Memory of Murder

touch him.

As she led him through the house to the living room-or den, or whatever-he cast a frustrated look down the hallway to the door of Richard Merrill’s office, which was closed now. Dammit, more than anything, he wanted- needed-to get another shot at that desk. Preferably when Lindsey wasn’t around, since his invasion of her father’s private space seemed to upset her. He was well-aware that any kind of unauthorized search could cause more problems than it would solve, down the road. But he knew himself. And knowing there was something there that Merrill didn’t want him to see was going to be like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

While Lindsey selected a couple of large and heavy-looking photo albums, Alan seated himself on the couch, leaving plenty of room on either side for her to join him. Instead, she placed the albums on the cushions, but went on standing, looking down at him, arms folded in a self-conscious way. He slid one of the albums onto his lap, then patted the empty cushion beside him and said casually, without looking at her, “Come on-sit down.”

She didn’t move. He heard only a small sound, and looked up to find her gazing down at him with a curious, set look on her face.

“What’s the matter?”

She shook her head slightly and shifted her gaze to a spot somewhere across the room, beyond his head.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said evenly, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Her eyes jerked back to him, and it seemed to him they were especially, unusually bright. He saw her throat work to produce a swallow, and his own breath thickened in his throat. The moment and the tension stretched until his eyes burned and her image began to shimmer around the edges.

He took in a sip of air. “Look-I’m going to need you to identify these for me.” He managed a half smile. “Not to mention, if someone comes in, it’s going to look a little odd, you standing there like a condemned prisoner in front of a sentencing judge.”

She gave a little strained-sounding laugh, then reluctantly nodded. As she seated herself beside him-but maintaining a few inches distance-she ran her hands down the backs of her thighs in a way that reminded him of a little girl being careful not to wrinkle her Sunday-best dress.

He tried to concentrate on the photos, but it wasn’t easy. He thought if he looked hard enough at pictures of Lindsey as a little girl it would distract him from the fact that the grown-up Lindsey was sitting right there beside him. But it didn’t. Once again there seemed to be a complete disconnect between his mind, which was carefully scanning each photo, searching for the detail that would give him a clue to Susan Merrill’s background, and his senses, which were wallowing in the scent of the warm, desirable woman only scant inches away, her bare arm so close to his he could feel its heat. He found himself listening for her breathing, and timing his own to hers, as if they were finding each other’s rhythm in a dance. And at the same time trying not to breathe too deeply lest he inadvertently brush her arm and thus violate his promise not to touch her.

Why had he made such a stupid promise? Touching her was the one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

She reached across him suddenly, touching him in several places at once, and his skin flinched as if she’d given him an electric shock. “There,” she said, tapping one of the pictures, a square one in the style of the early nineteen seventies. “That’s me playing in the snow. Big Bear, I think it was.” She turned her head slightly to look into his eyes. At close range.

His head swam. He pulled back a little, frowning as he brought the rest of her face into focus, noting a little pleat of frown lines between her eyes, and the fact that her lips were slightly parted, as if she’d just drawn a sip of breath. Hungry juices pooled at the back of his throat, and his jaws creaked with the effort it took him not to give in to the desire to kiss her.

Apparently oblivious to the effect she had on him, she sat back with a sigh. “That’s what I mean-Mom remembering her ‘Jimmy’ playing in the snow doesn’t mean anything. It could just as well have been Southern California as anywhere.”

He nodded, muttered something ambiguous, and turned the page. And as he did so he heard a small voice somewhere in the foggy wilderness of his mind telling him, No-wait. There’s something there. Something… He paused, turned the page back, stared again at the photos of a chubby toddler in a pink jacket and purple mittens, dark hair sticking out in feathers from under a purple knit stocking cap, cheeks rosy with cold.

What is it? What am I missing?

But the answer eluded him, and the voice in his mind was silent. After a moment he turned the page again, with a small lingering unease that was just enough of a discomfort to make him constantly aware of it, but not quite bad enough to do something about. Later, he told himself. It’ll come to me.

But a moment later, once again there was Richard Merrill’s voice calling from out in the hallway. Like a diligent chaperone, Alan thought irritably, nervous about leaving him and Lindsey alone together.

Or me, alone in the house with whatever secrets he’s trying to hide.

He and Lindsey both turned like guilty teenagers as her father appeared in the living-room doorway, his hands on the shoulders of a shivering and towel-wrapped Chelsea.

“Somebody here needs a ladies’ room,” Merrill said jovially, while Chelse, naturally, looked as if she wanted to disappear.

Alan shifted the album off his lap, but Lindsey placed her hand lightly on his shoulder as she got up. He watched her as she slipped her arm around his daughter, saying with a smile, “Oh, sure, honey, you come with me.” He watched Chelse leave without a glance at him, her dad. Her eyes, as she gazed up at Lindsey, seemed almost worshipful. And again he felt it-that weird pang he couldn’t identify. He wished to God he knew what it was he was feeling.

He didn’t have much opportunity to dwell on it, however. Grinning and rubbing his hands together, Merrill plunked himself down in the spot recently vacated by his daughter and pulled the open album onto his lap.

“Hah-I see Lindsey’s been taking you on a trip down memory lane. It’s been a long time. Boy, these sure do bring back memories! Look at this-her mother and I got her that riding toy. I think it was her third birthday. It looked so darn cute in the commercials, except they left out the sound effects. Damn thing made this squeaky- squeaky sound, nearly drove us nuts.” He shook his head as he stared at the old photographs, cheeks positively glowing with fatherly pride, gaze completely besotted.

And Alan thought, My God, what am I doing here?

Lindsey’s right, this is nuts. The guy couldn’t be any more straight arrow and genuine. Obviously a devoted husband and father. What am I doing here? Wasting my time, that’s what.

By the time Lindsey and Chelsea came back, chattering together like BFFL-which his daughter had informed him meant Best Friends For Life-about things he had to assume were the latest and coolest in girl stuff because it was Greek to him, he’d all but convinced himself there was no case, cold or otherwise. Susan Merrill’s “memories” were the confusion of Alzheimer’s-end of story. Sad, but hey, it happened.

He was even beginning to see a bright side to this new development. If he wasn’t working an investigation involving Lindsey Merrill, what was to prevent him from…well, from what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Asking her out, maybe? He wondered how she’d feel about that, and whether she’d be more receptive to the idea of making their “cover” arrangement real if he wasn’t looking at her daddy as prime suspect in a very old murder.

And, he thought, she seems to like my kid.

That seemed to him like a good sign.

Predictably, Chelsea groaned and pouted when Alan told her it was time to go, evidently having completely forgotten how she’d groaned and pouted a few hours earlier when he’d told her where they were going to be spending the afternoon. He didn’t think he was ever going to understand what made his own daughter tick, and he’d been told he could only expect it to get worse from here on in. It was a pretty depressing prospect, making him wonder if that had something to do with the stomach-twisting pangs he kept experiencing whenever he saw the rapport that was evidently developing between Chelse and Lindsey. He was beginning to feel like a clueless bystander in his own daughter’s life.

While Lindsey helped Chelsea gather up her stuff and Alan tried to herd her toward the door, Richard Merrill followed along, going through the usual song and dance routine of the gracious host. Telling Chelse how glad he was she’d come, she was welcome anytime, and he hoped she’d come back again real soon. Giving Alan a good firm handshake along with a warm smile and a clap on the back and telling him the same things. Meanwhile,