coming out…”
Her voice faltered, and her eyes grew red and brimmed with tears. Without speaking, Nick turned and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. She leaned her head against his arm and closed her eyes, seeming to draw strength from his very presence.
“The pool is nice, too,” Nick said to me even as he continued to comfort Angelina. “It is heated, so it will be warm enough for you to take a dip if you’re so inclined.”
I nodded, offering again my condolences for the death of a man who obviously meant a great deal to both of them.
“We will miss him,” Nick answered sadly. “He was a great man. A great friend.”
Angelina dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, nodding.
“A kinder soul I never knew,” she said, blowing her nose. “Like a second father to me.”
Finally, Nick removed his hand from her shoulder, leaving a faint white handprint against the dark cotton fabric.
Seven
Leaving Nick and Angelina in the kitchen, I wandered through the first floor of the house, peeking into rooms that were open. Passing by the door of the den, I heard a man’s voice inside. I realized it must be Derek, the Smythes’ son, talking on the phone. The house was large, but not so big that I wasn’t able to get ahandle on the layout of the rooms. Another day, perhaps when everyone was off at the funeral, I would attempt to explore the upstairs as well as the small wing off of the kitchen where I assumed Nick and Angelina lived.
For now, I headed silently across the dining room to the study I had glimpsed earlier, pushing the door open to find a dark paneled room lined with books and filled with exquisite leather furniture. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, then turned on the light.
This was Wendell’s office, certainly. A beautiful desk filled one end of the room, the chair behind it a duplicate of the chair he had in his office at work. I looked around, observing the neat stacks of papers on the desktop and the dormant computer on the side arm. Unlike the office at work, there had been no police activity here, no dusting of fingerprints or confiscating of papers. I sat at the desk and quietly flipped through everything on it and in it, but nothing jumped out at me as being important. With a tiny jolt of adrenaline, I flicked on the computer, a little afraid that it might make too much noise starting up, particularly with Derek in the room next door. But it whirred to life quietly, and once it was up and running, I took the liberty of taking a stroll through the hard drive—looking for what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. I opened files, read letters, scanned data. But nothing jumped out at me as being of any particular interest.
I shut down the computer and walked over to the bookshelves. The books there formed an eclectic collection, and I could tell they were well used and not just for show. Many of the bindings were cracked, and a few books held little slips of paper sticking out of the top, marking some unknown place. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about that. The man who had read these books, who had found some passages worthy of marking, was now dead and gone. Bookmarks or not, he wouldn’t be back to take another look.
On a coffee table next to a wingback chair, I saw the most important book of all, and I paused to pick it up and flip through it. It was Wendell’s Bible, more dog-eared and page-worn than any of the other books in the room. I loved seeing a Bible thatlooked like this, for it was obvious that its owner had dedicated himself to studying it and delving into its truths. There were verses highlighted in neon yellow, notes scribbled in the margins, question marks next to confusing passages. I felt comfort just looking through it, but also a sadness that this man hadn’t been able to pass along the richness of his Christian faith to his own daughter, Judith. Finally, I put the Bible back where I had found it and moved on.
The far end of the room held a large locked glass