A Killing Spring by Gail Bowen

really cleared the air,” I said.
    Ed’s expression was sombre. “It did. It was a good evening; unfortunately it wasn’t the last one.” He took a long swallow of his drink. “We spent some time together the Wednesday before Reed died. I must have replayed the evening a hundred times, wondering if there was something I could have said or done that might have changed what happened. But, at the time, it just seemed like an ordinary evening. We’d been working late on the budget for next year, and we went back to the Faculty Club for a drink. Reed was in a strange mood. He was always a serious drinker, but that night he was drinking to get drunk. I wouldn’t have cared, except that whatever the problem was, the liquor wasn’t helping. The more he drank, the more miserable he seemed to get. Finally, I asked Reed if he wanted to talk about whatever it was that was troubling him.”
    “And he didn’t?”
    “No … so, of course, I resorted to the usual bromides – told him that anytime he wanted to talk, I was there, and he could trust me not to betray his confidence.” Ed looked perplexed. “It was just one of those things people say when they don’t know what else to say, but Reed picked up on it. Joanne, he was so angry and so bitter. He said, ‘I’ll give you some advice: don’t ever tell people they can trust you, and don’t ever believe for a moment that you can trust them.’ ”
    “I didn’t know Reed well,” I said, “but he never struck me as a cynic.”
    “He wasn’t. Something had happened.”
    “Do you have any idea what?”
    “My guess is it was his marriage.”
    “Did he say anything?”
    “No. But he didn’t have to – all that business about trust. Doesn’t that sound as if there was a betrayal?”
    I thought of Julie’s wedding cake and of the sugar dovesshe’d made so that her new marriage would be blessed with years of happiness. She and Reed had only made it to a month and two days. What could have happened in so brief a time to turn hope to despair?
    It was a question I didn’t want to dwell on, and I was relieved when Barry Levitt opened the deck door, stuck out his head, and invited us to join Taylor and him for dinner.
    The table was beautifully set: cobalt-blue depression ware and a woven cloth as brightly coloured as the Italian flag. Barry had pulled the tables close to the window so we could watch the sunset. Taylor was uncharacteristically quiet, and when Ed asked her to light the candles, she performed the task without her usual brio. But she perked up when Barry brought in the paella dish and placed it in front of her.
    “Did Jo tell you this is my favourite?” she asked.
    “She didn’t have to,” Barry said. “Creative people love seafood. Everybody knows that.”
    For the next hour we sipped sangria, sopped up paella with the focaccia, and talked about summer plans as Puccini soared in the background. By the time we’d moved to Act III of
Turandot
, the paella dish was empty, and Ed brought out chocolate gelato and cappuccino.
    Taylor was a great fan of gelato, and Ed’s gelato was homemade. After she’d finished her dish, she turned to Barry. “This is really a nice party,” she said. “I’m glad I wore my good clothes.”
    Barry raised his glass to her. “Whatever you choose to wear, you’re always welcome at this table.”
    “Thank you,” said Taylor.
    “I’m afraid that has to be the last word, T,” I said. “School tomorrow, and we’re already past your bedtime.”
    As we stood at the doorway, saying our goodbyes, Taylor said, “Can I look at the painting one more time?”
    “Sure,” said Barry. “I’ll come with you.”
    I turned to Ed. “It really was a lovely evening. Thanks for asking us. I needed some fun tonight.”
    “So did I,” he said. “And I needed to talk about Reed. Barry doesn’t want me to dwell on it, but I do. It was such a terrible ending to a good life. What’s even more terrible is the possibility that