strange excitement in her subsiding.
“So he accepted her proposal. How did you feel about that?”
At first he thought she hadn’t heard him. Then, in a small hoarse voice, looking away, she said, “Relieved.” She stared at Gurney’s asparagus ferns as though somewhere among them she might locate an appropriate explanation for her rapidly shifting feelings. A mild breeze had materialized while they’d been speaking, and the tops of the ferns were waving gently.
He waited, saying nothing.
She blinked, her jaw muscles clenching and relaxing. When she spoke, it was with apparent effort, forcing the individual words out as though each were as heavy as something in a dream. “I was relieved to have the responsibility taken off my hands.” She opened her mouth as though she were about to say more, then closed it with only a slight shake of her head. A gesture of disapproval, thought Gurney. Disapproval of herself. Was that the root of her desire to see Hector Flores dead? To pay her guilty debt to her daughter?
Whoa. Slow down. Stay in touch with the facts
.
“I didn’t intend …” She let her voice trail off, leaving it unclear what was unintended.
“What do you think of Scott Ashton?” Gurney asked in a brisk tone, as far from her dark and complex mood as he could get.
She responded instantly, as though the question were a lifesaving escape hatch. “Scott Ashton is brilliant, ambitious, decisive …” She paused.
“And?”
“And cool to the touch.”
“Why do you think he would want to marry a—”
“A woman as crazy as Jillian?” She shrugged unconvincingly. “Possibly because she was breathtakingly beautiful?”
He nodded, unconvinced.
“I know this sounds incredibly trite, but Jillian was special, really
special.
” She gave the word an almost lurid depth and color. “Did you know her IQ was 168?”
“That’s remarkable.”
“Yes. It was the highest score the testing service had ever measured. They tested her three times, just to make sure.”
“So in addition to everything else, Jillian was a genius?”
“Oh, yes, a genius,” she agreed, a brittle animation returning to her voice. “And, of course, a nymphomaniac. Did I forget to mention that?”
She searched his face for a reaction.
He looked off into the distance, out over the treetops beyond the barn. “And all you want me to do is look for Hector Flores.”
“Not look for him.
Find
him.”
Gurney had a fondness for puzzles, but this one was starting to feel more like a nightmare. Besides, Madeleine would never …
Jesus, think of her name and …
Amazingly, there she was, in her explosion of red and orange attire, making her way gradually up through the pasture, pushing her bicycle along the rutted incline of the path.
Val Perry turned anxiously in her chair to follow his gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”
“My wife.”
They said nothing more until Madeleine arrived at the edge of the patio on her way to the shed. The women exchanged blandly polite gazes. Gurney introduced them, saying only—to maintain the appearance of confidentiality—that Val was “a friend of a friend” who had dropped by for some professional advice.
“It’s so
restful
here,” said Val Perry, her emphasis making it sound like a foreign word whose pronunciation she was practicing. “You must
love
it.”
“I do,” said Madeleine. She gave the woman a brief smile and rolled her bicycle on toward the shed.
“Well,” said Val Perry uneasily, after Madeleine had passed out of sight behind the rhododendrons at the back of the garden, “is there anything else I can tell you?”
“Were you bothered at all by the nineteen versus thirty-eight difference in ages?”
“No,” she snapped, confirming his suspicion that she was.
“How does your husband feel about your intention to engage a private detective?”
“He’s supportive,” she said.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“He supports what I want to do.”
Gurney
“So he accepted her proposal. How did you feel about that?”
At first he thought she hadn’t heard him. Then, in a small hoarse voice, looking away, she said, “Relieved.” She stared at Gurney’s asparagus ferns as though somewhere among them she might locate an appropriate explanation for her rapidly shifting feelings. A mild breeze had materialized while they’d been speaking, and the tops of the ferns were waving gently.
He waited, saying nothing.
She blinked, her jaw muscles clenching and relaxing. When she spoke, it was with apparent effort, forcing the individual words out as though each were as heavy as something in a dream. “I was relieved to have the responsibility taken off my hands.” She opened her mouth as though she were about to say more, then closed it with only a slight shake of her head. A gesture of disapproval, thought Gurney. Disapproval of herself. Was that the root of her desire to see Hector Flores dead? To pay her guilty debt to her daughter?
Whoa. Slow down. Stay in touch with the facts
.
“I didn’t intend …” She let her voice trail off, leaving it unclear what was unintended.
“What do you think of Scott Ashton?” Gurney asked in a brisk tone, as far from her dark and complex mood as he could get.
She responded instantly, as though the question were a lifesaving escape hatch. “Scott Ashton is brilliant, ambitious, decisive …” She paused.
“And?”
“And cool to the touch.”
“Why do you think he would want to marry a—”
“A woman as crazy as Jillian?” She shrugged unconvincingly. “Possibly because she was breathtakingly beautiful?”
He nodded, unconvinced.
“I know this sounds incredibly trite, but Jillian was special, really
special.
” She gave the word an almost lurid depth and color. “Did you know her IQ was 168?”
“That’s remarkable.”
“Yes. It was the highest score the testing service had ever measured. They tested her three times, just to make sure.”
“So in addition to everything else, Jillian was a genius?”
“Oh, yes, a genius,” she agreed, a brittle animation returning to her voice. “And, of course, a nymphomaniac. Did I forget to mention that?”
She searched his face for a reaction.
He looked off into the distance, out over the treetops beyond the barn. “And all you want me to do is look for Hector Flores.”
“Not look for him.
Find
him.”
Gurney had a fondness for puzzles, but this one was starting to feel more like a nightmare. Besides, Madeleine would never …
Jesus, think of her name and …
Amazingly, there she was, in her explosion of red and orange attire, making her way gradually up through the pasture, pushing her bicycle along the rutted incline of the path.
Val Perry turned anxiously in her chair to follow his gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”
“My wife.”
They said nothing more until Madeleine arrived at the edge of the patio on her way to the shed. The women exchanged blandly polite gazes. Gurney introduced them, saying only—to maintain the appearance of confidentiality—that Val was “a friend of a friend” who had dropped by for some professional advice.
“It’s so
restful
here,” said Val Perry, her emphasis making it sound like a foreign word whose pronunciation she was practicing. “You must
love
it.”
“I do,” said Madeleine. She gave the woman a brief smile and rolled her bicycle on toward the shed.
“Well,” said Val Perry uneasily, after Madeleine had passed out of sight behind the rhododendrons at the back of the garden, “is there anything else I can tell you?”
“Were you bothered at all by the nineteen versus thirty-eight difference in ages?”
“No,” she snapped, confirming his suspicion that she was.
“How does your husband feel about your intention to engage a private detective?”
“He’s supportive,” she said.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“He supports what I want to do.”
Gurney
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