Her Last Letter (8 page)

“No. No you won’t. I’m looking for hefty paybacks in the form of sizzling female flesh. Whoa, hang on a minute. Need to add a log to that fire, I think. Don’t want it to die down too quick.”

I laughed as he hustled from the room.

When dinner was ready, he pulled out my chair and brought our plates to the table. He actually wasn’t a bad cook. The chicken was done, not raw or overcooked, as was the potato. Of course, at that moment, it didn’t matter to me one bit how it tasted. I wouldn’t think of criticizing his efforts.

He lit a candle for the table and turned down the lights, and by the time we’d moved to the living room and the hypnotic warmth of the fire, I was ready to love Trevor again, the way I’d loved him in the past, before I’d discovered Kelly’s letter.

The drive to Denver was bleak. Rain turned quickly to sleet, a heavy slushy mess that my windshield wipers struggled hopelessly to remove. I strained to see the road, slowing to just under fifty, made more nervous as other less intimidated drivers flew by on Route 70 hurling splatters of the heavy stuff against the van.

I’d rented a large cargo van to carry all of my artwork and the panels I would display it on. The Jeep was just too small. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect to be driving with an unfamiliar vehicle in such nasty weather. Still, it would take a lot more than bad driving conditions for me to cancel. I’d arranged this particular mall exhibition at Vista Meadows a year in advance, before the mall was even completed. An art agent I’d met at one of Linda’s parties had mentioned that the new mall would be a good opportunity for newer artists, if they moved quickly.

I’d brought twenty pieces to display, a feat, considering all the setbacks in the past two weeks. Eight of the paintings were new. I also had a large stack of four-color brochures I’d designed which had turned out really spectacular, and a nice looking mauve plastic name tag with my name in gold.

It would be late afternoon by the time I arrived at my hotel, enough time to have dinner, then call and make sure all the arrangements I’d made earlier, and confirmed by phone, had not somehow been lost in the shuffle of changing mall personnel.

As much as I wanted to do this show, I didn’t like the idea of leaving when things were so unsettled. They’d discharged Linda from the hospital on Thursday, yesterday, and I’d visited her at home and brought her favorite pastries and other treats, along with lots of sympathy. Each time I asked her about the accident, as subtly as I could considering her tendency to close up on me, I got the same response. She’d tripped on the stairs. She said again she hadn’t been able to reach Wolfgang and she didn’t want the neighbors asking a lot of nosy questions, so she’d called me. Simple as that.

I’d made a decision to show Linda the letter as soon as she recovered. I suspected Wolfgang was the one responsible for Kelly’s murder, but I had no answer as to why. At the time Kelly died, Linda and Wolfgang had been married for a year and a half, certainly sufficient time for him to get to know Kelly fairly well. Maybe something had been going on. Was he afraid that Kelly would expose the affair and jeopardize his marriage to Linda? No, that didn’t seem reasonable. Wolfgang had to know that Linda wouldn’t leave him. Not for any reason. Not as crazy as she was about him.

Kelly had mentioned a box … that he may have found the box. This box must certainly be the clue that tied everything together. Could Kelly have stumbled onto something, some secret Wolfgang didn’t want revealed? Or possibly, Kelly, with her habit of writing everything down, had put what she’d learned into the box, and Wolfgang had found that. Or maybe not. Maybe it was something entirely different. What was so important about this box?

I worried about showing the letter to Linda. I worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut, that she’d either intentionally or accidentally reveal the contents of it to Wolfgang. Then the both of us would be at risk.

The sky was the same dull gray and still sleeting when I pulled the van into the parking lot of the four-story Bingham hotel. I folded a newspaper to cover my head, then stepped outside the van and peered through the rear windows. None of my artwork appeared to have seriously shifted. I’d protected it well.

The van came equipped with an alarm system, so I wasn’t too worried about theft. Plus, it seemed to be a good area of town, though I’d never been on this side of Denver before. Tonight, after the mall closed for business, I’d drive over and set up for tomorrow.

I checked into the hotel and took the elevator to the second floor. The place wasn’t exactly new or exactly old. Its best quality as far as I was concerned was its proximity to the mall, just a few miles away.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped out onto plush green carpet framed by walls of pale mint. I found my room number, inserted the keycard into the slot, which signaled green and allowed me to enter.

The room was decent enough, continuing the green motif of the hall, patterned spread on the king-size bed, ginger jar lamps, telephone. I pitched my suitcase onto the bed, then sat down to use the phone. I called home first. Trevor wasn’t there, so I left a message, said I’d arrived safely, the weather was crummy here too, that I was starving and thirsty-and lastly-that I loved him. I told him I’d call later in the evening. I left a similar message on his cell phone

I ordered room service, turkey sandwich and tomato soup, then lay back on the bed and tried to relax.

The hotel was on the northeast edge of Denver, not so far from downtown that I couldn’t sightsee if I had more time. It had been three years since I’d made a trip to Denver purely for pleasure. Kelly had been with me. We’d visited the Denver Art Museum, exploring the many wings of the huge free-form structure. Since then the museum had added an entire floor devoted to European paintings and textiles. I wanted to see them, but it would have to wait until another time. I tried to remember why Linda hadn’t come along on that trip, some excuse, but she’d rarely joined me if Kelly was invited.

My snack arrived and after I finished it I checked my voicemail for messages. I had only one since I’d last looked, the time given, eleven a.m. I didn’t recognize the number, though it seemed vaguely familiar. And then it clicked … Josh.

“Hi, Gwyn. It’s just me. I said I would call and here I am, calling. I’m over at my mom’s again, a short trip only, but since I’m in town I thought of you and our lunch date in Aspen. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again. I’m bored as hell here. I love the family, but I can only eat, sleep, and yak with them so much. Are you very busy? Could you drop whatever you’re doing and meet me for a drink? I realize this could be awkward, but we are old friends, more than old friends. I got the feeling last time that there’s more we need to talk about. I could anyway. So, give me a jingle.”

He’d left his mother’s number and his cell phone. I checked the time. It was now five-thirty. He sounded nervous and needy and I could have punched myself if I thought it would do any good. Look what I’d done.

I debated returning his call. Rude if I didn’t, considering I’d given him my number though he hadn’t asked for it. Of course, maybe he wouldn’t answer and I could leave a short message, tell him I was out of town, thank him for the call, and leave it at that. Then let a week go by. He’d get the idea. He was no idiot.

I moved to the edge of the bed, thinking, contemplating the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed. It rang once, twice, and just as I was about to believe it would all work out, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Josh. It’s Gwyn.”

“Oh-well great. I’m glad I picked up the phone. I’m in my car.”

“I got your message, a little late. I just got it now.”

“Oh, well I’m glad you called. I didn’t think I’d be in town again so soon, but I am.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh, you mean my mother? No, she’s fine. They’re all fine. No, my sister’s getting married, and at first I didn’t think I’d be able to make it, but I did. The wedding’s tomorrow. You want to be my date?”

Before I could answer, he continued. “I’m kidding, of course. It’s that whole church, morals thing. You know, married woman, single man. My family is
so
not with it. I don’t give a damn, but they might.”

He had me laughing now.

“Oh, Josh. So, which sister is it?”

“Amy.”

“Well, give her my congratulations.”

“I will. Say … do you have a minute? For that drink, I mean.”

“Would you believe I’m in Denver?”

“You are? No. Why?”

“A good reason. A big solo exhibition at a mall.”

“I see.” Then sounding happier, he said, “That’s great. Are you done for the day?”

“No. No, it doesn’t start until tomorrow. I set up tonight after the mall closes.”

“Which mall?”

“I don’t think you’d know it. Vista Meadows. New, kind of classy, I guess.”

“No, I don’t know it. But I’ll be going to the airport on Sunday. I have some business in Denver. Maybe I can stop by.”

“Well, I guess you could,” I said, hesitating, “but I won’t have much time to talk. I’ll be busy trying to sell.”

“Then maybe I’ll buy something. I haven’t seen anything you’ve done in a while. Are you expensive?”

“If I don’t sell anything Saturday, the prices could get a lot lower by Sunday.”

“You’ll sell. Maybe I’ll buy the whole bunch.”

I smiled. “I don’t think you have to do that. Maybe just do a lot of gushing about my work in front of the customers, pretend to be an art critic or something.”

“I certainly will, but actually I can’t guarantee to make it. I have a few things to take care of on Sunday, so don’t count on me.”

“If you’re there great, if not, some other time.”

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and felt as if we might drift into dangerous territory if the conversation continued. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Josh. I probably should call the mall and do some last minute-”

“Gwyn?”

“What?”

He was silent, then cleared his throat. “Have a good time tomorrow. Enjoy yourself. You’ll do fine.”

After we hung up, I made a list of questions to ask the mall people, just to reaffirm what they’d told me before. I’d get over there by eight tonight, before the mall closed at nine, look at the layout, plan how to set everything up, then get started.

Unfortunately, by the time I drove over, the sleet, still heavy-and now made worse by the addition of wind-had glazed the roads and made them icy. The van didn’t handle as well as the Jeep, a stick shift, enabling me to downshift quickly when needed, and I had my reservations about the quality of tread on the tires. The van slid at every corner even though I was barely moving.

To make matters worse, a line of traffic grew steadily longer behind me. A truck, its headlights flooding the interior of the van, loomed inches from my bumper.

I could see the mall lights up ahead on my right as I began to ascend a small hill. The rear end of the van swished right, then left. I clutched the steering wheel, willing my foot off the brake. The truck faded back.

I pulled into a well-lit area of the immense parking lot and stopped to take a breather. According to my instructions, I was to go to a loading dock marked B-7, where I could back the van inside, shielded from the weather. I’d impressed upon the mall people that I couldn’t unload my paintings and panels unless they were well protected. They’d assured me everything would be fine.

But, of course, I couldn’t find B-7. The way they’d spoken, I’d assumed it would be easy to locate. But there weren’t any markings of any kind outside, or else the dark night and inclement weather had erased them. I parked the van as close to an entrance as possible and ran inside.

Despite the weather, the mall was busy. It was quite nice, better than anything near Glenwood, and new. It gleamed like a shiny new coin. I hurried past walls adorned with striated marble tile and under vaulted ceilings with antique gold accents. Lush greenery and brilliant flowers of red, yellow, and purple sprouted from giant pots around every turn. Store windows spewed forth their offerings, glittering jewels, Rolex watches, full-length sable coats. I spotted Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus, smaller stores, Liz Claiborne, Gerard Heath, and Le’ Spa.

My instincts told me to head to the center of the mall. Maybe I’d find some kind of information desk.

I did find a circular booth, and calmly explained my dilemma to a kind-faced, smartly dressed woman in a rose colored suit. She quickly spoke to someone on the phone, pulled out a folded map, marked off B-7 in red ink, along with the area I described as the location for my art show. I thanked her profusely and headed off.

By the time I crept back to my hotel that night, I was exhausted. I’d found B-7, but again had to get out of my van and get drenched because a huge delivery truck was blocking the entire entrance. I found the driver and convinced him to move his empty truck-he had stopped to have a coffee and donut and was reluctant to leave the donut box-but the delay cost me another half-hour of setup time.

Fortunately, it was all done now. It took me countless trips to carry it all inside and a lot of thinking and planning to put it all together, but it looked great. They’d given me a good location, a carpeted island surrounded by aisles going in several directions, central to foot traffic. I had potted plants for background, pots of flowers I could use or remove. And they’d remembered to provide a decent looking desk for me to sit behind when I wasn’t on my feet roaming or talking to potential customers.

Though it was almost eleven p.m. and Trevor might already be asleep, I decided to call. The phone rang four times and then the answering machine clicked on. But as I began to speak, the machine beeped once, and I knew Trevor had picked up the receiver. His sleepy voice mumbled something resembling hello.

“Hi, honey,” I said, “sorry I woke you.”

“So’kay.”

“I’ll call again in the morning. You go back to sleep.” He grunted something unintelligible and I couldn’t be sure if he was agreeing with me or not. “Trevor?”