Read Online The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin - Free Book Online

information had never heard of him because he didn’t have a phone. For the hundredth time I thought what an interesting, exceptional man John Wolf was.
    “My ex wants to talk to you,” I said.
    He laughed. “Wants to discuss my intentions regarding you, I suppose.”
    “No, it’s nothing like that.”
    “Well, I don’t mind telling him. I have important plans for you, Sarah Sinclair.”
    I felt the heat rise in my face.
    “So what does he want?” John asked, returning to the topic of Robert.
    “There was a shooting in the alley across the street a couple of days ago—two guys shot dead. I think they’re the same ones who came into the shop that day you were here.”
    “I see
.”
    “I told Robert about it—about how you got rid of them by showing them your gun. He wants to see if you remember anything I didn’t.”
    “Okay.”
    “Would you mind calling him?”
    “Certainly I’ll call him. What’s the number?”
    I gave it to him, thinking how odd it felt bringing those two men, my past and my future, together.
    “Oh, there’s one other thing,” I said. “The other day you mentioned a psychiatrist—the one you went to see when you were going through your divorce. Dr. Street?”
    “Streeter,” he said. “You aren’t looking for a shrink, areyou? I wouldn’t recommend him. Besides, you can always talk to me.”
    E and R. What a big difference two little letters can make. It explained everything.
    As soon as I awakened on the eleventh (which—since I had taken the day off—wasn’t very early), I phoned Robert at his office. My purpose, without being obvious about it, was to confirm what time he would be visiting Liza’s grave. I didn’t want our paths to cross. I didn’t mention that I, too, would be going to the cemetery. For all I knew, I would chicken out, and I didn’t want Robert giving me grief about it. Since the day of the burial, he’d been trying to get me to go out there.
    “You owe it to her,” he had said. Not: “It’ll do you good.” He made it a responsibility, a requirement—implying that my refusal to go was proof of my failure as a mother; proof that I was the one who killed her. If I didn’t go through with the birthday visit, I didn’t want him to have that knowledge, that weapon.
    “Sinclair,” he said when he picked up his phone.
    “Ditto,” I said.
    “Thanks for calling me back so soon.”
    I glanced down at my answering machine and, for the first time, saw the message light blinking. I’d had the bell turned off, so I didn’t know that any calls had come in while I was sleeping. I decided to let Robert go on thinking that I was returning his call.
    “What’s up?” I asked.
    “I wanted to thank you for passing my message along to your friend. I also thought I ought to let you know that he doesn’t really live in Landgrove.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean he’s playing a game with you, Sarah. The story he gave you and the story I got don’t match.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “You figure it out. Maybe he’s married. I don’t know.”
    “You always expect the worst from people. He happens to be divorced.”
    “Look,” Robert said, “his lies are between you and him. Let him set the story straight.” “That’s what I love about you.” “What?”
    “You drop hints. Get me interested. Then tell me to go fuck myself. You never change, do you, Robert?”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. After a pause, he added, “You know what today is.”
    “Yes …”
    “And you know how it gets to me.”
    “Are you going over to see her?”
    “Yeah. In a few minutes.”
    “Give her my love.”
    “Right.”
    After a long silence, I said, “Well, I’ve gotta run.”
    “Me, too.”
    Then I remembered. “Oh, wait. There’s something I keep forgetting to tell you. Remember that woman we were talking about—the one in the cemetery, who was murdered?”
    “Maxine Harris.”
    “Yes. She came in the shop once with some used books she wanted