Shame

collection.’ His words.
    “In addition to murdering his girlfriend, I think Farrell also killed a second young woman who looked like her. Her death, I suspect, was to divert suspicion from himself for his girlfriend’s murder. When I interviewed Farrell, he knew I believed McNeill’s revised story, but in retrospect I think he was more amused than threatened.”
    “Why would he have been amused?”
    “Because he was already planning to kill me—to kill us—when I showed up in Colorado.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “I’ve been in regular contact with the Denver Police Department. Among Farrell’s effects were copies of reports submitted to him by a Vincent Coleman, a private detective who worked for Farrell on and off for several years. Judging by the detective’s reports, Farrell’s been interested in us for at least two years. If you’d like to read all about yourself, and maybe learn things you don’t even know, I can get you a copy.”
    Caleb sighed. Having been spied on still rankled. “I’ll pass.”
    “I was hoping Coleman would be able to answer a number of my questions,” she said, “but he’s dead, and I don’t thinkhis death was a coincidence. He was struck by an automobile a month ago, just days after he finished a two-week surveillance of you. The Denver PD is in the process of examining Farrell’s vehicles to see if they can find any evidence that either his truck or his car was involved in the hit-and-run.
    “I suspect that killing was a way of life for Farrell for some time. When he was twenty-one, both his parents died in an automobile accident. Their car went off the side of a mountain pass. As a result, Farrell inherited a substantial amount of money, as well as a business. That happened six years ago.”
    “Was it a suspicious accident?”
    “Authorities didn’t think so at the time. Now they do.”
    “Wonderful thing, hindsight.”
    “I’m guilty of it myself. When I interviewed Farrell, I never suspected him of having murdered his girlfriend. I remember him as being well spoken, even overly solicitous about my comfort. The two questionable homicides had me believing that some kind of Cave Man copycat was involved.”
    Elizabeth waved a notepad. “I had my Farrell interview notes overnighted out of Denver. Mostly I just took down his quotes, but I did make a few observations about him.”
    She turned to one of the paper-clipped pages. “‘Very bright,’ I wrote, ‘but a bit grandiose.’” She flipped some more pages until she came to the next paper clip. “And here I jotted down, ‘John is enamored with his own voice, even a bit stuck-up, but perhaps he’s overcompensating.’ So much for my picking up on the fact that he hated me.”
    “That wasn’t something he wanted to advertise.”
    “True. He did a great Prince Charming imitation.”
    She shut her notebook more firmly than was necessary.
    “I doubt whether I’d want to read your early observations of me,” said Caleb. “I am not even sure if I’d want to see your most recent ones.”
    Elizabeth picked up a pen and started scratching furiously on a napkin. Caleb leaned over and looked at her scribbling. “Worse than I thought,” he said.
    She put her pen down. As their smiles faded, a lull in the conversation followed. Both pretended interest in their coffee.
    “So what do you do now?” asked Caleb.
    “Look for Rosebud.”
    Caleb gave her a quizzical look.
    “
Citizen Kane
reference,” she said. “I love that movie. I think Welles would have been a hell of a crime writer. He loved scratching beneath the surface. That’s what I try to do. If I look hard enough I’m convinced I can find Rosebud, or at least a few petals. That, more than anything else, motivates me to write my books.”
    “You probably like doing puzzles.”
    “No. They’re too limiting. The human puzzle is much more interesting. There are no boundaries, and the colors change, and you have to connect pieces that to the eye just don’t fit. I like it when I make my readers say, ‘Aha!’ There’s nothing quite so satisfying as revealing ‘the rest of the story.’”
    And maybe nothing so frightening, Caleb thought. For so long he’d wanted to tell the rest of the story, but he had never dared.
    “I like being surprised myself,” Elizabeth said. “The day before yesterday I found out that Farrell was adopted. And then yesterday I started learning about the rest of the story. His biological mother was