beyond that. Sylvia might have already caught him.

I cleared the dining room table and Trevor helped me, following me into the kitchen. While I rinsed dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Trevor perused the small stack of mail he'd tossed on the kitchen table earlier.

”Something from your sister and Wolfgang. Looks like an invitation.”

He brought it over.

”Open it,” I said, my hands wet.

”It is. Your sister's giving another party.”

”When?”

”Two weeks from Friday. She calls it a *Holiday Hiatus'.”

”I had a feeling she'd try to put something together before they left on vacation. She probably didn't want to disappoint her friends.”

”Kind of short notice.”

”Yes, for Linda, but Wolfgang surprised her with that Hawaiian vacation. She probably thought she'd have more time.”

”It would be nice for the two of us to take a trip, if I could arrange to get away. If I had the time. Things might slow down eventually. This weekend will be fun though. We can try out the new skis.”

”Can't wait,” I said, closing the dishwasher and setting the dial.

I hoped Trevor would go to bed early, but it was almost as if he could read my thoughts, and frustrated me by first staying up to watch a gross program about sharks and shark attacks, then wanting to make love. I kept thinking about the envelope in my darkroom, and how odd it would look when I crawled out of bed to go downstairs, when normally after s.e.x I'd roll over and fall asleep.

I decided I'd have to wait until Trevor was asleep himself, then sneak downstairs. If he woke up later on, I could always say I was restless or something. He probably thought I was half crazy anyway, the way I'd been acting lately, and wouldn't see anything I did as too unusual.

At close to midnight, I eased out of the covers and put on my robe and slippers. I tiptoed carefully around the bed and into the hallway, then grasping the stairway banister, slowly descended the stairs. Eerily bright moonlight streamed through the windows. I'd almost made it down to the first floor when a stair creaked. I stopped, listened for sounds of movement coming from the bedroom. Nothing. I inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly.

My darkroom was located below our bedroom, or more specifically, below the master bath. My studio was directly below the bedroom. If I made too much noise Trevor might hear me, or think we had a prowler. But Trevor didn't own a gun, so at least I didn't have to worry that he'd shoot me and call it an accident later.

I entered the studio, then closed the door and locked it. That in itself would look odd if Trevor did get up and search the house for me. I never locked my studio door, and rarely locked my darkroom since Trevor knew better than to open it if I was working in there. I changed my mind and unlocked the studio door, but kept it shut with the overhead light on.

I closed the door to the darkroom and turned the lock, switched on a small fluorescent lamp, then found the envelope. I sat on a stool, my elbow resting on the counter near the sink.

I drew out the contents of the envelope, dusted off the counter with my arm, then laid the papers down.

I returned to the part about Trevor's father, noticing that he would be eligible for parole in the next year. How did Trevor feel about his dad? Would he be glad if he made parole? I thought for a moment about my own father. What if he had been involved in something shady? Would I have loved him any less? Or would I have instead worried about him, tried to figure out the reasons behind his convoluted thinking, his lack of respect for the law, and his failure to foresee the probable consequences of his actions.

I couldn't ask Trevor about any of this, but I was glad I knew. Before, Trevor always seemed to me so a.s.sured and confident, so unscarred by life, and sometimes-not cool exactly-but too removed from the difficulties of ordinary people. Now, it appeared, that wasn't true.

His credit was good, but I'd known that before. That alone said a lot about his character, about his respect for others, about the value of his word, and, of course, the stability of his financial position.

He'd said he had attended college in Sacramento, and that was true, though I had a.s.sumed-was it something he'd said?-that he'd graduated. Now I could see that he hadn't. Why lie about that? Pride? To appear on the same educational level as his business a.s.sociates, his friends? Actually, I could think of several extremely successful men who'd never attended college at all, my father for one, and who instead of hiding the fact, had bragged about it.

Well, whatever the reason, it wasn't a huge deal.

He didn't have a criminal record. He had been issued several tickets, many for speeding, when he was younger. He'd once owned a boat, a small speedboat it appeared.

I was happy to see he hadn't been married before. He wasn't divorced and lying about it, or a bigamist running off to Denver to visit his other wife.

I wondered. Did he ever visit his father in prison? Was it only accidental that he'd moved from California here to Glenwood, in the same state his father was imprisoned? In the time I'd known Trevor, he'd gone to Denver many times, but always, I thought, for business. Perhaps he'd driven a bit farther, to Pueblo.

I continued to read all the minutia of his life, his previous employment record, including his first job as a busboy, the genealogical records of his family, the who, the when, and where of their lives. Trevor probably didn't know a tenth of this, and if he had, most likely would have forgotten it by now.

But I didn't find anything that would make Trevor a likely murder suspect. In essence, I was no further along than before.

I lifted my head, thinking I'd detected a noise outside in the studio. Holding my breath, I watched the doork.n.o.b, waiting for it to turn. When it didn't, I eased from the stool and pressed my ear against the door. Finally, after several minutes had ticked by without event, I returned to the stool and slid the papers back into the envelope, placed it on the shelf, and unlocked the door.

The studio door remained shut, as I had left it. I flipped off the light to the darkroom, then the studio, and quietly entered the hallway. Turning my head to peer up the stairs, I tiptoed past them to the kitchen to pour myself a gla.s.s of milk-as good a reason to be up as any-in case Trevor was, indeed, awake.

I opened the refrigerator and drew out the milk carton. No, I decided, it didn't appear there was anything in the report that would cast a dark shadow on Trevor. I did wonder, however, why Linda had been so secretive about Wolfgang's report.

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