Free The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin

you said you are.”
    “Oh?”
    “Even the name—John Wolf—you made that up, didn’t you? And the way you handled that gun—what are you, CIA or something?”
    Not a bad guess. This was the kind of perceptiveness I had expected from Sarah—the side of her that provided the challenge.
    “John, or whatever your name is, who are you?”
    “John is right,” I told her, offering my business card.
    “John Wallingford,” she read aloud. “Wallingford Antiques, Landgrove. Antiques? Then what is all the mystery about?”
    “I hope I don’t sound pretentious when I say this, but I am a wealthy man,” I explained. “I do most of my business in cash. That’s the reason for the gun. I never had to aim it at anyone before that day in your store, but I’m well schooled in its use, thanks to the range I visit twice a week.”
    “But why the phony name?”
    “I wanted you to like me for myself, not my money.” I could see her relax.
    “I’m sorry I made you feel so nervous,” I told her.
    After continuing for a while in that sympathetic vein, answering her questions, I said, “I assume it was fear that made you lie to me about where you live.”
    “How did you know that? That I lied, I mean.”
    “It was a point in your favor, actually,” I said. “You’re a lousy actress.”
    “Okay,” she admitted. “Maybe I
was
a little bit afraid.”
    “Well, let’s have no more of that. I would like to take you out to see Wallingford Manor. We can have dinner, then I’ll bring you back to the city to any address you wish.”
    Sarah laughed. Then she told me her address, and we agreed that I would pick her up at 7:00 on Sunday.
    When we reached her car she turned and lingered, as if she expected me to kiss her or hold her. A wave of revulsion surged through me.
    “Sunday then,” I said.

Sarah

    W hen I arrived home, I noticed Robert’s car parked down the street. He must have been waiting for me because he pulled into the drive behind me.
    “What’s up?” I asked when he followed me up onto the front porch.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Why were you parked over there?” I asked, pointing down the block.
    He looked away. “I don’t know. Just a hunch.”
    “What?”
    “Why don’t we go inside? I could use some coffee.”
    I unlocked the front door, then stepped aside to let him enter. He headed straight for the kitchen, trailing fumes of beer. He immediately went about the business of preparing two mugs of instant coffee.
    Handing one of the mugs to me, he said, “The mayor’s assistant is an old friend of mine. I talked her into faxing me the guest list from a party he had the night of the shootings.”
    I sat down at the kitchen table.
    “I suppose you have a reason for telling me that,” I said.
    “Something just didn’t ring true about your Mr. Wolf. I had a gut feeling that something was wrong.”
    “You
always
think something’s wrong.”
    “Listen, Sarah, your undersecretary or ambassador or whatever the hell he says he is, is a fake.”
    “Robert, please start at the beginning.”
    “John Wolf. The guy who pulled the gun on those goons in the shop that day. He’s not who he says he is. And he wasn’t where he said he was when they got shot.”
    I laughed. “I already know that John Wolf isn’t John Wolf. He’s John Wallingford. Rich. Divorced. An antiques dealer.”
    “Jesus. What the hell’s going on here?”
    “He
said
his name was John Wolf, then he said it wasn’t. It’s Wallingford.”
    “Shit.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I didn’t even run this guy’s gun registration to make sure it was legitimate. I’m losing it.”
    “What’s the big deal? He used a fake name. So what?”
    “So
what?”
Robert hadn’t raised his voice like that with me for a long time. “A guy tells you one thing one minute, then another the next, and you keep on seeing him? The guy’s a psycho. Wake up and smell the Maxwell House.”
    “I’m sick of your drunken tirades,” I said. “I