Eye of the Beholder (25 page)

She watched him set the containers out on the counter. “Well, I don't know about you, but I am definitely impressed.”

It was the food she was drooling over, she thought, not Trask.

He turned around, a bottle of dark red zinfandel in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. She looked into his gleaming eyes and knew that she was lying
to herself. It was definitely Trask that was making her drool.

Dressed in a khaki shirt and a pair of black chinos, he looked far more appetizing than any of the gourmet delicacies he had brought with him. The kitchen was charged with the sexual energy that emanated from him.

Unfortunately, he had made it clear on the phone that he wanted to talk about his conspiracy theories tonight, not their relationship.

It was probably better that way. Certainly much less hazardous to her emotional health. Besides, she was hardly in a position to complain. After all, she was the one who had backed away from a sexual liaison after that one night of sizzle and burn in the spa.

“I've got news that should interest both of us,” Trask said.

“That's nice.” She moved closer to the counter and started to pry the lids off the plastic containers. “Are there any hors d'oeuvres?”

“The little package on the right.”

“Got it.” She peeled the lid off the small plastic container and helped herself to a salsa-laced canapé. She plucked out another. “Want one?”

“Sure.” He did not stop work on the cork.

She realized that he was waiting for her to put the canapé into his mouth. She hesitated and then, feeling very daring, leaned across the counter and popped the tidbit between his teeth. She snatched her fingers back immediately.

“Relax,” he said around the canapé. “I usually don't bite the hand that feeds me.”

“An excellent policy.” She watched him pour two
glasses of the ruby-colored zin. “Let's hear your big news.”

“I found a link.” Cold satisfaction made his eyes very green. He handed her one of the wine glasses. “It came through the fax this afternoon just after five o'clock.”

“What sort of link?”

“A connection between Dad's death and Guthrie's so-called accident.”

She paused with the glass halfway to her mouth. Slowly she set it back down on the counter. “You're talking about your conspiracy theory?”

“I like to think of it as
our
conspiracy theory now.”

She studied him warily. “You're serious, aren't you?”

He touched his glass to hers and then raised it to his mouth. “I have never been more serious in my life.”

“I'm listening.”

“In a word,
Dimensions.”

She blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, that wasn't it. “What about Dimensions? You're not suggesting some kind of metaphysical aspect to this thing, are you?”

He pondered that. “Maybe.”

“Come on, Trask.”

“This afternoon I found out that, at the time of his death, Guthrie was heavily invested in several construction projects.”

“So?”

“According to my information, he wanted to pull out of one of the deals because he had to raise cash
in order to get into a hot mall project outside of Phoenix.”

“Wait a second, are you saying that someone may have murdered Dean Guthrie because he was threatening to yank his investment funds in a development?”

“I think it's a real possibility.”

“That sounds like a replay of your theory about your father's death.”

“I know. That's exactly what it is.”

She shook her head. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“Go with me on this, Alexa. Twelve years ago Guthrie was in a financial bind. He had to raise cash quickly to meet his investment commitments. My father was standing in his way.”

“I've heard this part of your theory before. What does it have to do with the present scenario?”

“Guess which investment commitment Guthrie met twelve years ago with the money he pulled from Dad's project.”

“I don't have a clue.”

Trask savored a long, slow swallow of wine. “Guthrie had committed himself to a line of credit for the Dimensions Institute.”

She stilled. “You're moving too fast for me. Slow down and tell me exactly where you think you're going with this.”

“There are still some crucial pieces of the puzzle missing, but here's what I've got so far.” Trask leaned back against the counter. “Twelve years ago Guthrie had to choose between two investments, Dad's resort project and the Dimensions Institute. He chose the Dimensions project, but Dad threatened
to tie up both him and his money in court for months.”

“You think someone killed your father to free up Guthrie's money so that he could sink it into Dimensions?”

“Yeah. I can't prove murder yet, but I can sure as hell prove that Dimensions is where Guthrie's money went after my father was killed. There's a nice, neat paper trail.”

“Okay, go on. But remember to keep it slow and easy.”

Trask took another swallow of wine and set the glass down. He met Alexa's eyes. “I think history has just repeated itself. Only this time it was Guthrie at the wheel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just told you Guthrie was in another cash bind just before his death.”

“You said he was trying to get out of his commitments to one construction project in order to free up cash for another.”

“You get one guess to name the project he wanted to pull out of.”

“How in the world would I know—” She broke off as her intuition took over. “Oh, my God. You said the link was Dimensions. Are you talking about the new Dimensions Santa Fe project?”

“Welcome to Business 101. You may go to the head of the class.”

“Do you realize what you're saying?” She struggled to absorb the implications. “If you follow this to the logical conclusion, it means that someone may have murdered both your father and Guthrie for the same reason. Dimensions.”

“Right.”
Trask picked up his glass and studied the blood-red zin. “Twice during the past twelve years crucial investment cash intended for a Dimensions Institute project was jeopardized. I think that on each occasion someone stepped in to get rid of the investor who was standing in the way.”

Alexa suddenly recalled the conversation she'd had with Dylan Fenn and Stewart Lutton in Spheres. An image of Joanna's tense, anxious face loomed in her mind. Her mouth went dry.

“You do realize what this means, don't you?” Trask said with icy anticipation.

“Yes.” She rested her elbows on the counter and let the conclusions sink in. “As far as you're concerned, it's more evidence against your newest suspect.”

“Webster Bell. Everything fits.”

Two hours later Trask settled into the patio lounger and contemplated the star-studded sky. He could get accustomed to this, he decided. It was strange that, after living in the Northwest all of his life, he should find himself so content here in Avalon. There was something deeply satisfying about watching a full moon rise over the desert.

He hoped a coyote would howl at some point. It would add just the right touch. Plus, it would make a pleasant change from listening to Alexa. She had not stopped talking since they had sat down to eat.

“We've got to move slowly on this, Trask. We've got to be very sure. You can't just accuse Webster Bell, of all people, of murder. The man is a guru to thousands. People look up to him.”

He decided that he'd had enough of Alexa's litany
of caveats, warnings, and arguments. He was starting to lose patience. He wanted to make some solid plans, but he was having a hard time getting past her demands for caution. It was a wonder she hadn't made herself hoarse.

She pushed aside her unfinished flan and sat forward.

“Listen to me,” she said very earnestly. “You're a businessman. You know as well as I do that we've got to stick to the facts, and we don't have very many of those yet.”

“The Dimensions Institute is at the bottom of this, I can feel it. It's the single common denominator. Everything comes back to it.” He was getting bored listening to himself repeat his own counterarguments. “And Webster Bell is the Dimensions Institute.”

“I'm not denying that everything we've got so far points to a connection. All I'm saying is that we've got to get some hard evidence before you go riding off on your big horse to challenge Webster Bell to a gunfight out in front of the saloon at high noon.”

He was briefly amused. “I'm from Seattle. We don't do gunfights at high noon. We prefer a more subtle approach.”

“Oh, yeah? What's subtle to you?”

Trask shrugged. “There are a variety of alternatives. A man can accidentally fall off a ferry in the middle of Puget Sound and disappear into water so cold and deep that the body might never be found. Or he can go for a hike in the Cascades and never return. Then there's the ever-popular skiing accident or boating disaster…”

She stared at him with mounting horror. “My God, you're serious. Trask, you can't possibly mean that you would… would…”

“Relax. I'm not interested in getting myself sent to prison on a murder charge. I've got other plans for the rest of my life.”

“I'm very glad to hear that.” She flopped back in her chair. Her eyes were still wary. “You've got a business to run.”

“Among other things.” For the first time since Jennifer had left him for her software zillionaire, it occurred to him that maybe he did want to do something else with his life besides add a few more fantasy resorts to the Avalon chain. Like what? he wondered.

Alexa scowled ferociously across the patio table. “Trask?”

Like make love to Alexa, he decided. That would be as good as any other way of filling up the empty places in his life.

“Trask? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry. My mind wandered. What did you say?”

“I said, what about using your private investigator to get the information you need?”

“I called Okuda this afternoon. Told him to start digging around in Bell's background. I also asked him to find out what happens to Guthrie's estate now that he's dead.”

Alexa raised her brows. “I hadn't thought about that. He had no family as far as anyone knows. I wonder who takes control of his finances?”

“That's the big question at the moment. “

“There's another looming issue.”

He cocked a brow. “Liz Guthrie?”

Alexa tilted her head. “Still no word on her whereabouts?”

“No. Phil says it'll take him at least twenty-four hours to locate her, maybe a little longer if she's trying to stay hidden.”

“She still isn't answering her phone, so I think we can assume she didn't just go out to the store.”

“Yeah, I think that's a reasonable assumption.” Trask watched the moon rise above a rocky spire.

“I wonder where Liz fits into this thing,” Alexa said after a while.

“I don't know yet. But there is one indisputable fact. She has ties to the Dimensions Institute.”

“So she takes some guided meditation seminars.” Alexa lifted one shoulder. “Big deal. Half of Avalon has been involved in a Dimensions class at one time or another. I took a course at the Institute myself, after I moved back here.”

That startled him. “You did?”

She gave him a fleeting grin. “Mom and Lloyd thought that it would be a good way for me to meet people. They're worried because I don't have much of a social life.”

“Guess they'll be surprised when they get home and find out that you're involved in a flaming affair.”

Alexa's eyes widened and then instantly narrowed. “I am not involved in an affair, flaming or otherwise. I think that what we had could more properly be classified as a one-night stand.”

So much for his own lousy ability to tap into the positive energy vortices around here. He wondered if it would help to take one of the Dimensions Institute classes.

“I suppose
it depends on your definition of a one-night stand,” he said carefully.

“It happened once. That makes it a one-night stand.”

“All right, you've made your point.” He hesitated. “So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Meet people and develop a social life when you took the class at the Institute?”

Her face was serenely unreadable in the shadows. “I met some people.”

He thought about the day he had found her having tea at Café Solstice with Foster Radstone. “Yeah, I guess you did. What happened between you and Radstone, anyway?”

She blinked and then frowned in what appeared to be genuine bafflement. “How did you know that Foster and I dated for a while?”

“The guy was leaning in a little too close.” How did you explain that kind of thing to a woman? It was something another man would have understood intuitively. “You know, like he thought he had a right or something.”

“Hmm.” She did not look pleased. “Well, whatever we had, it didn't last long. I met him when I took a class he taught at the Institute. When I dropped out, he called me up for a date. We saw each other a few times, but that was the end of it.”

“Another example of your, uh, inability to commit?”

“Not exactly.” Alexa flashed him an unexpected grin. “Foster's idea of scintillating dinner conversation was to explain to me how I could benefit from classes at the Institute.”

“Why
did you drop out of the one you did take?”

She rested her chin on the heel of her hand and regarded him with an enigmatic expression. “It wasn't my kind of thing. Besides, I was too busy with another, much more interesting project that was chewing up all of my free time.”

“What project was that?”

“Selecting early-twentieth-century art and antiques for your resort.”