Sacred Trust. Meg O'Brien

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      3

      Murphy isn’t at the door waiting for me, the way he usually is. While that worries me a bit, there have been times when he’s sneaked out with Frannie, my part-time housekeeper, and she hasn’t taken the time to find him and bring him back. Frannie has a family at home to feed at night, and she’s often in a hurry. Murphy doesn’t stay gone for long, at any rate. He likes keeping an eye on me, like a mom who thinks her toddler, once out of sight, must be up to no good. I figure he’ll show pretty soon.

      Dropping my purse on a table in the hallway, I head for the kitchen, seeking a glass of wine. The kitchen sparkles in the late-afternoon sun, not only from Frannie’s cleaning but from sunlight on the sea. Tall windows look out on the Pacific Ocean from every room. A million-dollar view, people have called it. Six million would be more like it, in today’s market. For this—a house that cost less than a hundred thousand to build twenty years ago.

      I have been envied for my house. Most of the homes in Carmel have names rather than addresses. Mine is called Windhaven. A major movie was filmed here in the fifties, and you can see Windhaven on the movie channel at regular intervals.

      There is less beach now, of course, as the shoreline’s been eroded by recent storms. But the house and its view have been photographed by Better Homes and Gardens, Sunset and Architectural Digest. When Jeffrey and I were first married we moved here and opened Windhaven for tours during the Christmas season. That was before Clint Eastwood won his run for mayor of Carmel. Jeffrey, who dabbles in real estate, but whose obsession is politics, was working with Eastwood’s advisors pre-campaign, and we had tons of friends then—artists, writers, actors, politicians. We decorated with holly garlands and strung lights on everything, including the stately pines along the drive. A wild patch of lawn stretches out from the terrace of Windhaven to the cliff, and along the edge of the cliff are Monterey pines that Jeffrey and I planted as windbreaks. In terms of trees they are still infants, yet already they lean to the south from the north winds that buffet them all winter long. If one were to look carefully, one might detect how Jeffrey and I lean, as well, from the buffeting our marriage has taken over the years.

      At what point, I wonder, taking a wineglass from the rack beneath the top cupboard, does a marriage begin the downward slide? At what point does it go from holding hands while walking, eyes meeting across the room in a secret, knowing smile, and an occasional embarrassing gush, “Jeffrey is everything to me”? When does the steady feel of aloneness set in for good, not just now and then? And when the distaste for flesh once loved and sought after?

      It is, I think, a question—or whole slew of them—that only a decent glass of Seven Peaks can answer. I reach into the double-door refrigerator and pull out a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay. Opening it, I fill my glass and decide to take the whole bottle to the living room with me. What the hell, it’s been a rotten day.

      And there is still the coroner’s office to come. I glance at my watch and note that it’s not even five o’clock, and I can’t see Marti till ten. What am I going to do with the next five hours?

      In the living room I sit in an overstuffed chair, staring out the window. Not at the sea, which only makes me feel more alone, but in the opposite direction, at the street. People walk by on Scenic, many of them with their dogs. I am irritated that Murphy isn’t here. Why did he have to run off today of all days?

      No. The real question is, Why did Marti have to die today? That’s the source of my anger, not Murphy. Not Ben.

      Why is my friend dead?

      And who would have had reason to do it in just that way? The hideous makeshift cross was crafted, Ben said, of four-by-fours from a house under construction at the bottom of the hill. Who had the strength to drag those four-by-fours to that spot far up the hill, nail them into a cross and then plant them in the ground—much less with Marti’s weight added to them?

      Who would have been evil enough to paint those awful letters on her chest? And the final, inevitable question—why is the Secret Service involved?

      The more questions I come up with, the less answers there seem to be. Nothing works today. Not sex, not wine. Chilled, I set my glass down and cross to the fireplace, laying paper and kindling, then logs. I strike a long match and watch the fire catch then build, СКАЧАТЬ