Birthright

she and Chuck had a quickie in Dig’s trailer when we were on lunch break. She thinks Matt’s dreamy, for an older guy, but probably gay because he never flirts with any of the women. Bob’s got a dumpy ass and sweats too much. Bill . . .”
    She had to pause, gather herself. “She thinks Bill’s smart, but too much of a geek. A lot of daily minutiae. We had Eggos for breakfast. It rained. What she found that day, if she didn’t find anything. Descriptions of sexual encounters.”
    “Maybe you should read those aloud.”
    “Observations,” she continued, ignoring him. “Annoyances—like how come she can’t talk to some of the reporters who’ve wanted interviews. Bitchiness. She’s taken a dislike to Dory because Dory talks down to her. And . . . then there’s a rundown of what happened to Bill. Nothing new. Nothing new,” she repeated and closed it.
    “It’s just a college girl’s journal. Harmless.”
    Still, she jumped when the phone rang.
    “We’re cleared,” she said to Jake when she hung up. “We need to get out to the site.”
    “Okay.” He began repacking Frannie’s gear. “But we’re going to go through the others first chance we get.”
    I t only took Doug a day and a half to track down what he considered a reasonable lead. His advantage over the professional investigator, he concluded, was that he was no longer looking for Marcus Carlyle. All he wanted was any connection to the man, however peripheral, that might lead to another, and another, like a circle narrowing.
    He found that old, thin link in Maureen O’Brian, who had worked at the country club where both Carlyle and his first wife had been members.
    “Goodness, I haven’t seen Mrs. Carlyle for twenty-five years,” Maureen replied as she stepped outside the salon and dug into the pocket of her smock for a pack of Virginia Slims. “How in the world did you think to find me?”
    “I asked questions. Mrs. Carnegy at the salon at the country club gave me your name.”
    “Old dragon.” Maureen drew on the cigarette, blew out smoke. “Fired me, you know, because I missed so much work when I was pregnant with my third. That would be, oh, about sixteen years ago. Dried-up old bitch, if you’ll forgive me saying so.”
    Since Carnegy had described Maureen as a flighty, irresponsible gossip, Doug didn’t mind a bit. “She told me you’d been Mrs. Carlyle’s regular manicurist.”
    “I was. I did her nails every week, Monday afternoons, for three years. She liked me, and tipped well. She was a fine woman.”
    “Did you know her husband?”
    “Of him, certainly. And I saw him once when I went to their house to do her nails before a big gala they were going to. Very handsome man, and one who knew it. He wasn’t good enough for her, if you ask me.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    Her mouth went prim. “A man who can’t be faithful to his wedding vows is never good enough for the woman he made them to.”
    “Did she know he cheated on her?”
    “A woman always knows—whether she admits it or not.And there was plenty of talk around the salon, and the club. His side piece, she’d come in now and then herself.”
    “You knew her?”
    “One of them anyway. Word was there were more. This one was married herself, and was a doctor of all things. Dr. Roseanne Yardley. Lived up in Nob Hill in a big, fancy house. My friend Colleen did her hair.” She smirked. “The doctor was not a natural blonde.”
    N atural or not, she was still blonde when Doug found her finishing her rounds at Boston General. He supposed she was what people called a handsome woman. Tall, stately, that sweep of blond hair perfectly coiffed around a strong, square face, Roseanne had a clipped, Bostonian voice that made it clear she took no time for nonsense.
    “Yes, I knew Marcus and Lorraine Carlyle. We belonged to the same club, moved in the same social circle. I really don’t have time to discuss old acquaintances.”
    “My information is that you and Marcus were more than acquaintances.”
    Her eyes were a cool blue that went frigid in a finger snap. “What possible business is that of yours?”
    “If you could give me a few minutes in private, Dr. Yardley, I’ll explain how it’s my business.”
    She didn’t speak, but after a hard look at her watch, clipped down the hall. She strode into a small office, moved directly to the desk and sat behind it. “What do you want?”
    “I have evidence that Marcus Carlyle headed an