Free Sister Angel by Kate Wilhelm Page B

letter from Wanda agreeing to cooperate with both of you, agreeing to pay your fees. She isn’t any happier about this than the rest of us. But neither can she deny that what Amos is telling her is authentic.”
    Later, propped up on pillows in their king-sized water bed, Constance said thoughtfully, “It’s so weird that no one even thought of investigating Amos MacHugh until Gretchen mentioned it.” Charlie was undressing slowly, methodically, as he always did. She laughed. “What a pair they are, Gretchen and Dutch.”
    He shook his head. That was not the way to live, forever snapping at each other’s heels. Looking at Constance now, he saw the woman in her forties, but he also saw the girl he had fallen in love with, had married twenty-five years ago, and he could not decide which woman he was more attracted to, and, unable to decide, he thanked his good luck in having both in one package.
    “You know we won’t be able to convince Wanda that Amos is out to get her money, don’t you?” He got into bed, making waves that bounced her up and down.
    “Probably not. But you may turn up something to shake her faith in what he’s telling her. Maybe that’s all we can hope for.”
    Charlie groped for her under the covers, grinning his most wicked grin. “That’s not all that I’m hoping for, cutie. Make eyes at me in front of company, will you, shameless blond hussy?”
    The Garrity house was immense. The entrance was out-thrust like the prow of a ship, with a wing angled off on each side. There was a wide, covered portico outside a spa cious foyer that extended upward the two flights of the house. On the upper level, a balcony was bathed in light from windows on the north and south, with the bedroom wings on either side. From the foyer, the living room was down several steps; its southern exposure was glass, over looking a red-tiled terrace, the lawn, and, beyond it all, a lake. Family room, TV room, dining room, library, studies, all were large, brightly lighted with wide, tall windows, all furnished in warm colors, decorated with American Indian artwork, wall hangings, rugs.
    Wanda was an interior decorator; her own house was proof that she was a very good one. She had not given up her work after marrying Vernon, Gretchen had said, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
    “This is all very lovely.” Constance waved her hand at the house generally.
    “Thank you,” Wanda said. “When Vernon’s first wife lived here, it was white and a deep blue—ice-cold. We met at my shop, actually. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, just some color. We ended up with this.” She laughed, stopped abruptly, and looked past Constance at the fireplace wall where a Navajo rug glowed in the light of the low afternoon sun.
    Slender, dark-haired, she looked as if she had been ill, had not recovered fully; there were circles under her eyes and she had the absent expression of someone still paying more attention to her body than most people did. She was chain-smoking.
    “Please call me Wanda,” she had said almost instantly. “I’m sorry Gretchen is out. She’s told me so much about you and Charlie, your careers, I feel as if I almost remember meeting you at her mother’s house, not once, but sev eral times. And it will make it easier to explain to Brother Amos. You know, friends from our childhood come to visit.”
    “You have to explain us to him?”
    “Not really, but… One does, you know.” A flush colored her cheeks and left again.
    “Wanda,” Charlie said then, “I’ll want his fingerprints—a glass he handles, a picture, almost anything will do. That’s where we’ll start.”
    She nodded, then with a swift motion she stubbed out the cigarette and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, how to treat you, how to expect you to treat me. Do you want to ask questions?”
    “Not yet,” Constance said. “Let us be house guests for the time being, get acquainted. Let questions come up naturally. How does