an eye out for it. It probably wouldn’t be pawned right in town, but within a radius of fifty miles or so. They’d dump it early on, since it’s bulky to tote around,” he said, thinking aloud.
“I don’t have the number,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?”
“I said I don’t have the serial number,” I repeated, loud and clear. “I already told the police that.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “That’s a big help.”
Frustration lent a rough edge to my voice. “Yeah, so are you," I said, and turned away to hide the moistening of my eyes.
After a little pause, Brad came up behind me. “Are you all right?” he asked doubtfully.
I ground my teeth and assured him I’d never been better. Encouraged by this irony, he put an arm around me and patted my head. What he really wanted to see was whether I was crying, so I blinked away the tear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have ripped up at you. You must be very upset. I know how much this book means to you.”
His touch was gentle, his voice sympathetic. At his touch, I felt a wave of self-pity rise up to engulf me. “I’ll get over it.” Unfortunately my voice broke, and I emitted a hiccoughing sound. He peered down at me. “I’m not crying!”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it— everything, just the way it happened.” He urged me toward the sofa. “You can start with ransacking my cottage, or better, what made you decide to do it.”
We sat down, holding hands, and I went over the doings of the past few days, starting with the call from Eileen about Hume Mason, and going on to my suspicions of his borrowing my diaries, and typing busily when he was supposed to be out jogging, and of course my discovery in his cottage. It felt good to get it off my chest. When I was done, I waited for his apology.
“You should have told me! It’s all so simple really,” he assured me with a rueful smile. “You knew I was a fan of Rosalie’s. I found the picture in an antique shop. It was the frame that first caught my attention. It’s lovely—you must have noticed. Antique French. It seemed like fate that Rosalie’s picture was in it, so I left it in. It got packed and sent here by accident when the movers brought my things from the apartment. Since I was reading Rosalie’s diary in bed, I put the picture on the table, to visualize her more vividly. That’s all.” He smiled innocently and looked to see if I swallowed this claptrap.
“What were you typing that day, that stuff about the creamy bosoms flowing out of the red dress? You had Rosalie’s diary there on your desk.”
A hint of embarrassment flushed his cheeks. “I was asked to do an article for one of the men’s magazines.”
“Which one? Playboy?”
“The other one,” he admitted sheepishly. “They asked me to do an article on Rosalie. I got a phone call the very night she died.”
“When did you have your phone installed? I didn’t see the Bell truck there.”
“I had Simcoe arrange it before I came here. It’s just an article I’m doing. It won’t be competition for your book.”
“But there was nothing like that in her diaries.”
He gave a little betraying lurch, but soon recovered. “I was describing her in The Girl From Lovesick Lake. Remember that one?”
“I don’t remember a red dress. Her movies were all black and white.”
“Artistic license. It’s easier to visualize if you throw in an appeal to the senses. And since Freud, we all know that red symbolizes.”
“She wouldn’t wear a red dress with her orange hair. So you really did go to see your son yesterday? How is he?” I felt the stirring of compunction that I hadn’t asked this earlier.
“He’s okay. It was just a green fracture. My wife— ex-wife—is excitable. I pictured an amputation or something awful.”
“You never mentioned your son before,” I said leadingly, though it was tacitly understood that it was the mother who was of more interest.
“What is
“I don’t have the number,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?”
“I said I don’t have the serial number,” I repeated, loud and clear. “I already told the police that.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “That’s a big help.”
Frustration lent a rough edge to my voice. “Yeah, so are you," I said, and turned away to hide the moistening of my eyes.
After a little pause, Brad came up behind me. “Are you all right?” he asked doubtfully.
I ground my teeth and assured him I’d never been better. Encouraged by this irony, he put an arm around me and patted my head. What he really wanted to see was whether I was crying, so I blinked away the tear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have ripped up at you. You must be very upset. I know how much this book means to you.”
His touch was gentle, his voice sympathetic. At his touch, I felt a wave of self-pity rise up to engulf me. “I’ll get over it.” Unfortunately my voice broke, and I emitted a hiccoughing sound. He peered down at me. “I’m not crying!”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it— everything, just the way it happened.” He urged me toward the sofa. “You can start with ransacking my cottage, or better, what made you decide to do it.”
We sat down, holding hands, and I went over the doings of the past few days, starting with the call from Eileen about Hume Mason, and going on to my suspicions of his borrowing my diaries, and typing busily when he was supposed to be out jogging, and of course my discovery in his cottage. It felt good to get it off my chest. When I was done, I waited for his apology.
“You should have told me! It’s all so simple really,” he assured me with a rueful smile. “You knew I was a fan of Rosalie’s. I found the picture in an antique shop. It was the frame that first caught my attention. It’s lovely—you must have noticed. Antique French. It seemed like fate that Rosalie’s picture was in it, so I left it in. It got packed and sent here by accident when the movers brought my things from the apartment. Since I was reading Rosalie’s diary in bed, I put the picture on the table, to visualize her more vividly. That’s all.” He smiled innocently and looked to see if I swallowed this claptrap.
“What were you typing that day, that stuff about the creamy bosoms flowing out of the red dress? You had Rosalie’s diary there on your desk.”
A hint of embarrassment flushed his cheeks. “I was asked to do an article for one of the men’s magazines.”
“Which one? Playboy?”
“The other one,” he admitted sheepishly. “They asked me to do an article on Rosalie. I got a phone call the very night she died.”
“When did you have your phone installed? I didn’t see the Bell truck there.”
“I had Simcoe arrange it before I came here. It’s just an article I’m doing. It won’t be competition for your book.”
“But there was nothing like that in her diaries.”
He gave a little betraying lurch, but soon recovered. “I was describing her in The Girl From Lovesick Lake. Remember that one?”
“I don’t remember a red dress. Her movies were all black and white.”
“Artistic license. It’s easier to visualize if you throw in an appeal to the senses. And since Freud, we all know that red symbolizes.”
“She wouldn’t wear a red dress with her orange hair. So you really did go to see your son yesterday? How is he?” I felt the stirring of compunction that I hadn’t asked this earlier.
“He’s okay. It was just a green fracture. My wife— ex-wife—is excitable. I pictured an amputation or something awful.”
“You never mentioned your son before,” I said leadingly, though it was tacitly understood that it was the mother who was of more interest.
“What is
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