[Concluding chapter thirteen]
After the second time a passing reveler jostled him and nearly caused him to hemorrhage paper, Casey gave up and started looking for a more quiet place in which to read. French doors from the dining room opened out onto a patio and yard, but they were crowded with partiers, and the more distant parts of the yard would be too dark. Reluctantly, he started up the stairs. Perhaps he could lock himself in the toilet and read there.
The sounds of drunken lovemaking—somehow it didn’t seem right to think of it as “passion”—came from behind the first door he encountered at the top of the stairs. A second door was locked. The next door was open, though, and a small circle of yellow light revealed the back of a tall armchair and invited him in.
When Casey reached the chair, he found Desiree in it. He just stood in front of her, unable to speak.
“Oh, hello, Casey,” she said, looking up from her book. “You’re here a little faster than I thought you’d be.”
“No offence,” he said, “but I was actually just looking for a quiet place to read.”
“As was I.” She lifted the book. “Hemingway. I can’t abide the man, but it seems to be the only thing Connie has here. Any novelist in a storm, I always say.”
“Once again I find myself asking why you bother to come to these things,” he said, smiling. It didn’t matter what she was doing, he realized; he just liked seeing her. Even if she did seem to delight in keeping him so far off-balance it was a wonder he didn’t tip over. “Wouldn’t you find it easier to read at home?” As if to emphasize his point, a falsetto ring of broken glass sounded, followed by laughter.
“That’s what I usually do on Saturday nights,” Desiree said. “When I’m not at a dinner party. Or chasing after eligible pilots.” She gave him that spine-melting, predatory grin.
“If I thought that you had subjected yourself to this experience solely on my behalf,” he said, “I should be ashamed of myself.” Does this mean you’ve forgiven me my stupidity?
“Don’t be. Every now and then it’s good to see what I’m missing.”
“So that you’ll know you’re not really missing anything.”
“Exactly. Casey, you’re not as dim as you look.”
“I thank you for the compliment. Do you mind if I join you for a little light reading myself?” There were several other chairs in the room, which might have been meant to be a study or something. Casey pulled one of the chairs into the circle of light cast by Desiree’s lamp.
“I didn’t know you were a reader, Casey.” She looked at the envelope, and closed the book—keeping, Casey noted, one finger trapped between the covers to mark her place. “Oh,” she said. “I wondered if you were going to accept Neal’s version of events.”
“I learned something interesting tonight,” Casey said, “and I wanted to check on something you said you’d found in Lily’s diary. I’m following a hunch. Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to do?”
“That’s my understanding, yes.” Now, when she smiled at him, her eyes glittered. It could be an effect of the lamplight. Casey chose to believe otherwise.
It took him a while to find the relevant page, and all the while he was conscious of Desiree’s growing interest. He had to fight the temptation to talk to her—about what he was looking for, about her taste in literature, about anything.
“Here we go,” he said. For a moment he sat back in the chair, suddenly drained of energy. The scenario, as he’d imagined it, made sense. But he had to persuade others, or a scenario was all it would remain. And, he reminded himself, unless he could persuade the D.A.’s office, he was likely going to wind up in jail.
“I think,” he said, “that we need to get Jerry Straebo up here.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
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