Invasion of Privacy

asking the same questions about Andrew Dees. But you couldn’t know my intentions. All you knew was that something about me felt wrong. So up went your antennae, testing the wind for what it could tell you.”
    Stepanian started to speak, then stopped.
    “Something to add, Lana?”
    A shake of the head.
    “Anyway, after my first visit, you and Steven probably began paying more attention to what was going on around the ‘cluster.’ Noticing Dees acting more strangely, maybe overhearing him on the phone or in person in his unit, yelling things. Things you might have caught only bits and pieces of, maybe while sitting out on the rear deck, reading in your lounge chair. Things that troubled you, because you couldn’t understand the context in which he was saying them.”
    Stepanian just watched me.
    I said, “Then last Thursday night, you and your ‘husband’—”
    “Don’t say it like that!”
    “What, Lana? The word, ‘husband’?”
    She didn’t reply.
    “Last Thursday, you and... Steven became aware of an argument next door. Not just one-sided, either. Dees and his ladyfriend, from what you could hear. Only you couldn’t hear that well. Tell me, did you try to improve the acoustics? Did you maybe take a kitchen glass and put it up against your party wall? Did you hear something that set you and Steven off?”
    Stepanian flinched again.
    “I’m guessing you did. I’m guessing Dees was yelling something about his ladyfriend retaining a private investigator. Maybe, ‘You hired somebody to investigate me and my neigh-borsT Outraged, he would have said that loudly enough for you to hear it. And you both sensed another problem, another threat to ‘normal’ life as you lived it. The ‘we-met-at-BU’ cover you weaved was credible, but a little flimsy. Tug on the string, get on a plane, and the fabric of your and Steven’s life together starts to unravel fast. Intolerably so, just like it would have when Yale Quentin started nosing around.”
    Stepanian gnawed on her lower lip.
    “And so you must have decided pretty quickly what to do. Based on what happened next, I’m thinking that Dees also yelled something on Thursday night about worrying that he’d have to take a quick trip, even including ladyfriend coming with him. That gave you and Steven all the inspiration you needed. The roommate fell, the parents burned, the developer crashed his car into the sea. The newest threat would just... disappear.”
    Stepanian’s lip lost some more skin.
    “The only thing was, you had to deflect attention from Plymouth Willows. It couldn’t look like they disappeared suspiciously, because then somebody might start poking around here after them. So you and Steven took lady-friend’s Porsche to the airport, carrying what were probably the suitcases missing from Dees’ unit. Steven is close enough in size and coloring to pass for Dees at a distance, especially with a stranger, but you gilded the lily a bit by having Steven wave to the parking attendant. That was a mistake, Lana, since Dees himself would never have done that. And his ladyfriend would have insisted on driving her own car. Which brings us to why you used the Porsche. Because it was more conspicuous, easier for somebody to find at the airport and start the trail there instead of here?”
    Suddenly one of the marshmallow back cushions on the sofa fell forward, the upper body of Steven Stepanian facing me, leveling and cocking a revolver from about ten feet away. He raised the index finger of his other hand perpendicular to his pursed lips. I didn’t say anything.
    Lana Stepanian moved behind my chair, pushing me gently at the shoulders as she felt around my back and sides for a wire or weapons. I had on the same suit I’d been wearing at Nancy’s the previous Friday morning, and Lana found the Scottish fiddle tape in my jacket pocket, putting it back once she saw what it was.
    After as thorough a search as she could manage without risking my grabbing her, she said, “Nothing,” and then perched back on the armchair.
    Steven Stepanian used his free hand to flip the seat cushion in front of him off the sofa, stretching his long legs out from a yoga-style, ankles-crossed position. “Ah, that’s better. I was afraid I’d cramp up before you told us everything we ought to hear.”
    I inclined my head toward the loft. “I figured you to be upstairs.”
    “You’ll appreciate why I’m not in a minute. To answer your earlier question, though,