Silent Witness Read Free

it hurtled down the runway, she was aware that, whatever the cost, these were questions that must be answered.

MONDAY
August 14

5:15 P.M.
    A WARE THAT FATE COULD hang on the moment, yet wryly amused by the melodramatic thought, Janice lifted the phone and punched out the number. After four rings, Paula’s recorded voice came on the line: “You’ve reached the residence of Paula Brett. I’m not able to answer the phone now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the beep, I’ll get back to you. Thanks. And remember, wait for the beep.”
    “Paula,” she said, “this is Janice. I’m sorry I haven’t called you since—”
    “Janice.” It was Paula’s voice, live.
    “Ah—so you monitor your calls, one of those.”
    “I was in the kitchen.” A moment’s hesitation, a drop in the timbre of the other woman’s voice, registering compassion: “How are you, Janice? I’ve thought about you every day since the funeral. But somehow—” Another moment of hesitation, as Paula searched for the phrase. “Somehow it—it’s hard to know when to call and when not to call. If that makes sense.”
    “It makes perfect sense, Paula.”
    “So—” Another hesitant beat. “So how are you?”
    She drew a long, ragged breath. “I miss her. I miss her a lot. But—” She was aware that in the empty room, in the empty house, she was shrugging. There was no one to see, but she was shrugging. Why? “But I’m taking it one day at a time. So far, it’s working.”
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “As a matter of fact,” she said, “there is. That’s why I called.”
    The other woman’s response was prompt and fulsome: “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”
    “Are—” Her voice caught. She’d known Paula Brett since childhood. In all her life, she’d never had a better, more generous friend. Irrationally, the thought threatened to bring tears.
    “Are you still seeing the man you told me about—the private detective who’s also an actor?”
    “And a director, too. And a playwright.”
    “I don’t have to ask whether you’re still seeing him. I can hear it in your voice.”
    “No …” It was a half-shy response. “No, you don’t have to ask.” Janice could visualize Paula as she said it: the perceptive warmth of the dark eyes, the pensive mouth up-curved in a very private smile. It would be a smile that, to a friend’s eye, revealed a latent vulnerability. For ten years, at least, Paula had been trapped in a bad marriage to a cruel, narcissistic screenwriter, a sadistic predator who had systematically preyed on her sense of self-worth.
    “I’m envious. God knows, you’re entitled. But I’m still envious.”
    “Nothing’s—settled. We’re just—” She was uncertain how to finish it.
    Janice let a beat pass, to change the mood. Then: “Listen, Paula, is he—what’s his name?”
    “Alan. It’s Alan Bernhardt.”
    “Is he a good private detective?”
    As if she’d divined the reason for the question, and was carefully considering, the other woman paused thoughtfully before she said, “I think he is. If I had a problem, I’d hire him.” Another pause. Then: “Have you got a problem, Janice?”
    “It’s about Connie—about the way she died. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”
    “Alan?”
    “Yes, Alan. I’m sure. Almost sure, anyhow.”
    “Shall I tell him? Or would you rather—?”
    “I think I’m going to come up there, and stay for a few days.”
    “When?”
    “Tomorrow, probably. Or the day after. Will you be in town?”
    “Of course. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Have you got a flight? I can put you up on the couch, that’s the best I can do.”
    “No. I’ll find a hotel. And I think I’ll drive up. I’ll call you back, when I’ve figured it out. Can you call Alan, in the meantime?”
    “No need. He’s coming over for dinner.”
    “I’m glad, Paula. I’m very glad.”
    “Thank you, Janice. I’m glad, too.”

WEDNESDAY
August 16

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