Kissed a Sad Goodbye

shrug. “Where do you suppose—” He stopped as the click of the dead bolt came clearly through the door. “It seems we’re in luck, after all.”
    The door swung open. Reg Mortimer had discarded his tie; his pink shirt was rumpled and the tail had come partially untucked. He shoved back the brown hair that had fallen over his forehead in an unruly wave and groaned. “What is it this time?” he demanded.
    Kincaid smiled. “People are always so happy to see us—I think we must be more popular than the dentist.”
    “At least the dentist doesn’t bother you at home,” Reg retorted. Then he stepped back reluctantly, adding, “I suppose you’d better come in.”
    The door opened directly into a large sitting room and Kincaid looked round with interest. The place struck him as faintly tropical. Two white, cotton-covered sofas faced each other across a round sisal rug. Table and bookcases were of pale, clean-lined oak, and the windows were dressed only in white linen shades pulled to half-mast. Light from riverside windows flooded the space. The room’s color came from the lime and tangerine cushions tossed on the sofas and the contemporary paintings adorning the walls. The only immediate signs of human occupation were provided by a vase of wilted day lilies on the coffee table and a jumble of papers spread out on the gateleg table that stood half open against one wall.
    “Nice flat,” Kincaid said admiringly, taking a seat on one of the white sofas. “Hiding out from work, are you?” Reg sank down onto the edge of the opposite sofa. “I kept thinking that Annabelle was just away for a bit, on a buying trip, maybe... expecting her to walk through the door.... It still doesn’t seem real, somehow.” He glanced at Gemma, who had moved behind him and was surveying the paintings with her hands clasped behind her back, as if visiting a gallery. “Is that usual?” he went on. “What I mean is, you deal with this sort of thing all the time.... I’ve never experienced...”
    “People find various ways of dealing with violent death. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been less than truthful with us, Mr. Mortimer.”
    “What—what are you talking about?” Mortimer’s eyes widened, and in the bright light Kincaid saw the sudden dilation of his pupils. There was no doubt the man was frightened of something.
    “Did you think that Jo Lowell wouldn’t tell us what really happened at that dinner party?” Kincaid asked, giving him a last chance.
    “But I told you—”
    “You can’t have imagined we wouldn’t check your story.”
    “You thought Jo would protect her sister, didn’t you?” said Gemma, pulling up the chair that had sat in front of the gateleg table. “Was that the way it always was, Jo protecting Annabelle?”
    “Yes— No— I mean... I can’t think anymore.”
    “Then I’ll help you, shall I?” said Kincaid. “You didn’t know that Annabelle had had an affair with Martin Lowell until Harry blurted it out that night. But their affair happened before you and Annabelle became involved, so why were you so furious? Were you afraid she’d kept seeing him after she took up with you? Or was it because she hadn’t told you the truth?”
    “She said it wasn’t anyone else’s business—” Abruptly realizing his admission, Mortimer stopped and looked from Kincaid to Gemma.
    “You argued about it after you left Jo’s, didn’t you?” asked Gemma. “You must have wondered what else she hadn’t told you.”
    For a moment, Mortimer tensed as if he might deny it. Then his shoulders sagged. “How could Annabelle have betrayed Jo and the children that way? And if she could do such a thing to Jo...”
    “Then she could betray anyone,” Gemma finished for him. “Even you.”
    “It was too humiliating—I couldn’t bear it. How could I tell you? And I didn’t see how it could possibly matter—”
    “You can’t know what matters,” Kincaid interjected sharply. “An investigation fits together like a puzzle—you can’t know how your piece falls in with someone else’s.” He scowled at Mortimer and added, “Unless, of course, your piece is the only one that counts. Let’s say that Annabelle added insult to injury. You were enraged with her already, angrier than you had ever been. You accused her of sleeping with someone else—” A look at Mortimer’s stricken face told him he’d hit home, and he felt a pulse of excitement. “You demanded to know who it was. And she told