Eye of the Beholder

time."
    "I understand. I just want to ask you a few questions."
    "Questions about what?"
    "This is a little awkward, but I wanted to ask you about your ex-husband."
    "Dean?" Liz's voice sharpened in alarm. "He's dead. Why do you want to ask me about him?"
    "I'm very sorry about your loss ..."
    "We were divorced," Liz said stiffly.
    "Yes, I know." Now what? Alexa wondered. She could hardly say, I've heard that you and Dean were still sleeping together, and I was wondering if he ever mentioned what happened to Harry Trask twelve years ago, and by the way did he indicate he might have any current enemies other than JL Trask? There were limits to her powers of subtlety.
    "I'd rather not talk about Dean," Liz said. "My guide says that I focus too much on the negative forces around me. Dean was a negative force."
    "The thing is I was one of the first people at the scene of his accident."
    "I see." Surprisingly, Liz's voice softened slightly. "It must have been very traumatic for you."
    "Yes, but that's not what I wanted to discuss."
    "I suggest you get counseling. Dimensions has an excellent staff. I'm sure someone there could assist you. They've done wonders for me."
    "Thank you. But what I wanted to ask was whether or not Dean ever mentioned any personal concerns he might have had."
    There was a distinct pause on the other end of the line. "Concerns about what?"
    "It really would be easier if we talked in person."
    "I don't think I can manage—"
    "Please, I just want to ask you some questions. It's very important to me." Alexa thought swiftly. "I believe that it would help me, uh, realign my inner peace and serenity. There are some unresolved issues, you see. Because of the trauma of the accident and all."
    Liz hesitated. "All right. I suppose it can't do any real harm. Be here at ten. I'll be busy with my personal guide until then. Oh, here he is now. I've got to go."
    "Thank you, I'll see you at ten."
    Alexa hung up with a sense of relief. Then she quickly punched in the number of her part-time assistant.
    "Kerry, can you open the shop for me today? Something has come up. I'm going to be a little late getting to work."

    No matter what the hour of the day, Shadow Canyon was cloaked in perpetual twilight. It was a popular tourist destination in the summer when its year-round creek and canopy of green offered respite from the heat. There were several large swimming holes in Shadow Creek that were much prized by the locals as well as outsiders.
    The flora and fauna of the canyon's higher elevation provided a striking contrast to the desert a short distance down the road. The cool, dark caverns and crevasses that had been etched into its rock walls drew hikers and bird-watchers.
    But even at the height of summer, when the sun beat down relentlessly on the town of Avalon , Alexa was not a great fan of Shadow Canyon . The cool shade it offered could not overcome the mild sense of claustrophobia that she always felt here.
    She brought the Camry to a halt and studied Liz Guthrie's home through the windshield. It was an expensive-looking, stylish affair with a lot of glass walls and a wide, encircling deck. There was no sign of a light in the windows. Granted, it was nearly
ten o'clock
in the morning, but given the general gloom of the canyon, it was a little surprising, she thought.
    Maybe people who lived in a world of eternal twilight learned to adapt.
    She opened the car door, got out, and eyed the thick stand of trees. There was something vaguely menacing about the way they loomed over the house.
    She hurried toward the front steps.
    The decision to talk to Dean Guthrie's last ex-wife was the result of an impulse. It had struck when she first awakened that morning.
    Trask was convinced that money lay at the heart of the conspiracy theory he had woven. But she was not so certain. The late-night phone calls had a very personal feel.
    She had tried to argue herself out of the notion of talking to Liz Gufhrie , but the more she thought about it, the more important it seemed.
    Liz was the one person who appeared to have had a close relationship of any kind with Guthrie.
    Chances were Guthrie had not been the confiding type, but if he had talked to someone, that someone might have been the woman he had slept with during the past few months.
    The rustling sighs of the branches overhead sounded unwholesome. There was a hungry, yearning quality to the soft whispers. An unpleasant tingling sensation brushed across the nape of