Barb walks me to the car and plants a kiss on my cheek, promising to email me time slots for my appearance at her book club.
On the drive home, the revelation about Kim weighs on me. If she left the burnt matches, I can’t fathom her motive, though over the past few years I’ve discovered that certain fans can be simultaneously admiring and resentful. A few years ago, an author friend of mine learned that a woman slamming her on the Internet had once met her in person and claimed to love her books, even reciting whole passages to her.
Of course, it’s going to be next to impossible to determine if Kim really is the culprit. I certainly can’t confront her, not with her husband providing big bucks to the opera company, and even if I could, she’s probably too slick to give anything away.
There’s something that doesn’t add up, I realize. If Kim’s the one who took the money and left the matches, what was Eve planning to give me Saturday morning? I want to put the murder behind me, but how can I when there are still so many unanswered questions?
As I drive through downtown, a gourmet market beckons. Why not cook something special tonight, I tell myself, and decide on a pasta dish that Guy and I love, one we first tasted together at a little restaurant in Rhode Island where we had lunch the day after we met. I pick up a baguette, fresh fettuccine noodles, cream, and Gorgonzola cheese.
Back home, I put a pot of water on to boil, prepare the dreamy sauce, and make sure that there’s a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge.
Based on the note he left this morning, I expect Guy by seven, but fifteen minutes after the hour, there’s no sign of him. I text to double-check his arrival time. No reply. I try his cell and his office phone, and both calls go straight to voicemail.
At a quarter to eight, I’m still alone in the kitchen. I feel a prick of annoyance. I wonder if he’s made plans and forgotten to tell me. I take the lid off the pot and see that half the water has boiled off. I’ve been counting on dinner as a chance for us to have a normal conversation, maybe even as prelude to sex, and I don’t want to end up irritated, with the mood spoiled.
At eight I try him again on both phones and still nothing. For the first time I feel a ripple of concern. It isn’t like Guy to be incommunicado, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a problem.
And then, at eight thirty, I hear the car pull into the driveway. I jump from the table.
“There you are,” I exclaim, relieved, as Guy swings open the door.
He hasn’t noticed me in the kitchen at first and jerks in surprise. He offers a wan smile that seems incongruous for the moment.
“Is everything okay? I was really starting to worry.”
He lets out a long sigh. My heart jumps, though I don’t know why.
“Bryn, there’s something I need to discuss. I should have told you this weekend, but I just didn’t know how.”
Somewhere in the back of my head I hear a line spoken by a wife in an old movie, as he’s about to confess to something that will uproot their marriage: You’re scaring me.
“What is it? Is it something about work?”
“No, not work. It’s about Eve Blazer.”
Chapter 12
I stand stock-still, as if frozen in place by a wizard or sorcerer.
“You mean about the murder?” I ask.
“No. Something else.”
My heart picks up speed. Guy’s grim tone has unnerved me. “What is it?”
He’s slipped out of his suit jacket by now and has draped it on the back of a kitchen chair. He places both hands on his hips, letting his arms sag, like someone momentarily at a loss.
“I had a drink with her. A few weeks ago.”
“A drink? What do you mean?” I know that Guy occasionally discusses business over lunch or drinks with female colleagues and donors, but Eve would hardly have fallen into that category.
“At a restaurant. We had drinks at the bar.”
Blood rushes to my face, as if I’ve been shamed. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You mean like a date?”
“Lord, no. She called one day to say she wanted to show me a venue that might work for an event I was planning, one that allows you to use outside caterers. Once we’d looked over the space, she suggested having a drink there.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Anger has started to merge with alarm now. Am I supposed to believe, yet again, that another relevant detail about Eve just slipped his mind?
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to raise it. As soon as I sat down with her, I got the sense she might be coming on to me. I felt incredibly awkward about it.”
“You don’t do awkward, Guy,” I snap.
He pulls his head back a little, caught off guard by my tone. He’s not used to that from me.
“I mean awkward about bringing it up with you, in light of all you’d been going through. I didn’t want to share something that might upset you for no good reason.”