The Witness by Dee Henderson Page B

its long blonde tresses in an elegant rainbow bow. She was neither tall nor short, her moderate heels chosen for comfort, and the elegance of her deep blue dress suggested that her love of color and style was part of her personality. He leaned back against the front of his desk, relaxed and in no hurry to move her away from the comfort zone of art that was at least a passion they shared.
    He indulged her with a study of the painting he had picked up in Texas years before and thought about the gallery owner he’d haggled with for a good half hour before winning the tussle on price and wished he’d had reason to shop Marie’s gallery before this day arrived. “I did, and it cost me almost my last farthing at the time.” He’d sold some old British coins to make way for the painting into his private portfolio and hadn’t regretted the change.
    “You’ve got very good tastes, Mr. Goodman.”
    “And occasionally the money to indulge them.” He smiled at her. “If I’m buying that Denart in your display window you can at least make it Daniel.”
    “I’m not sure I’m selling. It’s not priced yet for a reason.”
    His smile widened. “Yeah, I like that about you too. You know a very good painting when you have one.”
    He waved his assistant in and took the note she carried. “Thanks, Virginia.” He scanned it and folded it over to slip into his pocket. “I said lunch and I meant it. Would you join me? We have some other business to discuss, and I’ve found a nice meal a better way to talk than sitting around a desk.”
    “I’d enjoy that.”
    She was being patient with the reason for this requested meeting, but it couldn’t be delayed any longer. He wanted a few things for them both—privacy, a place to walk, and time. It was the time that was running out on him. “Then let me escort you. This place has spacious grounds to walk, and we turned one of the walk paths to the next building into a year-round covered retreat and hothouse for roses with several niches set in for tables and private conversations. Consider it one of the perks of having had an architect in the family as my aunt.”
    “Linda worked here too?”
    Marie knew something of his family; good prep work before a meeting with a prospective buyer or something more than that? Daniel chose not to ask just yet. “One of the firms on the first floor bears her name.”
    “I haven’t said yet that I was sorry to hear about your uncle; I was, Daniel. Henry was a nice man.”
    “You met him?”
    “A few times. When his wife was alive he liked to stop in and shop for an anniversary gift.” She gave a small smile. “He’d want to discuss the purchase price over coffee and invariably find the number he had in mind to begin with.”
    “I didn’t know that, although the choice of paintings fit what Linda would have loved. Linda passed away three years ago, Henry last week, and it’s going to be a different place here without them both around.”
    “You’ll miss them.”
    “Yes.” There was also relief that some of what he would need to tell her would not be so much about strangers as about human failings.
    He led her down the wide, curved staircase and back through the building that was an office building and yet in places carried the feel of a warm museum display gallery. His aunt had chosen well how to soften the marble and wide hallways and business-suite entrances with nooks of casual seating and lighting and carefully arranged art. A constantly changing display of fresh flowers from the hothouse added to the elegance.
    Daniel led the way out into the covered walk path. The catered meal was being set up on a linen-covered table past a terraced display of baby roses cascading down in blankets of pink, red, and white. Daniel held a chair for Marie.
    “It’s restful here, Daniel. And quite lovely.”
    “I admit I often retreat down here to read the morning paper.”
    “I can understand why.”
    The caterers departed.
    He’d left the