A Quiet Death by Marcia Talley

careful.’ Paul searched out my hand under the covers and gave it a squeeze.
    â€˜I always am.’
    The next morning, I was sitting at the computer in our basement office working on my second cup of coffee when Paul staggered down from the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. ‘You’re up early.’
    â€˜I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do a little snooping around on the Internet.’ I handed him my empty mug. ‘Fetch me more coffee, pretty please, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
    Paul returned several minutes later bearing mugs of steaming coffee, pulled up his office chair and sat down on it.
    â€˜Look what I found in the photo archives at Time magazine,’ I said after he’d gotten settled. I handed him a printout hot off the printer. ‘The photo’s credited to Annie Leibovitz and is captioned “Jann S. Wenner and Hunter S. Thompson at a Rolling Stone party held for the Jimmy Carter campaign staff, New York, 1976.” The same picture shows up on Jann Wenner’s webpage,’ I added, ‘but it’s been cropped.’
    â€˜I know who Hunter Thompson is – that gonzo reporter – but who the heck is Jann Wenner?’ Paul asked.
    â€˜How soon you forget. 1967? The Summer of Love? Rolling Stone magazine?
    Paul still looked puzzled.
    â€˜Wenner founded Rolling Stone .’
    â€˜I knew that,’ Paul said, with a grin that told me that he hadn’t a clue.
    â€˜Anyway. Check out this larger version of the photo. Who is that, there, in the background?’ I tapped the image.
    Way in the background, her face turned slightly away from the camera, was a young woman with her hair cut in a Dorothy Hamill-style wedge, whose profile looked very much like Lilith. She held a wine glass aloft, as if toasting someone outside the frame.
    â€˜Looks like Lilith Chaloux.’
    â€˜I’m almost positive it’s Lilith. And who is that standing next to her, that long-haired guy, looks a bit like John Lennon, cupping a cigarette like it’s a joint?’
    Paul leaned forward, squinting. ‘Could be a joint.’
    I bopped him on lightly on the head. ‘Be serious.’
    â€˜Looks like the guy in those other pictures – Zan,’ Paul admitted.
    â€˜Yes indeedy-do. And I found another picture, too, in the photo archives of the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum.’
    â€˜My, my, you do get around, Mrs Ives. And still in your pajamas, too.’
    I ignored the jab and passed Paul a streaky, monochromatic printout. ‘It’s a photo of Zan standing in front of a green and white Carter/Mondale “Leaders for a Change” poster, wearing a chocolate brown “Gimme Jimmy 76” T-shirt. Or it would be if your stupid printer hadn’t run out of magenta toner.’
    Paul handed the printout back. ‘Interesting, but what does this tell you that you don’t already know?’
    â€˜What I said last night? That was all conjecture, speculation based on Zan’s letters, Chandler’s bio and a handful of pictures. Reading those letters is like wandering around Planet Zan in a spacesuit, Paul. I often found myself wondering what was real and what wasn’t. But here it is!’ I waved a hand at the screen. ‘Independent confirmation. And if you can’t believe Rolling Stone , who can you believe?’
    â€˜Zan himself?’
    â€˜Stay tuned for the next exciting episode – A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama. Or, I’m dreaming of a wide isthmus,’ I said, quoting either Rocket J. Squirrel or Bullwinkle the Moose. ‘And speaking of iconic cartoon characters, if I don’t want to greet John Chandler while wearing PJs, I better get cracking.’

THIRTEEN
    I may have been OK with Amtrak, but the thought of stepping on another Metro train at New Carrollton made my stomach heave. Even though it was raining cats and dogs, I let New Carrollton fade in my rear-view