A Quiet Death by Marcia Talley Page B

think you can help me.’
    â€˜I don’t see how. I’m not acquainted with anybody by that name.’
    I stared at the man, not believing that he’d lie about knowing Lilith, his darling, his lover.
    â€˜I think you do.’ I handed him a picture of Lilith that would melt the coldest heart. She sat on a middle step of a grand staircase, resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her chin with her hands, gazing at the photographer sideways through her lashes. She was dressed for a party in an off-the-shoulder black cocktail dress – its full skirt flounced out around her knees by an abundance of petticoats – and a simple strand of white pearls. She wore no other jewelry; she didn’t need to. ‘This is Lilith Chaloux.’
    Chandler studied the picture with no obvious sign of emotion, but a telltale muscle twitched in his jaw. Still holding the picture, he eased himself into a chair. ‘Sorry, she doesn’t look familiar, although I meet a lot of people in my line of work.’ He pushed the photo across the table in my direction. As he did so, I noticed that he wore a wedding band made of white, yellow and rose gold twisted into a rope, a ring so substantial that it practically screamed, ‘I’m married! Hands off!’ Maybe it was just a smokescreen, I mused. The thinner the band, the more faithful the husband – my personal theory, anyway, since Paul wore no wedding band at all.
    I pulled a second photo out of the envelope, the photograph of the man I knew as Zan, surrounded by the Guatemalan children. ‘Isn’t that a picture of you, Mr Chandler?’
    He grinned. ‘Yes, that’s me. I was in the Peace Corps in Guatemala, but I’m sure you know that already.’
    â€˜And you say you don’t know anybody by the name of Lilith Chaloux.’
    His smile might have disarmed a lesser woman, but I am immune to smiles from television commentators who are more expensively coifed than I. ‘I’m afraid not.’
    â€˜Then, can you explain how this Polaroid of you got in among her letters? Love letters signed Zan. Short for Alexander?’
    Chandler smiled indulgently. ‘I see you’ve been reading my CV. Look, Mrs Ives, there are millions of men named Alexander in this world, starting with Alexander the Great back in 300-something BC. Those letters must be from some other Alexander.’
    I shoved a photocopy of one of Lilith’s letters across to him, the one Zan wrote from a hotel in Paris, the one signed ‘God bless you, my darling, my lover, Z.’ ‘Is this your handwriting?’
    His eyes hadn’t left my face. ‘It is not.’
    â€˜Maybe if you actually looked at it, you could give me a straight answer.’
    The lobes of Chandler’s ears turned red. He gave the letter a cursory once-over, shrugged, and shook his head.
    â€˜So, you’re telling me that you never knew a woman named Lilith Chaloux, that you didn’t have a ten-year relationship with her, and that somebody else, some other Alexander, wrote the fifty-some love letters that have come into my possession.’
    â€˜That’s what I’m saying.’
    â€˜In that case, I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.’ I collected my things, stood up, and walked to the door.
    Chandler followed. He twisted the knob, and held the door open for me. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
    â€˜Look, Mr Chandler. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. My one and only goal is to return these letters to the woman they were written to. I don’t care about her relationships, past, present or future, with you – excuse me, with Zan – or with anybody else. I don’t even know if Lilith Chaloux is still alive.’
    I thought I detected a spark, flicker, something in his eyes, but he waited me out.
    â€˜Well, goodbye.’ I was halfway out the door with Chandler close behind me when I