you think he's married?â
Harry shrugged. âI don't know. If he is, he's bold as brass coming down here and staying with Boom. Washington's not that far away. He strikes me as the bold type anyway.â
âHoney, with the telephone, e-mail, and television, nothing is that far away. It's both wonderful and dreadful.â
They sat in silence for a few moments as the killdeers called on the meadows, their high-pitched voices distinctive.
âDid Roger have any enemies?â
âHarry.â Susan's voice rose, filled with humor and a touch of censure. âYou watch too much
Mystery Theater
.â
Sheepishly, the slim woman replied, âIt's good.â
âWho would want to kill Roger O'Bannon? If he had any enemies it would be himself. He sat back there in his garage like a doodlebug in its hole. His socializing was at the stock-car races. I mean he was pleasant enough but you can't be covered in grease and expect someone like Lottie Pearson to fall for you.â
âLottie's a snob.â
âSo is half of Albemarle County.â
âI guess.â Harry exhaled. âAnyway, it crossed my mind, that's all. Oh, did you notice the flying blue heron sculpture in Aunt Tally's garden?â
âYes.â
âBoomBoom made it out of scraps. Kind of amazing.â
âH-m-m.â Susan enjoyed another long sip. âDiego Aybar.â Given the length of her relationship with Harry, Susan didn't need a transition. She could hop around subjects as rapidly as Harry, although her concept of herself was as a logical, linear person.
âYes?â
âYou're smitten with him.â
âYou're soft as a grape.â
âI suppose I'd have to be to be your best friend. Share a little, Harry, it's part of friendship, you know.â
âOhâhe's handsomeââ
âGorgeous.â
âOkay, Susan, he's gorgeous.â
âAnd charming.â
âYes, but you know he has a quality, a sweetness, really, I can't think of another word but sweetness. I wish American men would get over trying to be so, uh, manly and just be themselves, you know.â
âWell, that was a little outburst,â Susan laughed, âfor you, anyway.â
âBut Diego hasââshe thought hard but couldn't find a substitute wordââsweetness.â She inhaled. âBut I hardly know him.â
âTrue.â
âDo I detect something acidic in your voice?â
âNo, you don't actually. I'm only hoping that someday you'll fly. You'll let yourself go. Anyway, I don't believe in mistakes anymore.â Susan set her glass down hard enough to make the ice cubes collide.
âHuh?â
âMistakes. There are no mistakes. No matter what you do, no matter how awful it seems at the time, it's not a mistake because you needed to learn that lesson soâlet go.â
âI don't believe that.â
âHarry, I knew you'd say that.â
âWell, I don't. Murder is a mistake. You can't murder someone and then say you needed to learn that lesson. The lesson being, I suppose, that human life is valuable and no one has the right to take it except in self-defense, naturally.â
âWe aren't talking about murder.â
âI'm carrying forward your theory about mistakes to its extreme conclusion.â
âThereby proving my point.â Susan threw her head back, peals of laughter filling the fragrant air. âYou need to let go.â
Harry sat quietly for a moment, considered Susan's thought, then smiled slowly. No need to reply.
12
Flaming torches lined the long, curving driveway to Dalmally, Mim Sanburne's estate. The pinpoints of red-orange against the twilight created the eerie sensation of going back in time. Cool night air arrived with the sunset. The temperature plunged to fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit and would probably wind up close to freezing.
BoomBoom arrived shimmering in a raspberry chiffon evening
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