Father Fever. Muriel Jensen

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СКАЧАТЬ found that he had a new confidence, and a new vulnerability that made him at the same time brave and uncertain—a good perspective from which to create a fictional hero.

      In the house, Trevyn took the chairs from him and pointed to the large country kitchen that opened off the dining room. “Should we put chairs in there?” he asked. “Just to make sure we have enough seating?”

      “Sure.” David pointed to the far end of the kitchen, where a sofa and a lamp made a small reading area. “Put them there, so they won’t be in the caterer’s way.”

      Trevyn did so, and when Bram returned with the last of the chairs, he set them up opposite the sofa.

      “So, you were telling us,” Bram said with a grimace, “there will be no single women at this do?”

      David shrugged. “Maybe. The whole town is invited, so if there are beautiful, unattached women around who have nothing better to do on a rainy Saturday night than attend a party thrown by the historical society, your dream woman might just appear.”

      “What’s she like?” Trevyn asked. “Black belt? Rapid-fire pistol champion?”

      Bram grinned. “While strength is sexy, I want a woman who makes love not war. I’ve had it with conflict.”

      “Amen,” Trevyn agreed. “I want one who finds me irresistible.”

      “And on what planet would that be?” David asked.

      Trevyn gave him a mirthless smile. “I’d take exception to that, but you’re my landlord. What else do we need to do?”

      David shook his head. “Nothing. Go relax for a while. Does the costume fit?”

      “Pretty well. The sleeves are a little short, but the ruffles cover it.” He frowned good-naturedly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this for you.”

      “You’re doing it for yourself. Remember the historical society people are a good connection for you. Think of all those grandchildren they’ll want you to photograph. Your costume fit, Bram?”

      “Yeah,” Bram replied. “Thanks to the fact there are no orangutans in my family, my sleeves fit fine.”

      “Funny.” Trevyn headed for the door. “When are the caterers arriving?”

      “About an hour before,” David replied. “Six or so.”

      Bram followed Trevyn out the door. “Hoping to find your dream girl and a great cook all rolled up into one?” he asked.

      Trevyn’s answer was bitten off by the closing door.

      David went upstairs to shower, but he hesitated by the master bedroom window to look out on the ocean that stretched to the horizon.

      He used to have a dream girl, he thought, as he watched the quiet sheet of gray silk, nothing moving on its surface but one lone seagull bobbing with the waves.

      A woman he’d thought filled those requirements had been part of his life until last summer when she’d left him. She’d been a dramatic brunette, intelligent and sophisticated, and as work driven about her post as women’s news editor as he was with his column.

      They’d had an ugly fight when his young brothers had come to visit and she’d considered it an imposition on her social schedule. He’d realized then how little he’d meant to her, except as an escort people noticed.

      Now he had a completely different vision of the woman he wanted to share his life. Someone warm and soft who could laugh and smile and to whom sophistication didn’t mean being scornful of everyone who didn’t have it.

      But would that kind of woman want him?

      He’d changed a lot over the past few years. He had dark places in his soul. He had memories that were hard to live with. He had hatreds.

      He tore himself away from the window and headed for the shower, telling himself that Dancer’s Beach was his opportunity to change all that. And he had friends to help him—friends who had things they wanted to change, too.

      And maybe he’d get lucky about the woman.

      It could happen.

      Chapter Two

      “I want to go on record as saying this is insane,” Gusty said from the back seat of a little blue import Athena had rented when they’d first arrived in Portland. “And that I want to know the truth about these guys as much as you do, but I’m just not sure I can carry off the plan.”

      Athena sighed into the rearview mirror, in no mood for Gusty’s naive sense of morality. Most people thought it came from dealing with young children, but Athena had known Gusty had this flawless moral compass since she’d been a child herself. Right now, though, she looked more like a conscience-stricken Scarlett O’Hara, sitting moodily in a corner of the back seat, the hoop skirt of her green dress poufed out around her. She fiddled with the ribbons of the green bonnet in her lap.

      Her costume was part of the plan.

      “Gus,” Athena made herself say patiently. “We have to go to this party, otherwise we’ll never know if Aunt Sadie’s death was truly an accident. If she gave the house willingly to this Hartford guy, or if she was coerced. You can do this.”

      “It’s dishonest.”

      “So are they.”

      Athena had received a fax yesterday from Patrick Connelly, a detective who did work for her office and whom she’d asked to check out David Hartford. After waiting a week with her sisters in a downtown hotel, she’d found Patrick’s fax contained confusing and unsettling news.

      David Hartford, thirty-four, graduate of exclusive Claremont School for Boys, of U.C.L.A. with B.A. in Sociology, Chicago Tribune columnist since 1991. Took up residence at Cliffside a week ago, according to public utilities services established in his name. Two friends or associates also in residence.

      Trevyn McGinty, 32, B.A. in Journalism from Cornell. Camera bum until hired by Chicago Tribune in ’93.

      John Bramston Bishop, 37, born in Boston, joined U.S. army at eighteen, served ten years until age twenty-eight. No information until current address.

      Athena—strange gaps in more recent information on all three. Part of the reason this took so long. Curious, unexplained absences. For long periods, it’s almost as though they cease to exist. Best I could do on short notice.

      One more interesting detail. Hartford is hosting the local historical society’s annual masked ball fund-raiser, usually held at Cliffside. According to an article in the paper eulogizing your aunt and “canonizing” Hartford, Mayor Beasley of Dancer’s Beach asked him to host the party since your aunt’s death left the event homeless. He generously agreed. He’s either a pillar-of-the-community type anxious to fit right in, or a supremely deft con artist.

      Notify if you want me to pursue.

      Pat.

      “Oh-oh,” Lex had muttered СКАЧАТЬ