Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Page A

it?”
    â€œNo,” I answered, pulling away. “I didn’t have time. I doubt it was still there, anyway. Whoever killed Thoreau searched the house thoroughly. It was a very professional job.”
    â€œOh God,” Marion whimpered, groping for the chair behind C. C.’s desk. Her “Oh God” sounded just like C. C.’s.
    â€œGod had nothing to do with this,” I said feeling vaguely superior. I could have told them about the tape I found, only I didn’t know what I had yet. Probably a rerun of “Star Trek.” Besides, they had lied about Sherman, and I did not know why. Instead, I took the envelope from my pocket, the one containing the ten thousand dollars, and tossed it on top of the desk. They both stared at it.
    Finally, C. C. asked, “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
    There it was, the question I had been wrestling with since I found Dennis Thoreau, his mouth full of carpet.
    â€œDo you think I did it?”
    I looked into her aquamarine eyes, moist with tears; looked deep to see what truths were hidden there. I found only confusion, fear and … was it sorrow? If it was an act, it was a good one. Meryl Streep could take lessons from her.
    â€œNo,” I replied.
    â€œThank you for trusting me,” she said, and gave my hand a squeeze.
    I could have let it go at that—probably should have—but I didn’t like the way Marion was looking me up and down like she was deciding whether to choose me for her side in a game of dodgeball.
    â€œIt isn’t a matter of trust,” I said. “If you had killed him, you would probably have the videotape already. If you had the videotape, you wouldn’t have hired me.”
    Besides, I didn’t want her to be guilty. She was just too damned pretty to be guilty.
    A light went on behind Marion’s eyes. “You said the house was searched. That means whoever killed Thoreau knew about the videotape.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “It’s possible that Thoreau was killed for an unrelated reason—drugs perhaps. But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
    â€œWe no longer require your services, Mr. Taylor,” Marion said abruptly.
    â€œYou don’t think so?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAren’t you worried?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe man who was blackmailing you is murdered and the thing he was blackmailing you with is missing, but you’re not worried. If it was me, I’d be scared to death. How come you’re not scared to death, Marion?”
    â€œIn politics you learn to go with the flow,” she answered and smiled.
    â€œI’ll remember you said that if I’m ever called to testify.”
    â€œFuck you.”
    â€œMarion!” C. C. was shocked by Marion’s language. I ignored it.
    â€œYou told me that three people knew about the tape. There’s you and Carol Catherine,” I said. “Who’s the third?”
    â€œThank you for your time,” Marion said.
    â€œIt’s Anne Scalasi, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so confident. You think she’s protecting you.”
    â€œYour services are no longer required, Mr. Taylor,” Marion repeated with greater emphasis. “We can manage from here.”
    I stood before the desk, my hands clenched. If she thought for one minute Anne Scalasi was protecting her, if she thought my best friend would cover up for murder … My God! She thinks Annie committed murder. For her. I was shaking my head from side to side when she said, “Good-bye, Mr. Taylor.”
    I was impressed by her coolness, her forced detachment. This was one situation that Marion had not planned, could not have foreseen, yet she would be damned if she was going to let it intrude on her grand design, interfere with the destiny she had ordained for herself and C. C. Monroe. Marion would do with this setback what I have always done with mine: She would deal with it.