Free Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

us. On our return.” There was an edge of something—not quite scorn, not quite irony—in her voice that made Betterton a little nervous.
    Carefully, the man set the plate down on the side table. He was as frumpy as his wife was elegant.
    “You’re Carlton Brodie?” Betterton asked.
    The man nodded.
    “Why don’t you tell us what you know—or think you know?” June Brodie said. She had pointedly not offered him a seat or refreshment of any kind.
    Betterton licked his lips. “I know that your vehicle was left on the Archer Bridge more than twelve years ago. Inside was a suicide note in your handwriting that read: Can’t take it anymore. All my fault. Forgive me. The river was dragged but no body was ever found. A few weeks later, the police paid a follow-up visit to your husband, Carlton, only to find that he had left on a trip of indefinite duration to an unknown location. That was the last anyone ever heard of the Brodies—until you suddenly reappeared here, out of nowhere, a few months ago.”
    “That would seem to sum things up,” June Brodie said. “Not much of a story, is it?”
    “On the contrary, Mrs. Brodie—it’s a fascinating story, and I think the readers of the Bee would feel the same way. What would lead a woman to do such a thing? Where has she been all this time? And why—after more than a decade—would she return?”
    June Brodie frowned but said nothing. There was a brief, frosty silence.
    After a moment, Mr. Brodie sighed. “Look, young man. I’m afraid it isn’t as interesting as you think.”
    “Carlton, don’t bother to humor him,” June Brodie said.
    “No, dear, I think it’s better if we get it said,” Mr. Brodie told her. “Say it once, then refuse to speak of it again. We’ll only prolong the story if we don’t cooperate.” He turned to Betterton. “We were going through a difficult time with our marriage.”
    Betterton nodded.
    “Things were bad,” Mr. Brodie went on. “Then June’s employer died in a fire and she lost her job with Longitude Pharmaceuticals when the company went bankrupt. She was at her wit’s end, half crazy. She had to get away—away from everything. And so did I. It was a foolish thing for her to do, staging a suicide, but at the time there seemed like no other choice. Later I went to her. We decided to travel. Stopped at a B and B, loved it at first sight, found it was up for sale, bought it and ran it for years. But… well, we’re older and wiser now, and things are less raw, so we decided to come home. That’s all.”
    “That’s all,” Betterton repeated, hollowly.
    “If you read the police report, you know that already. There was an investigation, naturally. Everything happened a long time ago; no fraud was involved; there was no escape from debt, no insurance scam, no laws broken. So the matter was dropped. And now we just want to live here, in peace and quiet.”
    Betterton considered this for a moment. The police report had mentioned the B&B but included no details. “Where was this B and B?”
    “Mexico.”
    “Where in Mexico?”
    A brief hesitation. “San Miguel de Allende. We fell in love with the place at first sight. It’s a city of artists in the mountains of Central Mexico.”
    “What was the name of the B and B?”
    “Casa Magnolia. A beautiful place. Within walking distance of the Mercado de Artesanias.”
    Betterton took a deep breath. He could think of no other questions. And the man’s frank ingenuousness left him with nothing to follow up on. “Well, I thank you for being candid.”
    In reply, Brodie nodded, picked up the dish and the dish towel.
    “May I call you? If I have any further questions, that is?”
    “You may not,” June Brodie said crisply. “Good morning.”
    Outside, walking to his car, Betterton’s step grew jauntier. It was still a good story. All right, not the scoop of a lifetime, but it would make people sit up and take notice and it would look good among his clips. A woman who