children from loving homes. Some of them are the same people who grow up to be criminals and weirdos."
"Are you sure you won't join us for lunch?" Peter asked. He felt the tension between the women and wanted a chance to explore it.
"Listen, you guys, I'd love to stay, but I have an appointment. Some guy named Rousel has been bugging me for two days to find time to talk with him."
"Rousel?" Eleanor repeated, looking at Peter.
"Yeah. And I'm going to meet him. I've finally found someone who's interested in talking to me about my work."
"What does he do for a living?" Eleanor asked.
"You know, it seems like he said, but I don't remember. Why? Do you know him?"
"Maybe," Eleanor answered. She hesitated, then added, "He may be with the CIA, if he's the same man."
Betty grew so pale that her freckles stood out like measles, Eleanor noted. "The CIA? Why would he want to talk with me?"
"There was a break-in at a laboratory around here somewhere." Eleanor spoke carefully. She didn't want to frighten her friend needlessly, but did want her to be alert. "A cat was stolen. And before you ask, it may be the cat I have, Familiar. I'm not giving him back." She met Betty's gaze.
"I don't know a damn thing about any cats," Betty said quickly. "That's your business. But why would he want to talk to me?" she asked as her color returned.
"He may ask you some questions about Eleanor," Peter said.
"Yes, it seems I may be a suspect in a case of something very close to treason."
Chapter Seven
Eleanor bent to the waist and rewrapped the towel around her damp hair. The hot bath had soaked away some of the tension that knotted her shoulders, but it was returning now. She dialed the number for the third time in an hour.
Betty Gillette didn't answer— hadn't answered all afternoon. Eleanor felt a vague sense of unrest. Betty had gone to talk to Alva Rousel and seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
Picking up the receiver again, Eleanor started to dial, then stopped midway. She depressed the switch and held the receiver to her ear. She'd debated the wisdom of cracking open the wounds of her past, had indeed fought against taking such action. Now it was time. She dialed long-distance information. The vision of her ex-husband in the parking garage had goaded her into formulating a plan.
In the light of afternoon she didn't believe her husband had returned from the dead, but she was going to find out whatever was going on with Carter Wells or his memory— without involving Peter. Carter's friends had always been rough. Far too rough.
" Denver Post Chronicle , please," she responded to the operator's inquiry.
"That number is 555-6968," a recorded voice informed her.
She wrote the number on a pad. Her hand was shaking as she replaced the phone. She tried to block out the next memory, but it filled her mind. A puddle of fluid on the carport floor. It was after Carter's car had gone over the side of the mountain that the police had found the brake fluid leak.
"A tiny nick in the line. The fluid leaking out drop by drop…" She could still hear the officer's voice, so calm, so rational. She shook her hair free of the towel and began to brush it out. With each long stroke she tried to put the past behind her.
Was there a future with Peter? She pulled the bristles through her hair and focused on him. He was someone who cared. There was an undeniable attraction between them. She felt it every time he stepped into the room, each time she thought about him. She responded to him with awakening desire. With his touch he'd rekindled the old fire that smoldered just beneath her skin.
Pushing her wet hair away from her face, she dialed the Colorado number and asked for the news desk. At first her voice faltered, but as she continued to talk, she grew more self-possessed. The reporter on the other end listened attentively, and with no small degree of sympathy, as far as she could tell.
"I remember the case," Adeline Valentino said. "It
"Are you sure you won't join us for lunch?" Peter asked. He felt the tension between the women and wanted a chance to explore it.
"Listen, you guys, I'd love to stay, but I have an appointment. Some guy named Rousel has been bugging me for two days to find time to talk with him."
"Rousel?" Eleanor repeated, looking at Peter.
"Yeah. And I'm going to meet him. I've finally found someone who's interested in talking to me about my work."
"What does he do for a living?" Eleanor asked.
"You know, it seems like he said, but I don't remember. Why? Do you know him?"
"Maybe," Eleanor answered. She hesitated, then added, "He may be with the CIA, if he's the same man."
Betty grew so pale that her freckles stood out like measles, Eleanor noted. "The CIA? Why would he want to talk with me?"
"There was a break-in at a laboratory around here somewhere." Eleanor spoke carefully. She didn't want to frighten her friend needlessly, but did want her to be alert. "A cat was stolen. And before you ask, it may be the cat I have, Familiar. I'm not giving him back." She met Betty's gaze.
"I don't know a damn thing about any cats," Betty said quickly. "That's your business. But why would he want to talk to me?" she asked as her color returned.
"He may ask you some questions about Eleanor," Peter said.
"Yes, it seems I may be a suspect in a case of something very close to treason."
Chapter Seven
Eleanor bent to the waist and rewrapped the towel around her damp hair. The hot bath had soaked away some of the tension that knotted her shoulders, but it was returning now. She dialed the number for the third time in an hour.
Betty Gillette didn't answer— hadn't answered all afternoon. Eleanor felt a vague sense of unrest. Betty had gone to talk to Alva Rousel and seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
Picking up the receiver again, Eleanor started to dial, then stopped midway. She depressed the switch and held the receiver to her ear. She'd debated the wisdom of cracking open the wounds of her past, had indeed fought against taking such action. Now it was time. She dialed long-distance information. The vision of her ex-husband in the parking garage had goaded her into formulating a plan.
In the light of afternoon she didn't believe her husband had returned from the dead, but she was going to find out whatever was going on with Carter Wells or his memory— without involving Peter. Carter's friends had always been rough. Far too rough.
" Denver Post Chronicle , please," she responded to the operator's inquiry.
"That number is 555-6968," a recorded voice informed her.
She wrote the number on a pad. Her hand was shaking as she replaced the phone. She tried to block out the next memory, but it filled her mind. A puddle of fluid on the carport floor. It was after Carter's car had gone over the side of the mountain that the police had found the brake fluid leak.
"A tiny nick in the line. The fluid leaking out drop by drop…" She could still hear the officer's voice, so calm, so rational. She shook her hair free of the towel and began to brush it out. With each long stroke she tried to put the past behind her.
Was there a future with Peter? She pulled the bristles through her hair and focused on him. He was someone who cared. There was an undeniable attraction between them. She felt it every time he stepped into the room, each time she thought about him. She responded to him with awakening desire. With his touch he'd rekindled the old fire that smoldered just beneath her skin.
Pushing her wet hair away from her face, she dialed the Colorado number and asked for the news desk. At first her voice faltered, but as she continued to talk, she grew more self-possessed. The reporter on the other end listened attentively, and with no small degree of sympathy, as far as she could tell.
"I remember the case," Adeline Valentino said. "It
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