Memory of Murder

immediately, he glanced at her and added dryly, “What I mean is, it’s pretty silly for you to call me Detective Cameron, isn’t it? After all, we’ve kissed.”

“More than once…actually.” Pleased with her own response-the offhanded coolness of it-she closed the front door, then unwound the towel from around her head and draped it over the banister. When she turned back to him, combing her damp hair back with her fingers, she saw that he was watching her, and that his smile was apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said, as his eyes, no longer cop-bright, came to rest on her hair. “I did try to call first. You weren’t answering your cell.”

“I was running. I never take it with me when I run.”

He nodded. “I remember that.” There was an awkward pause.

She saw it then-the folder, standard manila-file type, clutched in his left hand, held down at his side. She gave a little gasp. “You’ve-did you find something?”

He lifted the folder and let it fall back to his side. “That’s why I came. I have some things I want you to look at.

Seemed easier just to drive over. Sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I…like I said, I’d been out for a run. I just got back, and was…well, as you can see.” She laughed and gave him a sideways look. “I’ve been doing quite a bit of running this week, actually. Helps keep my mind off things…you know, like waiting for the phone to ring.” She didn’t tell him he was one of the things she’d been trying to keep off her mind. “Um, can I get you something to drink? I have diet soda, water…Or, I can make some coffee, if you’d rather.”

“That sounds good. Sure. Coffee-if it’s not too much trouble.”

He seems edgy, she thought. Almost…nervous. How unlike him… Oddly, as if in response, her own heart began to beat faster.

“No trouble,” she said as she led him past her tiny living room and into the roomy combination kitchen-dining area where she spent most of her time, since it doubled-or tripled-as her home-office space, as well. It was amazing how much smaller the space seemed with Alan Cameron in it. How crowded.

She measured beans and water into the coffeemaker and turned it on. She turned to find Alan gazing out the French doors that opened onto her patio, separated from the rest of the town house complex by a low stuccoed wall and tropical landscaping.

“The ocean is out there-you can’t see it from down here, though. The real view is upstairs-” she pointed at the ceiling “-in my bedroom.” She coughed nervously. “Um…we could sit outside, if you want to. That wind does seem to be getting colder, though. I think a storm might be coming in.”

He nodded absently as he turned back to her. “It’s moving down the coast. I think it’s supposed to get here sometime tomorrow. That’s okay-in here’s fine.” He placed the folder on the glass-topped table and pulled out a chair, then leaned on the back of it instead of sitting down. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to this sooner. I’ve had a busy week. Spent a couple days testifying in court. That really takes a bite out of my time.”

“No, no-that’s perfectly…I understand. You have more important things to do, I’m sure.”

“Actually…I don’t. More urgently demanding of my time, maybe. Definitely not more important.”

For some reason, she believed him-maybe because of the intent way he was looking at her. “What was it you wanted to show me?” She was beginning to feel quivery inside-nervous energy, she thought. Or maybe just plain old fear.

“You might want to sit down,” he said gently.

She shook her head, once-sharp and quick. “No. I’m fine. Just…show me.”

He nodded. Giving her one last, measuring look, he opened the folder and took out a photograph. Or rather, a copy of a photo, an 8x10 black-and-white portrait of a young woman, on plain white paper. He turned it and placed it on the tabletop.

She felt herself go icy cold…heard a roaring in her ears. The world seemed to shrink down to the size of that single photograph. She was vaguely aware of hearing a chair scrape across tile, then felt Alan’s hands on her arms. Briefly-there and then gone.

“I told you you should sit down.” His voice was harsh, but strangely, the more comforting because of that.

“I’d rather stand up.” Somehow, she felt stronger on her feet. Less vulnerable. She shook her head, frowning down at the photograph. “I’m okay now. It’s just…kind of a shock. I mean-she’s so young. It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Alan. He had his arms folded across his chest, now, and was regarding her narrowly. “Is it?”

She nodded, picked up the photo and held it…couldn’t take her eyes off it. She touched the black-and-white image with her fingertips, as if she could actually feel the warmth of flesh-and-blood cheeks, the smoothness of the sleek pageboy hairdo. “The earliest picture I have of her is her wedding photo-when she married my dad.” Her voice caught on the last word. She raised her eyes to Alan’s. “When was this taken? Do you know? She looks so much younger…her face is fuller. She looks so happy.”

“It’s her senior picture. The one that would have been in her high school yearbook the year she graduated.”

“But…” She stared at him. “I don’t-does this mean you’ve found where she lived? Before the fire? Where she went to school?”

Alan took a deep breath. “Maybe. I think so.” He held up a hand. “Look, I know you have a million questions. I don’t have all the answers, not yet. I’ll tell you everything I’ve found out so far, but first…I want you to look at one more photo for me, okay?”

She gripped the back of the chair he’d suggested she sit down in, wondering whether her knees would continue to hold her. And whether he would touch her again. She caught a quick sip of air and nodded.

Alan took a second sheet of paper out of the file and placed it on the table in front of her. This was another plain paper copy of an 8x10 black-and-white photo, although this one didn’t have the too-polished look of the professional portrait. A young couple-they seemed impossibly young, still just kids, really-stood before a table, in the process of cutting a wedding cake. The table was covered with a plain white cloth. The cake looked homemade. Both the tablecloth and the cake were adorned with flowers of some kind-possibly peonies, Lindsey thought. The bride wore a simple white dress, sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline and the tight-fitting bodice and full skirt that were the style in the 1960s. Her dark hair was upswept, probably in an effort to look more grown-up, and held in place with a crown of flowers. The groom’s hair was dark, too, cut flat on top and slicked back on the sides, and his dark suit looked a little too big for him. His hand covered his bride’s as she held the knife poised to make the first cut, and the two gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled.

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?” She asked the question before she lifted her eyes to Alan’s. She realized she was crying when she saw him through a blur of tears.

“I don’t know,” he said again, cautiously. “Is it?”

“I think so.” She touched her streaming nose with the back of her hand, then whispered, shaking her head, “But I don’t know who he is. That’s not my dad.”

“Lindsey…”

“Who is that-that boy? That man?” She held up both hands, backing away from him as he reached toward her. “That’s not my father! That’s not my dad!”

Her hands were flat against his chest, her eyes squeezed shut. Then his arms came around her, holding her tightly, and now, instead of her hand it was her cheek that lay against his chest. She drew a convulsive breath, and his hand came to cradle her head, turning it so the sob that burst from her was muffled in the warm crispness of his shirt. He held her like that and let her cry, not saying anything, only rearranging his arms to enfold her more closely and pressing his face against her damp hair.

And presently, when she’d grown quieter, he began to stroke her back, softly…gently…and she thought it was the most incredibly good thing she’d felt in a very long time. She couldn’t remember any man ever touching her quite like that before, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her head from his shoulder and tilt her face up to his. And the most natural thing in the world for him to close the very small distance that remained, and kiss her.