an accident. Alison surely saw a link between the two events.
“What does that have to do with me?” Her tone was puzzled. “My presence at The Castle the night of Jack Hume’s death is completely coincidental.” She listened. “Eight o’clock? Diane, I fail to see how my presence is necessary.” Her face folded into a tight frown. “Oh. Very well. I’ll come.”
Alison clicked off her cell. She pushed back her chair and rose. Her expression suggested she was thinking and thinking fast.
I wondered if she was remembering chisel marks on the pedestal that held the vase. Or perhaps, she was focused on Jack Hume’s visit to her gallery and his grim words about Evelyn:
Quick steps sounded in the hallway.
He lifted the paper.
Gwen stood in the doorway. “Does salmon sound good tonight?”
The paper was lowered. He looked up, his face genial, though his eyes were somber. “Are you sure your headache’s gone? I can pick up hamburgers.”
Gwen forced a bright smile. “I’m fine now.” She didn’t meet his gaze.
The phone rang.
Clint picked up the portable phone from the small table next to his chair. He looked at the caller ID. “Diane Hume.” He answered. “Hello…Hi, Diane.” There was no warmth in his voice. “Gwen?” He looked toward his wife.
Gwen walked to him and took the phone. She turned away, walking swiftly toward the hall. “Got a minute, but I’m in the middle of dinner.” Gwen hurried down the hallway and pushed through a swinging door into a cheerful kitchen.
I liked the yellow daisies blooming in the wallpaper and a golden cherrywood table in a clean contemporary design.
Gwen stopped short in the middle of the room. If she’d looked pale before, now her face was stark, blank white. “I can’t.”
Her back was to the swinging door. The panel ever so slowly and carefully eased open a crack.
I flowed through the door. Clint was an odd figure for melodrama in a stylish white-, pink-, and gray-striped poplin shirt, gray cotton twill slacks, wrinkle-free, and highly polished cordovans. He bent forward, every muscle rigid, and listened to his wife’s soft, halting voice.
I flowed back into the kitchen.
“Oh, Diane, I simply can’t…Someone on the balcony with Jack?” Gwen reached out to grip the kitchen counter.
For a moment, I thought she would faint.
The door widened a half inch.
Gwen braced herself against the counter. “I don’t understand…Laverne Phillips? Oh, that’s—” She broke off.
I wondered if Gwen had intended, in a natural, rational response, to insist that Laverne could not possibly have heard from James, that whatever Laverne said was a figment of her own imaginings. Or did Gwen realize in the same, chilling instant that Laverne Phillips might well know something and have learned that fact in a purely worldly way.
Gwen asked sharply, “What exactly did Laverne say?” She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. Her voice was wooden. “I understand, Diane. I don’t believe in this kind of thing at all, but if it matters to you that much, I’ll come.”
The swinging door eased shut.
When Gwen reached the den, Clint was seated, holding the paper.
“Clint.”
Once again he lowered the paper. He looked inquiring, but the newspaper rustled until he made his arms rigid.
Gwen tried for a smile. “Darling, the most absurd thing. Diane and that awful woman are having a seance tonight. Poor Diane. They have one every Wednesday night.” It was as if she kept talking, her words would fill the emptiness in her husband’s face. “Everyone who was at The Castle the night Jack Hume died will be there. It sounds perfectly dreadful. I don’t like the idea at all, but I was afraid Diane would be hysterical if I refused. Do you mind terribly”—her hands twisted, belying the studied casualness of her tone—“if we go?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Diane’s a fool.” His voice was gruff. He dropped his eyes, lifted the newspaper to hide his face. His words came from behind the shield. “All right.”
Gwen turned away.
When the swinging door to the kitchen soughed shut, Clint crumpled the newspaper in his hands. Fear glittered in his eyes.
