The Second Time Around by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

portfolio in his company.”
    â€œReverend, at most of these dinners, between courses, people get up and move around,” I said. “Did you happen to notice if Nicholas Spencer spoke to any one person in particular?”
    â€œI did not, but I can make inquiries if you like.”
    *   *   *
    My investigation wasn’t going very far. I called the hospital and was told that Lynn had checked out.
    According to the morning papers, Marty Bikorsky had been indicted for arson and reckless endangerment and released on bail. He was listed in the White Plains phone book. I dialed his number. The answering machine was on, and I left a message. “I’m Carley DeCarlo from Wall Street Weekly. I saw you at the stockholders’ meeting, and you absolutely did not strike me as the kind of man who would set fire to someone’s home. I hope you will call me. If I can, I’d like to help you.”
    My phone rang almost as soon as I hung up. “I’m Marty Bikorsky.” His voice was both weary and strained. “I don’t think anyone can help me, but you’re welcome to try.”
    An hour and a half later I was parking in front of his house, a well-kept older split-level. An American flag flew from a pole on the lawn. The capricious April weather was continuing to play games. Yesterday the temperature had hit 70 degrees. Today it was down to 58 and windy. I could have used a sweater under my light spring jacket.
    Bikorsky must have been watching for me, because the door opened before I could ring the bell. I looked into his face, and my instant reaction was to think, That poor guy. The expression in his eyes was so defeated and tired that I ached for him. But he made a conscious effort to square his slumping shoulders and managed to muster a faint smile.
    â€œCome in, Ms. DeCarlo. I’m Marty Bikorsky.” He started to extend his hand but then pulled it back. It was heavily bandaged. I knew he’d claimed that he burned it on the stove.
    The narrow entrance vestibule led straight back to the kitchen. The living room was directly to the right of the door. He said, “My wife made fresh coffee. If you’d like some, we could sit at the table.”
    â€œThat would be very nice.”
    I followed him back into the kitchen where a woman with her back to us was taking a coffee cake out of the oven. “Rhoda, this is Ms. DeCarlo.”
    â€œPlease call me Carley,” I said. “Actually it’s Marcia, but in school the kids started calling me Carley, and it stuck.”
    Rhoda Bikorsky was about my age, a couple ofinches taller than I am, a shapely size twelve with long dark blond hair and brilliant blue eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and I wondered if she had natural high color or if the emotional upheaval in her life was taking a toll on her health.
    Like her husband, she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She smiled briefly, said, “I wish someone had figured out a nickname for Rhoda,” and shook hands. The kitchen was spotless and cozy. The table and chairs were Early American style, and the brick-patterned floor covering was the kind we had had in our kitchen when I was a kid.
    At Rhoda’s invitation I went to the table and sat down, said, “Yes, thank you,” to the coffee, and willingly reached for a slice of the cake. From where I was sitting, I could look out a bay window into a small backyard. An outdoor gym with a swing and a seesaw gave evidence of the presence of a child in the family.
    Rhoda Bikorsky saw what I was observing. “Marty built that set himself for Maggie.” She sat down across from me. “Carley, I’m going to be straight with you. You don’t know us. You’re a reporter. You’re here because you told Marty you’d like to help us. I have a very simple question for you: Why would you want to help us?”
    â€œI was at the stockholders’ meeting. My reaction to your