flowers some more, but since they didn’t suddenly communicate who had sent them, or blow up, or do anything but sit there looking like flowers, this had limited appeal. I was on the verge of suggesting to Angel we go stare at the inside of the refrigerator when the doorbell rang again.
“Oh, gosh, it’s four o’clock,” I said, glancing at my wristwatch. “It must be Dryden and O’Riley.” I looked up at Angel. “I should be safe with them.” I was smiling, but she was not.
“I said I’d stay.”
“Okay.” I went to the door, my heels making a little click on the polished wood floor, a sound that almost always improved my spirits. My house was now about sixty-three years old, and we’d restored it to wonderful condition. It was just an old family home, not even my old family home, but I loved it.
I hadn’t reset the alarm system, so Dryden was admitted more rapidly than the florist’s deliveryman.
I looked behind him, but O’Riley was nowhere in sight. I was conscious of feeling glad, as I stood aside to let him in, that Angel had decided to stay. At that moment, Dryden’s gaze lighted on her, and his mouth yanked up at one corner, an enigmatic twitch I was unable to interpret. It could have been anything from deep admiration for such a fine specimen of womanhood to irritation that I’d asked someone else to sit in on our conversation.
“You’re by yourself,” I said, since I’ve never been afraid to state the obvious.
“O’Riley’s on another interview,” he said, pushing his tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses back on his nose. As if the gesture were contagious, like yawning in a meeting, I pushed mine back, too, and we stared at each other solemnly.
“Please have a seat,” I told him. “This is Angel Youngblood. She was in the backyard when Jack Burns fell, too.”
“Thanks for saving us a trip out here,” Dryden said, and I still couldn’t read his expression. He must have recognized Angel as the woman with me in Dr. Zelman’s office in the morning. He must have read all the police reports, and must have known already about Angel’s presence during the free fall of Jack Burns. Yet he didn’t seem interested.
I was getting more and more confused by John Dryden.
He finally sat on the couch, and Angel and I picked single chairs opposite him. He turned down my ritual offer of coffee or iced tea, though it was a warm day outside and his suit jacket must be hot.
I looked at Dryden closely for the first time. He was big, and square-shouldered, and husky, but not fat, not at all. His eyes were blue behind the glasses, and if he had any gray hair, his light blond hair color concealed it. Of course it was cut very short, as I’d always been led to believe FBI agents wore their hair—if he was an FBI agent—and it lay on his head as smooth as polish. The only other man I knew with hair that blond was Detective Arthur Smith, once my significant other, now married and a father. Lately when I’d run across Arthur his eyes had been hungry. Suddenly I wondered if he’d sent the flowers.
I guess I got lost in conjecture, for a loud throat-clearing brought me back to the here and now with a jolt. Angel and Dryden were both waiting for me to say something.
I sighed. “Excuse me, I wasn’t paying attention. Could you repeat that?”
“Do you know how to fly an airplane?”
I laughed at the idea. “No,” I said, since he obviously wanted an answer on the record. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in the cockpit of a plane.”
“What about you, Mrs. Youngblood?”
“I had a few flying lessons in Florida,” she said calmly. I noticed Angel’s long fingers were resting across her flat stomach. It was incredible to me that a child could be in such a small space, invisible and unknown to anyone around Angel. What an amazing thing to carry inside you; the other choices were so mundane or deathly, like a cold, or cancer, or appendicitis . . .
I had been drifting again.
“. . . you
“Oh, gosh, it’s four o’clock,” I said, glancing at my wristwatch. “It must be Dryden and O’Riley.” I looked up at Angel. “I should be safe with them.” I was smiling, but she was not.
“I said I’d stay.”
“Okay.” I went to the door, my heels making a little click on the polished wood floor, a sound that almost always improved my spirits. My house was now about sixty-three years old, and we’d restored it to wonderful condition. It was just an old family home, not even my old family home, but I loved it.
I hadn’t reset the alarm system, so Dryden was admitted more rapidly than the florist’s deliveryman.
I looked behind him, but O’Riley was nowhere in sight. I was conscious of feeling glad, as I stood aside to let him in, that Angel had decided to stay. At that moment, Dryden’s gaze lighted on her, and his mouth yanked up at one corner, an enigmatic twitch I was unable to interpret. It could have been anything from deep admiration for such a fine specimen of womanhood to irritation that I’d asked someone else to sit in on our conversation.
“You’re by yourself,” I said, since I’ve never been afraid to state the obvious.
“O’Riley’s on another interview,” he said, pushing his tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses back on his nose. As if the gesture were contagious, like yawning in a meeting, I pushed mine back, too, and we stared at each other solemnly.
“Please have a seat,” I told him. “This is Angel Youngblood. She was in the backyard when Jack Burns fell, too.”
“Thanks for saving us a trip out here,” Dryden said, and I still couldn’t read his expression. He must have recognized Angel as the woman with me in Dr. Zelman’s office in the morning. He must have read all the police reports, and must have known already about Angel’s presence during the free fall of Jack Burns. Yet he didn’t seem interested.
I was getting more and more confused by John Dryden.
He finally sat on the couch, and Angel and I picked single chairs opposite him. He turned down my ritual offer of coffee or iced tea, though it was a warm day outside and his suit jacket must be hot.
I looked at Dryden closely for the first time. He was big, and square-shouldered, and husky, but not fat, not at all. His eyes were blue behind the glasses, and if he had any gray hair, his light blond hair color concealed it. Of course it was cut very short, as I’d always been led to believe FBI agents wore their hair—if he was an FBI agent—and it lay on his head as smooth as polish. The only other man I knew with hair that blond was Detective Arthur Smith, once my significant other, now married and a father. Lately when I’d run across Arthur his eyes had been hungry. Suddenly I wondered if he’d sent the flowers.
I guess I got lost in conjecture, for a loud throat-clearing brought me back to the here and now with a jolt. Angel and Dryden were both waiting for me to say something.
I sighed. “Excuse me, I wasn’t paying attention. Could you repeat that?”
“Do you know how to fly an airplane?”
I laughed at the idea. “No,” I said, since he obviously wanted an answer on the record. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in the cockpit of a plane.”
“What about you, Mrs. Youngblood?”
“I had a few flying lessons in Florida,” she said calmly. I noticed Angel’s long fingers were resting across her flat stomach. It was incredible to me that a child could be in such a small space, invisible and unknown to anyone around Angel. What an amazing thing to carry inside you; the other choices were so mundane or deathly, like a cold, or cancer, or appendicitis . . .
I had been drifting again.
“. . . you
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