Free With Deadly Intent by Louise Hendricksen Page A

cheek against Amy's forehead as he
     propelled her down the hallway. “Sure glad you're here, kitten.”
    At the arched living room entryway, she glanced quickly at Simon to catch his reaction to
     the Spartan decor. Years ago, after Uncle Mike Prescott took off with his secretary,
     Aunt Helen had gone to work as B.J.'s office manager. When B.J. sold his practice, Helen
     had stayed on with the new doctor. In order to work the long hours and still care for
     her home and young son, she'd cleared out all but the bare essentials. The starkness of
     the room often startled people, but Simon didn't even blink.
    A large upright tapestry loom rested against a clean expanse of sea green wall that ended
     at a floor to ceiling window with a view of the water. On the bare oak floor, beside the
     loom sat a woven grass basket overflowing with twisted skeins of brown, beige, and
     avocado green yarn.
    B.J. motioned them to the one piece of furniture, a pale coral couch that took up half a
     wall and one corner. “Have a seat,” he said. “Helen's gone to work, so I'll play host
     and get you folks some coffee.”
    â€œIs Oren here?” Amy asked.
    â€œHe's down on the bluff. Spends a lot of time there.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
    She leaned back against soft cushions and instantly her eyelids began to droop. She
     straightened and pushed herself to her feet. “I'll go find Oren.”
    A weathered cedar deck wrapped around two sides of the Cape Cod-style house. From the
     deck, wide shallow steps led down to a red cinder walkway bordered by gold and russet
     chrysanthemums. At the end of the path lay Oren's wood shop.
    She peeked in to see if he might be working. Amid piles of shavings stood a partially
     finished dresser of rich grained cherry. She stared at it, black despair drenching her
     mind. No fiancée, no wedding, no home—and no longer any need for a beautiful woman's
     dressing table.
    She rushed out and around the building to a path that meandered down a slope. Curled
     brown leaves and scraps of bark discarded by constantly shedding madrona trees crunched
     underfoot. Chest-high salal showered her with lingering sea mist when she brushed the
     branches.
    Where an ancient cataclysm had upthrust great basaltic hummocks and ridges, she found
     Oren sitting in a semicircle of rocks overlooking Rosario Strait She slid in beside him
     and sat without speaking.
    After a few minutes, he sighed, reached down and took her hand. “Good to see you.”
    She put her other hand over his. “You may wish you hadn't, when you hear what I have to
     say.”
    â€œNothing can make things any worse than they are. It's been a nightmare.” He faced her
     squarely, his features gray and drawn with despair. “I didn't do it, Amy. You believe
     that, don't you?”
    She longed to reply without any reservations. Still, how well did anyone ever know
     another? She squeezed his hand and said, “Of course, I believe you,” and hoped she
     sounded more convincing than she felt.
    He didn't comment when she told him Simon had once been in love with Elise. “Both Simon
     and I feel we have to learn more about Elise. Somewhere in her life there must be
     someone who had reason to kill her.” She stood up and went to gaze at a slate-colored
     sea that bulged and flexed like a weight lifter's biceps before it dashed against the
     cliff's base. Oren looked close to the breaking point. Would her words be more than he
     could take?
    He came to stand beside her. “Say it. Nothing can faze me now.”
    â€œElise may have been having an affair with Dr. Tambor.”
    His eyes opened wide, wildness flaring in their depths. “She loved me.” He smacked his
     chest with his palm. “She ... she...” He went rigid and terribly still as if listening
     to some inner voice. Then he seemed to cave in all at once. He braced a shaking hand on
     a boulder beside