Murder in Pastel Read Online Free PDF Page A

expression was priceless. “You’re telling Auntie Brett you never get horny?”
    “Sure. But I haven’t found the answer to that in a bar.”
    “You must be going to the wrong bars. Where do you think I met Adam?”
    “I thought you met Adam at an exhibition. I thought Joel introduced you.”
    “That’s Adam’s version.” He eyed me speculatively. He was probably right. Like a lot of writers, I lived too much in my head. I was lonely. And horny. “So what is there to do around here?”
    I shrugged. “You could drive up the coast toward Frisco. Or down the coast toward Monterey. There are plenty of stops in between. But why, when—” I bit the rest of it off too late.
    “When I’ve got Adam?” He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re still in love with Adam?”
    I felt myself flush. “Look, it was a teenage crush, okay? I was in love with Richard Gere too.”
    “Yeah?” Brett snickered. “Are you sure you don’t write Harlequin Romances?”
    I took my glasses off, wiped them on my T-shirt and put them back on. “Now you know my secret. And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a deadline.” Okay, so it was six months away.
    “Oh. I’ve offended you.” He continued to laugh at me with his eyes. “If your thing for Adam isn’t a problem for me, why would it be a problem for you?”
    “Don’t you have to be someplace?” I couldn’t help the edge that crept into my voice.
    Brett tilted his head. “Have it your way. I guess I’ll check with Joel. When it comes to gay nightlife, dial 1-900-OUR-JOEL.”
    I reached for my book. When I checked over the top again, he was gone.
     
    * * * * *
     
    The next days passed without incident. I didn’t see Adam except to wave to him across the sea of grass and wild flowers. Once I spotted him fishing down on the dock. By himself. Most mornings I could look up from my computer to see Brett pounding down the dirt road in a variety of skimpy “onionskin” shorts, plugged into a Walkman, his muscled body glistening bronze in the sun. If he caught me spying he would wave jauntily, not losing stride.
    From Micky I learned that the evening at the Berkowitzes’ had been a huge success. Everybody played Pictionary and ate Chow Mein cooked in my wok. Micky said she had to admit that Brett was charming and amusing, and she had never seen two people more in love than Adam and his child bride. Brett made a hit with the Berkowitzes too. I noticed that usually he stopped by there as a part of his a.m. routine.
    My work was going well, the stack of typed pages beside my computer mounted daily. And no wonder. I sought the immersion of writing the way an ostrich looks for soft sand.
    The summer grew hotter and the hills dried to gold.
    At night I gazed across the meadow to the lights twinkling cozily from Adam’s cottage, and I was both comforted by Adam’s nearness and depressed by the knowledge that he could as easily live on the moon. He was that far out of my reach.
    A couple of evenings I saw Brett zip off in the Acura by himself, and one morning I caught him stumbling home as I was heading out for my swim. He was a sight to behold in black leather jeans and a cobalt silk shirt in a brown baroque print right out of GQ .
    Spotting me, he waved and blew a kiss before disappearing inside the sleeping cottage.
    For Adam’s sake I hoped Brett was taking the normal precautions. He didn’t seem like a cautious kind of guy.
    Two weeks after Brett’s visit my garden suffered the yearly infestation of aphids. I seized the opportunity to mend bridges with the Cobbs, and drove into Steeple Hill.
    After some initial awkwardness, Irene invited me into the “parlor” where she served lemonade so cold and sweet I could feel my teeth shivering.
    “Norman’s bird-watching this afternoon,” Irene excused the mayor’s absence. “Poor dear, these days he has so little time for his hobby, what with all his civic duties.”
    I made commiserating noises. I knew full well that,