X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“Sounds charming. What do you think it was?”

“Who knows? Maybe he had a secret life. In the end, I didn’t care if he had an entire family on the side; I just wanted out. I’d have stuck with him for April’s sake, but I had to save myself while I could.”

“Why did you marry him?”

“Well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it? You think I haven’t beat myself up over that dumb move? Not that this is any excuse, but I was newly divorced, unemployed, overweight, and I’d developed some sort of nervous condition that made my hair fall out in clumps. He could see how vulnerable I was and knew I’d be easy to manipulate. Which, I’m ashamed to say, I was.

“I’ll tell you one more thing, and this is embarrassing. I don’t even know why I’m ’fessing up except I’m sure I wasn’t the first or the last woman he tried this on. We sometimes smoked a little dope back then just for the hell of it. We’d get high and hit the sack. He had this trick . . . this choking thing he did. He told me he learned it in high school. He’d take me just to the point of passing out and he’d bring me to orgasm. I’d never experienced that before and I was . . . I couldn’t help it. I’m ashamed to admit sex had such a hold on me when Ned himself was so disgusting.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Anyway, I gotta get off the line. This is a business number. I run an accounting service out of my home and I’m expecting a call.”

“I’ll let you go, then. I appreciate your time.”

“You need anything more, feel free to call. Nothing I’d like better than horsing up his life the way he did mine.”

As soon as I hung up, I checked my scratch pad for Taryn’s office number and put in a call to her. When she picked up, I identified myself and said, “We need to talk.”

“Sure thing. When?”

“Soon.”

“Hang on.” She must have been checking her appointment book because when she came back on, she said, “My last client will be gone by six. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on, so I’ll be here for at least an hour after that. Come when you can.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks.”

I hung up and the phone rang almost immediately. “Millhone Investigations.”

“Kinsey? Spencer Nash here with the information I promised. Let me know when you have a pen and paper and I’ll give you his home address.”

“Doesn’t he have an office?”

“You’re catching him on the fly. He’s here a couple more days and then he’s off on his honeymoon. He asked if there was any way possible you could meet with him today.”

I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after five. “What time?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Oh, why not? As long as I said I’d go, what difference does it make? Might as well get it over with.”

“Love the sentiment.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself,” I said, and made a note of the address and phone number when he recited it. I took my sweet time closing up, and made a detour to the post office as I drove through town so I could drop the outgoing mail in the box.

•   •   •

I should have known the property would have walls like a fort. These were six feet tall and constructed of hand-hewn stone. A gatehouse had been erected at the entrance and a uniformed security guard emerged as I pulled up. I rolled down the window on the passenger side and gave him my name. I told him I had an appointment with Mr. Xanakis, then waited while he consulted his clipboard.

“I don’t see your name on my list.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

“You can use the call button to ring the house.”

I inched forward to a point where I could push the call button on the keypad. I sat, engine idling, until a hollow-voiced stranger acknowledged me on the intercom. Before I had a chance to identify myself, the gates swung open and one of Ari’s white panel trucks with the XLNT logo passed me on its way out. I eased through the open gate and continued toward the house. The cobblestone driveway was a long slow curve, landscaped so the house was shielded from view until I made the final turn. This was for the wow factor.

When I saw it, I said, “Wow.”

The mansion was done in the French Country style, a term I picked up in a book about local architecture, where the house was featured prominently among others of its kind. The estate was built in 1904, so at least the aged stone facade and weathered gray shutters represented a genuine pedigree. The tall, steeply hipped roof featured overlapping slate tiles. Pairs of chimneys flanked the structure, appearing as mirror images where they peeked above the roofline. The windows were tall and narrow, and those on the first and second floors were aligned in perfect symmetry. Over the years, rambling additions had been laid end-on, like children’s wooden blocks, though in perfect keeping with the original elegance. There was something Disneyesque about it. I half expected an arc of fireworks and a swelling chorus of “When You Wish Upon a Star.”