Free The Edge by Catherine Coulter Page A

reference materials. I do some research there once in a while.”
    “How did Jilly find out about you sleeping with Laura?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t tell her. Of course Laura knows Jilly. They’re friends.”
    “So Jilly went to the Salem Public Library too?”
    “Yes, she liked to go there. Don’t ask me why, but she did. Look, Mac, Laura is shy, withdrawn. She wouldn’t have told Jilly. I just can’t imagine how she found out. The two of them, they’re opposites. Jilly is beautiful, talented, outgoing, like all of you—you, Gwen, and Kevin. She never just plain walks, she struts. She oozes confidence, is immensely sure of herself. She believes she’s the best. Laura isn’t any of those things. She’s so self-effacing she could be a shadow.”
    “Why did you sleep with her, Paul, if she’s so damned self-effacing?”
    Paul looked down at the remains of his roast beefsandwich. “What is that old saw about having steak all the time? Maybe I just needed a change from Jilly for a while.”
    “Is Laura Scott still in Salem?”
    “I don’t know. She was upset when I told her it was over. I don’t know if she stayed or not. Why does it matter? I tell you, Jilly should never have found out about her. Maybe I dreamed about her and happened to say her name, with Jilly overhearing. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not important, Mac. It wasn’t important as of over a month ago.”
    I didn’t let on to Paul that it was more than important to me. Jilly had known that Laura had betrayed her. Laura was so much in Jilly’s mind that I’d somehow picked it up from Jilly when I’d been with her in the hospital. Was Laura the reason Jilly had driven her Porsche over the cliff?
    An hour later, I was on the highway heading to Salem.
     
    Salem, the capital of Oregon, sits in the heart of the Willamette Valley, on the banks of the Willamette River. It’s only forty-three miles southwest of Portland, just a short hop as the natives say. I remembered Jilly telling me once, on her third glass of white wine, that its Indian name, Chemeketa, meant “place of rest” and had been translated into the biblical name of Salem, from the Hebrew shalom, meaning “peace.”
    When I reached Salem, I pulled off the road into a small park and dialed 411. There was no Laura Scott listed in the Salem phone directory. There was one unlisted number for an L. P. Scott. I asked for the main number of the Salem Public Library. Ten minutes later I found the big concrete building between Liberty Street and Commercial. It was only a short drive fromWillamette University, just south of downtown. On the north side there was a big open courtyard that connected the library to City Hall. Too close to the bureaucrats for my taste. Once inside, you forgot how ugly the outside was. It was airy, lots of lights, the floor covered with a turquoise carpeting. The shelves were orange. Not what I would have picked, but it would keep students awake. I walked to the circulation desk and asked if a Ms. Scott worked there.
    “Ms. Scott is our senior reference librarian,” a man of Middle Eastern extraction told me in a thick accent, pointing to the right corner of the main floor. I thanked him and headed in the direction of his finger.
    I paused a moment beside the Renaissance art section and looked at the woman who was speaking quietly to a high school student with bad skin. He looked ridiculous to a man of my advanced years with his pants pulled down to nearly the bottom of his butt, bagging to his knees and beyond.
    The student moved away, ambling toward the magazine section. I got my first good look at Laura Scott. Paul had said she was painfully shy and withdrawn, that she disappeared, like a shadow. My first thought was: Is the idiot blind? Truth was, I took one look at her and felt a bolt of lust so strong I had to lean against the nineteenth-century English history section. How could he say that she was nondescript? She was slender, tall, and even