Eye of the Beholder

attention. There's no need to construct a conspiracy theory to explain his death."
    Trask said nothing.
    Alexa made a face. "Okay, I can't talk you out of it. So, who do you think killed Guthrie?"
    "Very likely the same person who had a reason for wanting my father dead twelve years ago. Webster Bell."
    She stared at him, open-mouthed. "What?"
    "You heard me."
    "This is madness." She closed her eyes. "The only upside is that you seem to have dropped Lloyd from your list of suspects."
    "I'll admit that the likelihood of Kenyon being involved is fading rapidly."
    She opened her eyes and glared at him. "That's some comfort, I suppose. Trask, you can't go jumping to wild conclusions. This is Webster Bell you're talking about."
    "I know you think I'm going off the deep end here, but if I'm right, I may not have much choice."
    "What do you mean?"
    "It's possible that whoever killed Guthrie may come after me eventually."
    She stared at him. "Why?"
    "Because by returning to Avalon after all these years I've confirmed what has to be his deepest fear."
    Realization dawned in her eyes. "That you won't ever stop asking questions about the past?"
    "Yeah."
    "Oh, my God," she whispered. "What are you going to do?"
    "What I started out to do. Find the evidence I need to prove that someone killed Dad."
    "How?"
    "By finding out who killed Guthrie."

    He was not making a great impression. Alexa had looked both resigned and wary on the drive back into town. He was pretty sure that she was toying with the possibility that he was a full-fledged wacko.
    He was almost positive that she would not jump into bed with him again until she had decided just how far gone he was.
    On the other hand, he thought as he walked into the lobby, she had agreed to have dinner with him tomorrow night. He allowed himself to entertain a cautious note of optimism.
    "Good afternoon, sir." Eric Emerson, busy with some colorful walking maps at the concierge desk, gave him a professional smile. "An overnight courier left a package for you while you were out."
    The coffee had finally arrived. Trask's mood escalated another notch. "About time."
    "I'll get it for you."
    Eric rose and disappeared into a small office. Trask glanced toward the front desk while he waited. A small crowd milled about in the lobby. There was an air of expectation. The first of the resort's paying guests had arrived.
    A sense of satisfaction hit him when he saw the expressions on the faces of those who were surveying the glowing glass bricks, lacquered wood, and scrolled steel of the lobby desk. He'd been in the business long enough to know when the fantasy was working.
    Eric reappeared bearing a carefully wrapped and taped package.
    Trask inhaled deeply as he took the sealed box from Eric. He caught the faint aroma of rich, dark-roasted coffee.
    "I think I'm going to survive after all, Eric."
    Eric grinned. "I'm delighted to hear that, sir, given the fact that you pay my salary. I assume those are whole beans?"
    "Naturally."
    "There's a coffeemaker in your suite, but you'll need a grinder for the beans." He reached for the phone. "I'll have the kitchen send one up."
    "Thanks. I always say, a good hotel concierge should be able to read minds." He inclined his head toward the group at the reception desk. "Looks like our guests are starting to arrive."
    "You're looking at the first trickle. According to Mr. Santana, we'll be one-third full tonight. Sold out by the weekend. Scheduling the opening to coincide with the Spring Festival was a great idea, even if things will be a bit hectic."
    "Nothing like opening with a bang. Hotels are like restaurants. They're either hot right from the start or they're doomed."
    Eric chuckled. "Judging by the bookings, we're definitely going to be hot. Must have tapped into some of the positive energy vortices in the ground around here when they dug the hotel's foundation."
    "Yeah, right," Trask muttered. "Positive energy vortices. I wonder if they were masculine or feminine."
    Eric shrugged. "According to the people up at the Institute, it doesn't matter. Both kinds are equally strong. The important thing is that they're positive, not negative."
    Aware that he was rapidly getting out of his metaphysical depth, Trask nodded and headed toward the staircase.
    On the second floor he went down the west wing corridor to his suite. Cradling the fragrant package in one hand, he paused to dig out his card key.
    A glint of bronze caught his eye. He glanced into the alcove