Getting Warmer by Carol Snow Page A

really make up the stuff about the homeowner’s association? How good a liar was he? Maybe this really was his house. He could be separated. Why would he tell me he’d never been married then? Of course, I had no right to object to a blurring of the facts. So he neglected to mention an ex-wife. So I told a colorful tale about life among the inmates. Perhaps some day we’d have a good laugh and live happily (and truthfully) ever after.
    I was all set to be reassured by a standard-issue bachelor pad, complete with white walls, an enormous TV and recliners with drink holders when Jonathan let us into the kitchen. There were Indian pots and hanging ivy on the towering plant shelves. Custom-made cushions sat atop Mexican bar stools. Tailored valances hung from wrought iron curtain rods. A woman had been here.
    “You’ve got quite an eye for decorating,” Jill said. “What would you call that paint color? Mustard? Ochre?”
    “I call it yellow,” Jonathan said. “If I call it anything at all. My latest stepmother wants to switch careers from real estate to decorating. Once she finished my father’s house, she moved on to mine. She keeps showing up to take more pictures for her portfolio.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’s better than anything I could have done.”
    I had a sudden image of his stepmother: the perfect silver hair, the trim figure, the tailored, sherbert-colored clothes and matching shoes. She would get her hair styled weekly, her manicure done twice a month. Her makeup would be flawless. I had seen his stepmother—well, others just like her—a thousand times since moving to Scottsdale.
    “How many stepmothers have you had?” I asked.
    “My mother was my father’s second wife. There have been two since.”
    “So your father has made it down the aisle four times, and you haven’t managed even once?” Jill asked.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Think there could be a connection?”
    I stared at him. If he was lying, he was frighteningly good at it. But what about the blond woman in the paper? Was she merely a date who had been misidentified by some champagne-guzzling society reporter?
    Jonathan made cappuccinos from an enormous stainless steel model. “My post-adolescent rebellion against the stepmonster,” he said. “She says the espresso maker dominates the space and that a sleek home model would be much more appropriate. But I like it.”
    His answering machine sat on the counter, the light blinking. “You have a message,” I said.
    “It can wait.”
    We took our cups into the great room, a high-ceilinged space open to the kitchen. It had a built-in entertainment center, built-in bookshelves, a ceiling fan and a gas fireplace. The couches were soft brown leather and strewn with Indian blankets and southwestern print pillows. The walls were a paler shade of the kitchen’s ochre/mustard/yellow.
    Jill stroked the leather couch. “Is this the couch the Slasher attacked?”
    “No, that was beyond repair.”
    As I sipped my cappuccino (which was delicious, with just the perfect amount of froth), I noticed some framed snapshots over the television set (big screen, plasma). “Family photos?” I asked casually, wandering over.
    “Yup,” he said.
    I spotted her immediately. It was a group shot. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless pink polo shirt, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked more relaxed than in the newspaper photo. She looked prettier.
    I rested my cup on the shelf and picked up the photo. I swallowed hard, more disappointed than angry. If only Nicolette hadn’t taken off. If only I were in my own room now, flipping through a magazine or watching TV or even reading The Odyssey .
    “Who’s this?” I asked, as levelly as I could.
    “Let me see.” He walked casually across the room and leaned over my shoulder. He smelled good, like leather mixed with citrus. I tapped my finger against the glass.
    “Oh, that,” he said. “That is Mrs. Jonathan Pomeroy,