She looked down, nodded. "My friends kept saying, what else should he be? All men expect to play the field, to get away with whatever they can."
Dallas busied himself going through the small boxes of old belt buckles, pocketknives, an old camera, a couple of camping knives. He checked the camera for film and found it empty. "That's what some people want our society to be. Easy sex. Easy drugs. Easy crime. The more that people promote those ideas, the more infectious, and destructive, they become."
Lindsey looked at him directly. "That is very refreshing. How…how does Mike feel about that?"
Dallas smiled. "Ask his daughters. I lived with Mike and his brother while the girls were growing up. Those girls never bought into the glitzy popular trends, they knew too much. They understood how such views weaken and destroy a culture. They knew the details of many of the cases we worked, they were too well informed to get sucked in."
Turning away, he set the resealed box on the stack they had sorted through, and picked up the one marked "Albums." She felt a chill watching him open it. This one would be painful. All the photos of her and Carson, sometimes with friends, or pictures they'd taken of each other on day trips hiking south of the village.
They spent the next hour going through album pages, Dallas asking people's names and where certain pictures had been taken, Lindsey recalling all she could while trying to numb herself to the memories.
There were pictures from the office, taken at office parties, Ray and Nina Gibbs hamming it up, looking so happy together. Nina overdressed in her too bright outfits and too much jewelry. Lindsey could see, in every shot, the gold bracelet Nina always wore.
"The bracelet was an heirloom," Lindsey said. "It was the only thing about which I ever heard her make a sentimental remark, ever show any warmth regarding her family."
She studied the last page, a party shot of herself with Carson and her sister, Ryder. "One of our clients' homes, the Richard Daltons'. That was when Ryder still lived in the village." She lifted the album, looking closer. In the picture, the glance between Carson and Ryder had always made her uneasy. She looked a long time, then closed the album.
He said, "That picture disturbs you. Why?"
She felt herself blushing. "I…She was always a flirt, my sister."
Dallas nodded, and began to pack up the boxes. "I'd like to take some of the albums and the box of women's clothes back to the station. As the investigation progresses, maybe something will strike a note, make a connection."
"Take anything that might help. And you can always come back later, I'll have a key made for you." She taped up the last box, they stacked them neatly, folded up the table, locked the door, and headed out. They were halfway back to Molena Point when Dallas took a call on his cell phone. When it buzzed, Lindsey automatically touched her pocket, then remembered she'd left her phone at home, on the dresser-as she often did when she thought she wouldn't need it. Calls from clients could go on message, she didn't like being tied to the office once she'd locked the door behind her.
"How old a grave?" Dallas was saying. "How much of the body did you…?" He paused, listening, talked for only a minute more, then pulled over to the shoulder of the two-lane, where he could park.
"I need to make a stop, up in the hills. There's a turnoff just ahead. You have time to ride up with me? It's the old Pamillon place. It would save me half an hour."
"Of course," she said, interested in his sudden tension. "I have time."
Pulling onto the road again, he said, "You needn't look at the grave, you can stay in the car if you like."
"I know it's silly, but I guess I don't want to look." Yes, she would just stay in the car, sit quietly, take time to steady herself after this morning, after opening wounds that were still raw, that she very much wished she hadn't been foolish enough to stir into new life.
25
AS DALLAS AND LINDSEY headed for the Pamillon ruins, down in the village, in Wilma's garden, the tortoiseshell cat crouched beneath the Icelandic poppies, scowling angrily at Sage, who, impeded by his bandages and cast, had backed, hissing, into a pink geranium bush. From beyond the blooms Dulcie watched with dismay the two young cats whose argument had turned hurtful and rude.
They had come out to wait for Charlie to arrive in her SUV, to take Sage up to the ranch for the remainder of his recovery. Kit had meant to go with him, had longed to stay close to him, but after three bad-tempered confrontations this week, and then this angry bout this morning that had nearly come to teeth and claws, Kit didn't know what she wanted.
The argument had started during breakfast, which Kit hurried across the rooftops to share with Sage and Dulcie. As the three cats crouched on their cushioned chairs enjoying scrambled eggs and bacon, Sage told Wilma with amazing boldness that Thomas Bewick's book should be destroyed at once, that the pages must be ripped out and torn to shreds before they were seen by another human.
Wilma, despite her revulsion at destroying the rare volume, meant to do just that, once she and Charlie and the Greenlaws had enjoyed the small volume for just a little while-but she didn't have a chance to say anything, she'd barely opened her mouth when Kit lit into Sage.
"That book's too valuable to burn," the tortoiseshell hissed. "It's old and handmade and rare!" Wilma didn't know whether Kit had absorbed that biblio-friendly attitude from enjoying the library with Dulcie or from her two human housemates who would find it impossible to mutilate a book.
"A beautiful book was never meant to be burned!" Kit said, growling at Sage. "What do you know! You're feral, you know nothing, you don't understand!"
Wilma and Dulcie had watched her, shocked that she would be so hurtful. Sage stared at her then turned silently away, hiding his face. Though Dulcie had held her tongue for the moment, Wilma wouldn't stay out of the matter. Hastily she had fetched the Bewick book from her locked desk and shown the cats what else she'd found, during the small hours of the previous night.
Because the book's binding had puzzled her, she had examined it several times. The front cover was the traditional board with embossed leather glued to it, but the back one seemed slightly padded between the leather and the board. The edges of the leather were fixed in the traditional way beneath the gold-decorated endpapers, which were richly printed with a pattern of tiny paw prints among delicate ferns and leaves. But there was one place that seemed a little loose, as if perhaps it had been gently lifted, at some time, and then glued down again.
Late last night, while Dulcie and Sage slept, Wilma had risen from her bed, her curiosity fixed on that one small portion of the back endpaper. Slipping barefoot into the dark living room, turning on the desk lamp, she had examined the book again. As curious as any cat, she had carefully worked at the old, dry paper until she'd loosened it enough to peer beneath. This was a difficult thing for a librarian to do. Guilt had filled her because she was devaluing Bewick's work. But she was sure someone had already tampered with the endpaper, and she wanted to know why.
She had wondered, ever since she and Charlie retrieved the book, if Olivia had hidden it because, though unwilling to let anyone else see it, she couldn't bring herself to destroy it. She still had no real idea of the book's value, though she had researched Thomas Bewick on the Web and in bound catalogs in the library. The highest price for any edition had been a little over a thousand dollars. But this title had not been listed among those auctioned or for sale, had not appeared in any source she could find.
From the writing style, the typeface, and the style of bookmaking, she was certain this was truly Bewick's work. And last night, when she'd peeked with infinite care beneath the loose endpaper and discovered a thin sheaf of papers hidden there, she'd felt a sharp wave of terrible excitement.