Free The Quick Adios (Times Six) by Tom Corcoran Page B

landscaping worth more than my home in Key West. He parked to the left side of his three-wide driveway, grabbed his satchel, we got out. He unlocked a tall gate next to the garage and led me down a flagstone path to a private entrance to the guest house. The small bungalow was a masterpiece of indirect lighting. Its king-size bed looked like ivory-toned high-thread-count heaven. Six fat pillows rested against a stout, solid wood headboard. Dave Brubeck jazz came from speakers I couldn’t see.
    “Drop your bags and wash up.” He pointed through the French door to a window on the far side of the lighted pool. “Please join us for drinks and supper when you’re ready.”
    “I’ll need to make one or two calls,” I said.
    “Take your time.” He pushed open the French door, left it ajar and strode across his pool deck toward the kitchen door. The bungalow door closed slowly until the last inch or so then snapped shut automatically.
    Another call had come through during our drive back into town. I sat in a leather chair, practically sank to China. Fred Liska’s message said, “There was something I meant to mention this afternoon, and I didn’t do it. For that I apologize, and I would rather not discuss it on the phone. Please call when you can. Maybe we can sit on your peaceful porch again and chill out.”
    From Beth: “Okay, I’m going to hope… Never mind. I know you’re not being an asshole like I was. There’s a real reason that you haven’t answered four times in the past three hours. I’ve changed my mind about not seeing you tonight, but right now I’m going to have a drink with my next-door neighbor. She wants to sit at Antonia’s bar and listen to the bartender’s jokes. Call if you want company.”
    Hell, yes, I wanted company. I wanted to yell out the door so she would be sure to hear me.
    Four empty voicemails had arrived from Dubbie Tanner. Finally he lost his mike fright: “Hope you don’t mind me leaving this in your message box. My partner, on a library computer, found Christi Caldwell, Emerson’s wife, on Facebook. He can’t get to her stats page until she accepts him as a “friend.” Her profile photo, we’re talking soccer mom.”
    Wiley may have thought that the library’s computers were secure, but I feared he had a surprise in store. I felt certain that the staff required some form of ID to use the machinery. If some agency wanted to find him, they could.
    I looked toward the main house, saw Anya Timber peer back at me from a kitchen window. Beeson’s remark that I should take my time may not have fit Anya’s idea of suppertime. Best to get inside, be a dutiful guest.
    I walked around the pool’s chlorine cloud, across a painted deck, and found the kitchen by way of a central room large enough for volleyball. Even with six or eight plates of food on the center island, I could smell Anya’s shampoo and conditioner. Her damp hair was tucked behind one ear, a touch that highlighted her loveliness.
    Beeson stood alongside a glass-front liquor cabinet at the far end of the kitchen. He shook a cocktail glass, rattled the melting ice in the dregs of his first toddy.
    “Drink, Mr. Rutledge?” he said. “There’s beer… and wine, if you’d rather.”
    I noticed an open Grgich Hills bottle next to Anya. I pointed at the Cabernet.
    Anya poured generously into a fourteen-ounce glass. Handing it to me, she tapped the U-shaped granite-topped island that held all the food. “This is albacore tuna salad, here are two turkey reubens and that’s hot beef and brie. Over there is vegetarian lasagna. This is eggplant rollatini. Please help yourself, Alex.” She pointed to one empty plate. “Justin and I are light eaters.”
    She had bought dinner for six to ensure that I had something I liked. I sipped the wine and watched Beeson fill his rocks glass with Johnnie Walker Green Label.
    Anya understood my reluctance to dig in alone. “I can make you a plate,” she said. “Is there