Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [72]
He turned back to the computer, studying the numbers and letters as if the answer could be there somewhere in all that brightly lit information. “If you find out anything more, will you let me know?”
I paused, not wanting to make a promise that might prove impossible to keep. “If I can.”
I went by Jillian’s office, but she apparently hadn’t gotten back from her lunch break yet. Her secretary, an auburn-haired girl with frizzy bangs and Ben Franklin eyeglasses, led me into Jillian’s neat, bleached-pine office.
The phone buzzed, and her secretary, gesturing toward Jillian’s desk, scurried out to answer it.
I walked over to the sliding-glass window and gazed out at the new patron’s patio and garden that overlooked Central Park. It was the library’s final construction project, and Jillian had personally thrown a T.G.I.O.—“Thank Goodness It’s Over”—after-hours party for the employees and other people who’d suffered during the construction. We’d eaten catered shrimp puffs, egg rolls, and chocolate fondue while strolling through the authentic English-style garden. The patio off Jillian’s office that led to the garden had been decorated with hundreds of pink and black balloons and blooming rose trees. Jillian looked gorgeous that night in a sparkly silver dress and her aunt’s ruby earrings. A trooper to the end, you never would have guessed she’d received a “Dear Jane” telegram that very day. Her tale of romantic misfortune spread with grass-fire speed as things always did in San Celina. But according to Nick, she never missed a day of work or ever let on she was hurt. She’d never even put away his picture, he’d said. Then he had added, “I think she’s still hoping he’ll come back.”
More forgiving than I’d be, I thought, picking up the glass dolphin. The check for the folk-art museum was right where she said it would be. When I turned to leave, my eye caught the silver frame that displayed her husband’s picture. I picked it up and studied it closely. He was indeed handsome, breathtakingly so, sitting on his polo pony, his blond hair shiny with damp curls, his grin self-assured and white as chalk dust. Around the eyes, he reminded me a little of Ash Stanhill.
“Find the check?” Jillian said, startling me. She was dressed in an tawny brown linen suit with a short skirt that showed off her slender legs. A gold horse-shaped pin decorated one wide lapel.
I set the photograph down, my face tingling with shame. “Yes, thanks.”
She walked briskly around her whitewashed pine desk. “Good. I’m sure you can use it.”
“Yes, we can,” I stammered, still horribly embarrassed. She sensed my discomfort and gave me a serene smile.
“I don’t mind you looking at my husband’s picture, Benni.”
“He’s very handsome,” I said.
“Yes, he is.” She ran her fingers over the top of the frame. “For a long time, I thought he’d come back. I know everyone laughs at me behind my back. I know how this town works, but sometimes it’s hard to let go of the past. Even when it wasn’t that great, at least it was familiar.”
I nodded. It was an insight that had never occurred to me, missing a troubling past simply because it was familiar. But losing as much as she did, so young, I could almost see how familiarity and consistency could be as important to her as love and loyalty was to me.
She sat down in her pale leather executive chair and started shuffling papers. “It’s Angelo’s at seven tonight, right?”
“Yes, and hopefully this meeting will be a bit calmer than the last.”
“Don’t place too large a bet on that one,” she said with a small laugh.
I was halfway out the door when she called me back.
Her small features pinched into a troubled look. “Benni, I . . . I have something I need to tell you. Could you close the door, please?”
I did as she asked, waiting expectantly.
Her deep blue eyes looked directly into mine. “There’s something I failed to inform the detectives when they questioned me.”
Though I knew the judicious thing would be to tell her to contact