Trust Me

their work. She knew from what one of the officers had said that they had found nothing that altered their original conclusion. Vernon had apparently been killed because he’d had the bad luck to interrupt an armed burglar at work.
    It happened all the time.
    Desdemona shuffled through the jumbled pile of papers that littered her desk, her mind on Stark.
    Something she had seen in his eyes yesterday when Tony’s name had been mentioned had alarmed her. She was not certain just what was brewing in Stark’s razor-sharp mind, but it made her very uneasy.
    The phone warbled. Desdemona was so wrapped up in her dismal thoughts that the sound made her jump. For no good reason her pulse started to pound. She took a deep breath to quiet it and reached for the receiver.
    “Right Touch. This is Desdemona.”
    “You the lady who bought the ice sculptures from Vernon Tate?” The voice was that of a man. He sounded anxious.
    Desdemona squeezed the receiver so tightly she wondered that it didn’t crack. “Yes. Yes, I am. Who are you?”
    “Heard on the news that he was dead. That true?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Did you know him?”
    “Hell, yes. I’m the one who did those ice carvings for him. He owes me fifty bucks for the swan.”
    “You did the carvings?”
    “Yeah. And I really need to get paid, ma’am. He promised he’d give me the cash on Monday.”
    “I don’t understand. I thought Vernon was an ice sculptor himself.”
    “Tate was no ice artist. He said he needed that job with your company real bad, so he lied. We made a deal. I supplied him with the carvings, and he paid me the extra that you paid him for them.”
    “I see.” That explained why Vernon had always insisted on doing his work in private, Desdemona thought. “Who are you?”
    “Larry Easenly. You going to make good on the fifty bucks?”
    “Yes, of course. Give me your address, Mr. Easenly.”
    Larry rattled off a Capitol Hill address. “But I can come down there and pick up the check today.”
    “Things are in a mess down here, Mr. Easenly. I use my computer to write checks, and I haven’t even had time to turn it on. You can come down Monday morning, if you like, or else I’ll put the check in the mail to you so that you’ll have it by Tuesday.”
    “I guess that’ll be okay.” Larry hesitated. “I appreciate this, ma’am. I know my deal was with Tate, not you.”
    “It’s all right,” Desdemona said wearily. “You did good work. The ice sculptures you sold to Vernon were lovely.”
    Larry cleared his throat. “You think maybe you’ll need some more?”
    “I may. I’ll call you when I have everything sorted out here.”
    “Sure thing,” Larry said eagerly. “See you then.”
    Desdemona hung up the phone and sat thinking about what she had just learned. Vernon Tate had lied to get the job with Right Touch. She wondered what else he had lied about.

    An hour later Desdemona drove slowly down a quiet residential street north of the University of Washington campus. She searched the addresses on the aging houses until she saw the one she wanted.
    She eased the car against the curb and switched off the engine. For a few moments she sat behind the wheel and studied the scruffy-looking two-story home where Vernon had lived.
    She had dug the address out of her files for the police yesterday. They had probably already been here in their search for Vernon’s next-of-kin.
    The overgrown yard was in no better shape than the house. It was choked with weeds, which had managed to snag and hold fast several stray candy wrappers and a couple of beer bottles. The front door had once been painted green, but it had faded and peeled to the point where there were only a few patches of color left. An old tire sat in the center of what had once been a lawn.
    Desdemona did not know if Vernon had any relatives, a special friend, or even a roommate. He had mentioned his landlady once or twice, but that was all. He had not even provided a phone number to go with the address, so she had been unable to call ahead. It occurred to her once again that she really knew very little about Vernon Tate.
    She was not sure what her next move would be in the event that no one answered the door of the rundown house.
    She walked up the cracked concrete path and knocked on the once-green door. The sounds of afternoon television filtered through the thin wood panels. Desdemona knocked again, harder.
    A scratching noise indicated that a lock was being