Dead Hunt

Even in prison clothes behind screen wire she didn’t look like a murderer. Diane studied her face. It was a good face for her line of work—if indeed murdering husbands was her line of work. Diane suspected there was a string of dead husbands, but they knew only of the two and could prove only one.

Clymene had regular features, almost generic—if there is such a thing as generic features. Her nose was straight, neither too large nor too small. The same for her lips—not small, but not full lips either. Her eyes were almond shaped but not slanted in any direction, nor did they droop. Her face was perfectly symmetrical—that in itself made it interesting. It was a face that could be made to look beautiful or plain. She could change her hair and eye color and be a different person.

In addition to her chameleon-like attributes, Clymene’s age was hard to estimate. From a distance she could pass for her late twenties or early thirties. A closer look showed she was older, but by how much was impossible to tell—she could have been thirty-five or forty-five. Diane didn’t know how old she was. They didn’t even know her real identity.

Clymene moved her chair forward and sat down. Diane sat in the visitor’s chair and they stared at each other for a moment. Diane tried to read her face, looking for some sign of hostility, remorse, deceit— something. The woman simply looked interested. That was all. No daggers shooting from her eyes. No bared teeth.

‘‘Thank you for coming,’’ she said. ‘‘Frankly, I’m surprised you came. My profiler must have asked you.’’

She said my profiler the same way she would have said my biographer. Diane supposed that’s what he was.

‘‘What do you want?’’ asked Diane.

‘‘I want you to check on one of my guards,’’ she said.

Chapter 2

‘‘You want me to check on one of your guards?’’ Are you nuts? I don’t have time for this, Diane thought. She stood up to leave.

Clymene didn’t stand, but she appeared poised as if she might be ready to chase Diane through the wire barrier if she tried to leave.

‘‘Please hear me out,’’ said Clymene. ‘‘I know this sounds strange.’’

Diane stood for a second, then sat down again. ‘‘All right, go on,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m listening, but I don’t have a lot of time.’’

‘‘The reason I want you to check on her is to make sure she is all right,’’ said Clymene.

‘‘Do you have reason to believe she isn’t?’’ asked Diane. Now she was getting concerned. What was Clymene up to?

‘‘Yes and no. Let me explain,’’ she said.

Diane eyed Clymene. Her profiler said she never exhibited any of the normal tells of a person who lies. She always maintained eye contact; she was always relaxed. She would be evasive, he said, but he could never find a pattern in her body language that said she was lying. Diane couldn’t either. But that meant nothing. Sociopaths are good liars.

‘‘Why are you concerned?’’ Diane asked.

Clymene smiled. Not a strained smile, but one that reached her eyes. ‘‘I guess that seems strange. But in the world I live in now I depend on—how shall I say— the kindness of strangers. That’s the way it is in here. I own nothing—things are taken away at any moment and my living space turned inside out. I have to be alert to prisoners who suddenly go off the deep end because they received a letter they didn’t like and decide to take it out on me. As I said—that’s just the way it is in here, so kindness from a guard is important. It makes the quality of life a little better. It gives me some protection against the elements here. Grace Noel is a kind guard.’’

As Clymene spoke, her hands were flat on the table, her right over her left. Her nails were short and well manicured. Her voice was calm, her face pleasant, even though the bright orange color of her dress made her look sallow.

She showed no noticeable reaction to Diane’s obvious impatience. Ross Kingsley said she was always self- possessed. She would get frustrated, but never angry. She would state her innocence, but only in response to a question or some statement from him. She wasn’t like other prisoners. Ross thought she made it a point not to be like them.

‘‘Why do you think Grace Noel may be in danger?’’ asked Diane. She wondered if there was a real danger or if this was a ploy—or threat.

‘‘Let me start at the beginning,’’ Clymene said. ‘‘Grace Noel is the kind of guard who likes to talk with the prisoners—some of them anyway.’’ Diane noticed that Clymene usually referred to prisoners as them, not us.

Clymene smiled. ‘‘I suppose I should say us,’’ she said, as if reading Diane’s mind. ‘‘Grace Noel is a plain woman, large boned.’’

‘‘Are you saying she is overweight? How is that relevant?’’ asked Diane, growing more impatient. She shifted her position in the hard chair, thinking she needed to be tending to the problem at the museum.

‘‘It is relevant. That’s how she describes herself and . . . just let me explain. I work in the library and in the chapel. Noel talks to me while I’m working. You know, girl talk. A few months ago she was lamenting the fact that she was rarely asked out on dates. She was asking me things like how she should wear her hair—girl stuff.’’

Diane was having a hard time visualizing Clymene deep into girl talk and how this was leading to Grace Noel’s being in danger. She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table.

‘‘One day,’’ continued Clymene, ‘‘she asked me how I got so many husbands, and she couldn’t even get a date.’’ Clymene paused a moment. ‘‘I told her that I’d only had two husbands. She gave me the knowing smile.’’

‘‘The knowing smile?’’ asked Diane.

‘‘Once you’ve been convicted, to the entire world you are guilty of all charges and innuendos against you. No amount of denial changes anyone’s mind, especially not in here.’’ She paused again and smiled. ‘‘Of course everyone in here says they are innocent, which takes the credibility away from those of us who really are. Noel, as kind as she is, believes I am guilty not only of the crime for which I was convicted, but also of the rumors and accusations