G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"Do you know what I think? For one thing, I think a woman must be very sure of her man to allow him to see her looking like that. Not to mention, letting your fans wonder what train ran over you. There had to be a reason for the sudden lack of author vanity. And the reason was this: You couldn't be seen as an object of desire-a girlfriend, a mistress. There was too much money riding on it. Kimberlee's money. No. It was best the police believe you'd never had color in your cheeks, that your hair was always drab and stringy, that you dressed like a bag lady.

"That is why you didn't join the other ladies in the spa, even though it would have been a natural indulgence, a way to pass the time. You didn't want to be spit-polished. Your disguise was the frumpy hair and clothing.

"I also started to notice, Annabelle, that you had quite a good brain, and could generally be counted on for the sharp observation. But your sharpness, your apparent savvy, your confident way of speaking-that didn't match your appearance, either.

"Now, which one of you two killed poor Florie, is what I want to know?" He had a sense just then of energy flowing between the pair-but mainly of energy flowing from Annabelle to Desmond, bolstering him up. "She had to have been killed because of something she saw, something she knew. Then I remembered those four men standing around, 'repairing' the drawbridge. Florie saw them, too, and made a comment about how typical that was. Three men supervising while one worked, something to that effect."

He turned to Donna.

"How many men on your repair staff were called out that night?"

"There are only three, as I told you when you asked just now. We called them all."

" Not four?" St. Just eyes glanced across the assembled group, collecting their attention.

"No. I saw them myself when they first arrived."

"So somewhere along the way, they added a fourth man. That man was you, Desmond. Florie must have seen you later in the castle and recognized you as one of the 'repairmen.' But you were supposed to be the victim's husband, the one who'd rushed up, weeping all the way, from London. So what were you doing there, dressed in baggy jeans, pretending to be a workman? No one else thought anything of it-the workmen you chatted with took you for one of the friendly guests. You just walked out of the castle-anyone watching would have thought you were going to get something from the lorry. And you kept walking. Later that day, you came back, this time playing the widower."

"I congratulate you, Annabelle. It was a good plan, and it nearly worked."

Still, she stared at him insolently. Time to go for the weakest link, he thought. He turned to Sergeant Kittle, and nodded.

The policeman turned and opened the library door. A dog-a black and cream German Shepherd-came tumbling in, attached to his handler by a leash. Kittle's friends Robert and Rob Roy had arrived.

"Everyone remain seated," commanded St. Just.

The dog made an exploratory circle around the room, sniffing as he went.

He came to Desmond, and lay down. Desmond recoiled, as if the dog were going to take a bite of him.

"You're all witnesses to that. He's following the scent he found in the priest's hole."

The dog stood at Robert's command and resumed his circle around the room.

The next place Rob Roy lay down was at Annabelle's feet.

St. Just had an hour until his train to Cambridge, and no desire to sit in the waiting room, reading yet another newspaper, or resuming his copy of Baudolino. The case was closed, or as closed as cases ever get, via a combination of high- and low-tech means. Man's best friend meets the age of technology.

"You did all right by us, Cambridge," Moor had told him, dropping him off at the train station. "Even if you're not from Scotland Yaird."

St. Just had smiled. He was going to miss Moor and Kittle. They'd walk their days under Scottish skies, and he'd probably never see either of them again.

Portia he'd not seen again. He'd spent most of what was left of the night at the police station and slept until noon the next day. By the time he awoke, all his former suspects had departed.

Including Portia, who had already claimed a prior, urgent appointment. That was probably even true. She'd said she would call him. There was… a "situation"… she needed to sort out first. She didn't elaborate. He hadn't dared ask. He clung with hope to the word "first." He'd give her a week, he'd decided, and then call her.

A wedding party was arriving as he and Moor left the castle. He hoped it was an omen.

Desmond, the weakest link, had indeed broken down under interrogation, as St. Just had known he would. Once the pair of them were separated, he'd described in detail Annabelle's role in the crime.

She had remained steadfast, loudly proclaiming her innocence and demanding a lawyer. He'd let the Scots work on her. Not his pigeon.

Walking aimlessly now about the streets near Waverley Station, he came to an antique shop. On closer inspection, it seemed to be more of a junk shop. In the window was a Teddy Bear that looked like the survivor of some horrible nursery experiment. Several experiments.

He'd had a similar toy as a child. Hadn't everyone? It was hard to imagine growing up without that small comfort, but of course by the many thousands there must be children who went without.

What next caught his eye in the window was a set of pastels. The wooden box was labeled "Sennelier Landscape Wood Soft Pastel Set." It would be years before he would come to realize they made another set in a different range of colors called Seascape, and yet another called Portrait. But he was drawn to these Landscape ones-with their rich, deep range of color, the deep blues and bright reds-like a bird drawn to a bright object.

There were fifty of these little crayonlike objects laid in two rows in their specially made wooden box. None of them appeared to have been used. Wait-the blue drawing stick, the one of the deepest shade of blue, the one nearly a match for Portia's eyes and her velvet dress-that was a bit worn at one end. He walked into the store and, leaning into the display, picked that one out of the box.

Who would buy a fancy set of colors like this and give up after trying only one? Intrigued, he picked up the entire box, looking for the price. Seventy pounds they wanted. Good Lord. But the set was nearly new, he told himself. And the colors, such amazing colors…

Drawing was something he'd always done instinctively, usually when sitting, half-listening, in some interminable meeting, or otherwise held captive. He drew to record scenes the way another man might use a camera to take snapshots on vacation. He'd not had formal training, apart from one evening course, and he hadn't repeated the experience-he told himself his gift didn't amount to a major talent and he didn't want to start taking it all too seriously.

He'd never had the least inclination to pick up a paintbrush. Black on white was his metier. If he saw this, as others did, as support for his reputation for lucid, cut-and-dried reasoning, he would be the last to acknowledge it. He'd leave the Freudian interpretations to those who liked that kind of thing.

But… he'd have these pastels. He carried the box to the aged man behind the antique desk that served as a checkout counter. Black and white had its place, but until that moment St. Just had not known how much he felt the need of color in his world.

He felt a surge of confidence. He would see Portia again and, this time, he'd win her over.

He'd return to Cambridge and he'd call her right away. Who had a week to waste? Maybe he'd try to call her from the Waverley station.

Or maybe he'd write. Anyway, he'd woo her, the old-fashioned way, no matter how big a fool he made of himself in the process.