him out of this, but he wouldnât listen. He never listens. And here you are, without the faintest idea what youâre doing or where youâre going or what to do, and none of the experience even to know that you donât know it. You donât, do you?â
âNot really.â
âIâm worried that youâre a danger to my husband, Slim. Iâm worried that youâre going to get in the way of the police investigation. If that happens, you could get Guy killed.â
They were good points, all of them. I sipped some of my coffee and set the mug on the table. The coffee was hot and strong but didnât taste like poison. Maybe Susan liked me after all. Maybe we were dating now.
I said, âFair enough. Truth is, I donât want to be here. Just between you, me, and Susanâwho I assume has her ear pressed to the door right nowâI donât think much of your old manâs scheme, either. Your appraisal of my skillsis sound, and I wonât argue with it. On the other hand, I donât plan on getting in anyoneâs way, especially the police. Iâve got no reason to think theyâre doing anything but a bang-up job, and as far as Iâm concerned they can keep doing it. Frankly, I just want to be able to report something to Mr. Luster and get my pension.â
She gave me a look.
âYour . . . pension?â
âYup.â
âThatâs what he promised you?â
âAll wrapped up like a newborn baby and stashed away somewhere warm and safe.â
âWell, isnât that a little . . .â
âWhat?â
She blew out a breath and said, âI donât know. Desperate?â
âOuch.â
For the first time, she smiled a little. She seemed embarrassed.
âIâm sorry,â she said. âI really donât know how to act right now.â
âNo harm,â I said. âAs for desperation, I guess it depends what your aspirations are. Mineâs college for my daughter and an occasional haircut for myself.â
Temple sighed quietly, then stood and paced behind the sofa. âFine,â she said finally. âLetâs get it over with then. Ask your questions.â
âThanks,â I said sincerely. âLetâs start with what you think might have happened.â
âI think Dwayne was murdered. I think my husbandâs disappeared. More than that . . .â
âIâll need to know about your marriage. What itâs been like. Whether youâve been happy with Guy.â
She laughed at that. Kind of bitterly, too. But even her bitterness was like art. Her head went back and her ponytail poured over her shoulder like a vein of molten copper and curled up at the full swell of her breast. She was good-looking, all right. Peggy would turn me inside out with a butter knife to hear me say it, but there was something otherworldly about Temple Beckett, something that had to do with more than money.
I said, âMrs. Beckett . . .â
âTemple,â she said, interrupting. âI want to be called Temple. And none of this is about my husband and our marriage or our happiness.â
âWell, wait a minute now. Why arenât you happy with Guy?â
âI didnât say I wasnât.â
âYou didnât, but your face did.â
âMy face?â
âYour expression. Your mouth, mostly. The way the corners flex when you talk about him. Not a happy look, Mrs. Beckett.â
â Temple .â
âThereâs that, too.â
She gave me a Susan look. Not gladsome. She came back around the couch and flopped down, as though exhausted.
âYouâre married?â
âNot anymore.â
âBut you were.â
âA long time ago.â
She said, âThen you know that no marriage is perfect.âBut I got the sense that hers was less perfect even than that. âAnd Iâm telling you, youâre on the wrong path. Youâre
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