No, no, it can’t be true. It’s impossible to picture my husband raising an ax and plunging it into Eve Blazer’s skull. Besides, he would have been spattered with blood if he had.
And yet what I’ve learned today is that I don’t know Guy, and so I have no clue what he’s really capable of. He could have killed Eve and somehow managed to wash up before returning to the event. An image thrusts itself into my mind: the spare, clean shirt he always keeps on the backseat of the BMW in case he’s going to a business dinner directly from work and wants to look fresh.
I need to get out of here, away from all this visual chaos, so I can think straight. I hurry to the front of the museum, past a cluster of women moseying through the exhibits like a small herd of sheep.
“Is everything okay?” the man at the front desk asks as I pass. He’s the one who sold me a ticket only minutes ago.
“Yes, lovely,” I blurt out over my shoulder.
“Would you like a reentry pass?”
“Not today, thank you.”
Crossing the parking lot, I wrestle my phone from my purse. I promised Guy I’d have dinner with him tonight, but I don’t want to see him, not until I think through how to handle the situation.
“Can’t meet tonight,” I text him.
“Bryn?” a male voice calls. I nearly jump, thinking at first that it’s Guy. But as I spin around, I see it’s Nick Emerling standing several parking spaces away, his car key in hand.
“Oh, hi.”
“You look startled. You didn’t think I was a crazed fan, did you?”
“No, just surprised to see you.”
“I’m not sure if Guy told you, but I’m on the board here. Great that you could stop by.”
He presses the button that locks his car, triggering a chirping sound, and, to my dismay, he struts over in my direction. No golf getup today. He’s in crisp tan pants and a blue dress shirt, open at the collar. Reaching me, he leans over and kisses my cheek. And it’s not an air-kiss. He smushes his chubby lips into my face and simultaneously gives my arm a squeeze. Pulling back, he leaves an almost overpowering trail of spicy cologne. I fight the urge to gag.
“Is this your first trip to the museum?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ve got to drop an envelope off at the office, but then I’ll treat you to your own private tour.”
“Oh, sorry, I’m actually just leaving.” I hesitate, my mind racing. If I engage a little with Nick, I might be able to figure out if Guy had the opportunity to slip out of the event that night and return later. “Have you enjoyed working with the museum?”
He grins. “You bet. I may not look like a ballet guy, but I’m pretty informed on the subject.”
He pulls a wallet from his pants pocket, snaps out a business card, and thrusts it toward me. “I’m in town a fair amount. Give me a call when you’ve got the time.”
I accept the card and, ignoring his lingering eyes, nod toward the museum. “Guy keeps talking about how much he enjoyed the dance pieces he saw here. Were they performed in some of the small exhibit rooms?”
“Yeah. Though, as I might have mentioned the other evening, I was too busy working the reception to see any of them. What makes you ask?”
“I was trying to imagine it.” I fashion a lie in my mind, hoping to flush out the truth. “Guy said he got really immersed. He . . . he lost track of the time once and was afraid you had no idea where he was.”
Nick squints an eye, clearly curious about where I’m going with this. “Yeah, but he’s a big boy. I knew he could find his way home.”
So they were definitely apart. And clearly didn’t even leave together.
I decide not to press it any harder. It could set off alarm bells, and he might even mention my curiosity to Guy.
“Next time,” he adds, “you’ll have to come, too. In fact, I’m sorry I didn’t include you.”
“Don’t worry about it. You treated us to that great dinner the other night.”
He studies me, his olive-green eyes intense. “Speaking of that, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
As far as I can tell, he hasn’t budged an inch since we began talking, but he seems closer now, invading my space. I ease my torso back. He doesn’t wait for me to respond to his query.
“Did something happen with Kim the other night—when we were on our way out from dinner?”
I feel blindsided by the question, unsure how to answer. I don’t want to stir up more trouble with Kim, but I need to determine if she’s the one who left the matches.
“What gave you that impression?”
“It suddenly got awkward. I couldn’t help but wonder if there’d been an issue.”
“Um, things did feel a little awkward,” I say, testing him. “I worried I may have said the wrong thing to Kim.”
He folds his arms across his chest.