Dead Lies by Cybele Loening Page A

that you’ll wear your hat and mittens.”
    Danny didn’t respond, just held up his left hand and raised his middle finger. Web and Tim laughed.
    Web stepped outside and paused on the stoop to take a couple of deep breaths. The air was brisk, but it felt good. He could detect a hint of moisture settling in, and he wondered if there’d be snow tonight.
    Web followed Tim to his car, a midnight blue Audi he’d bought last month. Web admired the gleaming wooden dashboard of Tim’s baby—his pride and joy—and sank into the buttery leather seat.
    “Check this out,” said Tim, pushing a button.
    “Check what out?” Web said.
    “Just wait.”
    Web felt a flash of impatience. Unlike most men he knew, he didn’t give two shits about cars, which he believed served only to get a person from point A to point B. Cylinder power, trunk space, who cared?
    “Now take the wheel,” Tim said.
    “What?”
    “Just put your hand here,” Tim urged, pulling his own hands away. Reluctantly, Web steered for a second. Then Tim broke into a grin when his friend’s face registered what he’d been so eager to show him: The steering wheel was heated.
    “Cool,” Web said, obliging Tim with the response he was looking for.
    “The wave of the future,” Tim said, taking back the con and shooting his friend a knowing look. “Just you wait. Soon every car will have this feature.”
    My BMW already does, Web chuckled to himself. He would never tell Tim that, though. His friend had a thing about being “the first.”
    The heated seats kicked in next, and Web felt himself relax into the warmth. But a moment later he shot up in his seat and opened the window. Suddenly it felt all wrong that here he was enjoying all this warmth and luxury when his sister was lying dead in the morgue refrigerator. He knew he was being masochistic—and unfairly subjecting his friend to it too—but he couldn’t help himself. He just couldn’t get the image of her lying on that cold hard slab out of his head.
    Tim had the good grace not to probe Web’s thoughts; he kept his eyes on the road and drove silently.
    Web gulped the frigid air, life-affirming in its own strange way, and fought the impulse to stick his head all the way out like a dog. He wanted to howl at the moon, which was already in the sky, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. He would have done it if it weren’t for Tim. But he resisted the urge, not wanting Tim to worry that his friend had finally lost his marbles but feeling like he probably already had.
    After a few moments, Tim reached the road that led into the center of town, taking them past the turn-of-the-century homes known to Avondale residents as the Grand Dames. A mix of styles from Queen Anne to Victorian and Gothic Revival, they were among the first homes to be constructed when the town went from a farming community to an escape for wealthy New Yorkers wanting second homes in what was then the country. Web had always been fond of this street because Daphne Snow, the first girl he’d ever kissed, had lived in the gable-roofed Victorian in the middle of the block. And the house next door belonged to the pediatrician he and Serena had grown up with, who was eighty years old now and still practicing in his wood-paneled basement office. The street was also wider than most in town and lined with impressive elms that, in the full bloom of spring, formed a lush green canopy overhead. Appropriately named Elm Street, it was one of five similar streets—all named for local trees—that sprouted from the town center like spokes on a bicycle tire.
    With each house they passed, Web felt himself grow calmer. Avondale had that affect on him. The town was close-knit, and he knew how lucky he was to have been raised in a community that offered a sense of security and permanence.
    Web turned to Tim to ask about his new girlfriend. “So, how’s Gillian?”
    He watched the corner of his friend’s mouth crook upwards. “Great.