“No,” I said.
“It’s just a thought.”
He looked away from me and motioned for the waitress to bring the check. “How long will Lucy be visiting you?” he asked.
“She doesn’t have to be back at school until January seventh.”
“I remember she’s pretty good with computers.”
“She’s more than pretty good.”
Wesley smiled a little. “So Marino’s told me. He says she thinks she can help with AFIS.”
“I’m sure she’d like to try.”
I suddenly felt protective again, and torn. I wanted to send her back to Miami, and yet I didn’t.
“You may or may not remember, but Michele works for the Department of Criminal justice Services, which assists the State Police in running AFIS,” Wesley said.
“I should think that might worry you a little right now.” I finished my brandy.
“There isn’t a day of my life that I don’t worry,” he said.
The next morning a light snow began to fall as Lucy and I dressed in ski clothes that could be spotted from here to the Eiger.
“I look like a traffic cone,” she said, staring at her blaze orange reflection in the mirror.
“That’s right If you get lost on a trail. It won’t be hard to find you.”
I swallowed vitamins and two aspirin with the sparkling water from the minibar.
My niece eyed my outfit, which was almost as electric as hers, and shook her head. “For someone so conservative, you certainly dress like a neon peacock for sports.”
“I try not to be a stick-in-the-mud all of the time. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Benton’s supposed to meet us in the dining-room at eight-thirty. We can go down now if you don’t want to wait.”
“I’m ready. Isn’t Connie going to eat with us?”
“We’re going to meet her on the slopes. Benton wants talk shop first.”
“I would think it must bother her to be left out,” Lucy said. “Whenever he talks with anyone, it seems she isn’t invited.”
I locked the room door and we headed down the quiet corridor.
“I suspect Connie doesn’t wish to be involved,” I said in a low voice. “For her to know every detail of her husband’s work would only be a burden for her.”
“So he talks to you instead.”
“About cases, yes.”
“About work. And work is what matters most to both of you.”
“Work certainly seems to dominate our lives.”
“Are you and Mr. Wesley about to have an affair?”
“We’re about to have breakfast.”
I smiled.
The Homestead’s buffet was typically overwhelming. Long cloth-covered tables were laden with Virginia cured bacon and ham, every concoction of eggs imaginable, pastries, breads, and griddle cakes. Lucy seemed immune to the temptations, and headed straight for the cereals and fresh fruit. Shamed into good behavior by her example and by my recent lecture to Marino about his health, I avoided everything I wanted, including coffee.
“People are staring at you, Aunt Kay,” Lucy said under her breath.
I assumed the attention was due to our vibrant attire until I opened the morning’s Washington Post and was shocked to discover myself on the front page. The headline read, “MURDER IN THE MORGUE,” the story a lengthy account of Susan’s homicide, which was accompanied by a prominently placed photograph of me arriving at the scene and looking very tense. Clearly, the reporter’s major source was Susan’s distraught husband, Jason, whose information painted a picture of his wife leaving her job under peculiar, if not suspicious, circumstances less than a week before her violent death.
It was asserted, for example, that Susan recently confronted me when I attempted to list her as a witness in the case of a murdered young boy, even though she had not been present during his autopsy. When Susan became ill and stayed out of work “after a formalin spill,” I called her home with such frequency that she was afraid to answer me phone, then I showed up on her doorstep the night before her murder” with a poinsettia and vague offers of favors.
“I walked into my house after Christmas shopping and there was the Chief Medical Examiner inside my living room,” Susan’s husband was quoted. “She [Dr. Scarpetta] left right away, and as soon as the door shut Susan started crying. She was terrified of something but wouldn’t tell me what.”