Secret Combinations by Gordon Cope

loomed over a well-manicured park.
    With Lydia’s ashes in one hand and his luggage in the other, Kenyon made his way up the steps to the front door. It was a massive oak affair with cut-glass panels and a large, round brass doorknob.
    He put his luggage down and unlocked the door. “Hello?” he called, as he entered the foyer. “Anyone home?”
    No one answered. Kenyon glanced around at the foyer. It had a warm, Mediterranean feel to it. The walls were painted in deep sienna and the floor was covered in black marble tiles streaked with creamy calcite veins. A spray of white calla lilies in a glass vase stood in memorium on a sidetable at the base of a grand, spiraling staircase. He put Lydia’s remains down beside the flowers, then fetched his bag into the house and closed the front door.
    When Kenyon entered the living room, he whistled out loud in amazement. The walls were covered in modern art and rose at least sixteen feet to the ceiling. The room was furnished with a suite of white, plush furniture. The drapes that covered the large bay window alone were more expensive than every stick of furniture in his apartment back home.
    Kenyon’s gaze focused on a suit of armor that stood near the fireplace. The suit, complete with helmet and a pole axe resting in a gauntlet, had been polished to a high gleam. Kenyon approached for a closer look. Fine filigree had been worked into the metal, and the pole axe had been sharpened to a razor edge. He resisted the urge to lift the helmet visor and peek inside.
    Kenyon dropped his suit jacket onto the couch, then wandered into the adjacent dining room where eight upholstered chairs stood around an immense granite table.
    Marveling at the taste and expense, Kenyon continued on to the kitchen. The countertops were a buttery marble. One corner of the kitchen, adjacent to a breakfast nook, had been closed off by a sealed-glass door to create a wine closet.
    Thirsty, Kenyon poked around in the fridge and found several cans of beer in the back. He snapped the top of one marked “Caffrey’s .” He took a long gulp; the ale tasted smooth and creamy.
    Carrying his beer, Kenyon wandered back down the hallway to the foyer. As he ascended the curving staircase, he absently ran his hand along the smooth wooden handrail. It felt cool under his fingers. At the top of the stairs he turned left and headed for the room overlooking the street.
    It was the master bedroom. The curtains were semi-translucent, filling the room with a warm, soft light. A king-sized bed with an upholstered headboard rested against one wall, adjacent to a rosewood chest of drawers fronted by spiral columns. A flatscreen TV and DVD player were fitted into a cherry wood cabinet across from the foot of the bed.
    Kenyon sat on a loveseat that rested in the big bay window; a pair of fluffy pink slippers poked out from underneath. He bent over and picked one up, turning it in his hand. He imagined Lydia sitting on this chair with a book, her bare feet curled beneath her, a cup of steaming coffee on the mahogany table. He softly placed the slipper back.
    Just off the master bedroom was a long, narrow room that had been outfitted as a walk-in closet. A row of sliding doors flanked one wall, and a small vanity mirror and chair occupied the opposite side.
    Kenyon opened a door at random, and the smell of expensive perfume greeted him; the closet was full of Lydia’s blouses, all arranged by color. He checked several other closets. Most were filled with tailored jackets, leather shoes, and formal dresses.
    The last closet on the right contained purses and suitcases. Most were ordered by color on shelves, but there was a big pile on the floor. Kenyon remembered the briefcase left to Legrand in Lydia’s will. He scanned through the shelves, then got down on his knees and rummaged through the jumble.
    Kenyon’s initial search came up empty. He poked through the closet a second time, but