full circle, as if her head were a video cam recording the place, and he felt a disconcerting sense of keen intelligence at work. She wasnât just gawking. She would remember details of what she saw, and they would have meaning for her.
âKittens with butterfly wings?â she inquired of some of Dorrieâs more unusual statuettes.
âUm, yes, theyâre Flutterkitties.â
The officer carefully picked one up, looked at the bottom, and set it down again. âSigned originals. She knows the artist?â
âJust online.â Feeling an irrational need to apologize for signed originals, which implied a level of wealth and culture to which he did not aspire, Sam said, âItâs her only hobby. Collecting art.â
The policewoman took her time checking out Dorrieâs display of winged horsesâclay, carved wood, ceramic, glassâthen moved on to the fireplace mantelpiece, home to another collection of porcelain bells upon which perched realistically painted songbirds by way of handles. Gently she lifted one of the bells and tried it out; the tinkling sound of its porcelain clapper could not have been more musical. The officer put the bell back exactly where it belonged. âShe has good taste. No kitsch.â
âI met Dorrie in art class at college.â Samâs throat tightened. He didnât quite know where that had come from. He had meant to say that Dorrie had minored in art history.
âShe likes the, um, is it Impressionists?â The young woman had stopped in front a Redon print of winged horses pulling a sun chariot.
âIâm not sure.â Dorrieâs art collection took up most of the wall space, but somehow did not make the house feel like a museum, Sam thought with dawning appreciation of his wifeâs skill as a homemaker; it coexisted comfortably with soft moss green sofas, fern-print drapes, lightweight golden oak tables.
â
Angel
, by Moreau,â the unlikely cop murmured, pausing in front of another print. âSymbolist?â
âYouâd have to ask Dorrie.â Pride in his wife combined oddly with Samâs painful worry.
âSheâs partial to subjects with wings.â
âYes. Anything with wings. Except airplanes.â
âI guess maybe airplanes are a guy thing. When women dream of just flying away, itâs more organic.â
If the young cop had pulled her gun on him, it could not have startled and discomfited Sam much worse. Too loudly he said, âDorrie didnât run away!â
The young woman swiveled to stare at him with wide loam-colored eyes. âI didnât mean to imply that she did, Mr. White. Itâs not at all unusual for women to dream of a fairy-tale kind of freedom. Iâm sorry ifââ
âLook, miss, I just want to find my wife.â
âMy name is Officer Chappell. Sorry, I should have introduced myself when I came in. What was it you wanted to show me?â
Sam took a deep breath, pressed his lips together, and led the way upstairs to the bedroom. Flicking on the light, he said wearily, âIn here.â He had thought they would be done before now. He bet Officer Chappell was a rookie, the way she wanted to go over everything one step at a time in slow motion, or so it seemed to Sam. Indicating a location on the box spring of the disheveled bed, he told her, âI found it here.â He picked up the pink folder from a bedside table and handed it to her.
Officer Chappell paged through it in complete silence, then tucked it under her arm and made a note on her spiral-bound stenographic pad. âHow long has this been going on?â
âI donât know.â
âDoes your wife have a PC?â
âLaptop.â
âIf thatâs what she used, I can find a history on it.â
What this had to do with finding Dorrie Sam could not imagine, but he said, âShe keeps it in her sewing room.â Sam started to show the way
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