Eye of the Beholder

marble-topped console in front of him. "I believe that her name was submitted by the art consultant."
    "That's right."
    "Do we have any record of what Alexa Chambers did on the project?"
    "Let me check."
    Trask listened to the faint rustle of papers on the other end of the line. An image of Glenda's terrifyingly efficient desktop floated through his mind.
    She came back a few seconds later.
    "Here's the list, but there are no details concerning her connection to the resort project. All I have is an address for her here in Avalon."
    "See if you can pin down her connection to the project. Find out if she was a supplier or a sub, will you?"
    "Certainly, sir."
    "And, Glenda?"
    "Yes?"
    "Be discreet will you?"
    "I'm in PR, sir." There was no hint of amusement in her words, only firm, professional assurance. "I am nothing if not discreet."
    "Sorry. It's just that I'd rather Vale didn't find out that I'm questioning any of the names on his list."
    "I understand. He might take offense. Artistic types can be temperamental."
    "Yeah, just like us business types."
    Glenda paused for a beat or two. Trask wondered if she was rerunning the conversation through her neatly organized brain to see if she was supposed to laugh. She evidently concluded that a polite chuckle was unnecessary because when she resumed speaking her inflection did not alter.
    "Ms. Chambers may not have had anything at all to do directly with the project," she warned. "You know how the architect and design people are. They often use their invitation privileges for clients, friends, and relatives. Opening night receptions provide an opportunity to show off their work."
    "I'm aware of that. Get back to me when you find out which category Ms. Chambers falls into."
    "Yes, sir."
    Trask slowly put down the phone. He straightened away from the desk and walked across the thick carpet to the French doors.
    He twisted the ornate brass knob and stepped out onto the balcony. A warm breeze, as light as a woman's silk scarf and infused with the clean scent of the desert, drifted over him.
    He wondered if Harry would have been pleased with the way the resort had turned out. He knew that he would get some answers here in Avalon but that would not be one of them.
    Nathan had come up with the design based on Harry's original concept. The resort had been constructed on the bones of the old Avalon Mansion , which had been built in the 1930s by a retired mobster who had moved to Arizona after Prohibition was repealed.
    Nathan claimed the end result was a cross between Frank Lloyd Wright and the Spanish Colonial style. In Trask's opinion it was a Hollywood fantasy straight out of a thirties film.
    Fine by him. He knew the power of a good fantasy. Down below, the hotel's fancifully sculpted outdoor pool sparkled in the afternoon sun. Beyond lay the verdant green fairway of the Red Canyon Country Club's twelfth hole . The frivolous luxuries of civilization were framed by the bleak, timeless elegance of the desert's towering sandstone spires and rust-colored ramparts.
    After a lifetime spent in the cool, cloudy realm of the Pacific Northwest , the starkly surreal cliffs and canyons of Avalon should have felt alien to him, Trask thought. He had been completely unprepared for the impact the place had had on him when he arrived three days ago. He still could not understand why, at thirty-five, he suddenly found himself drawn to this science fiction landscape.
    He had not taken any pleasure in the scenery twelve years ago. On that occasion he had spent forty-eight hellish hours arranging his father's funeral, sweating the future, and dealing with the guilt that had gnawed at his insides. The only emotions he had felt toward Avalon then had been rage.
    But this time it all seemed different somehow. It had started feeling that way the day he got into town—the day he met the woman with the crystal-gazing eyes at Avalon Point.
    Her image flickered through his mind again. He remembered the way her sleek, dark hair had curved just beneath her high cheekbones, saw again the distinctive line of her nose and the deep, steady watchfulness in her blue-green eyes.
    When she had walked away from him, there had been an unconscious sensuality in her stride that had made him think of full moons and scented, sultry bedrooms.
    She had not been wearing one of the turquoise and silver bracelets that half the town sported. As far as he could figure out, the lack of one indicated that she was not affiliated