Read Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 for Free Online

Let me show you.” She urged me out of the dusty room, clicked off the chandelier, leaving the little plastic mementos shrouded in dusky neglect. She led me on a whirlwind tour, upstairs and down. There were brilliantly hued posters, but no miniatures now. They all proclaimed the same goal: protect our world, its environment and its animals. Save dolphins from shrimp nets. Release wolves in the Northwest. Stave off development of wetlands and the remaining tall-grass prairies. Stop the cruelty of medical research on helpless cats and dogs and monkeys who think and feel and suffer.
    Coming back downstairs, I stopped and studied a full-length portrait on the landing. I didn’t need the little bronze plaque at the bottom to identify Belle’s daughter. But I looked at it inquiringly.
    My young guide’s face took on a subdued, somber cast. “That’s Miss Burke.”
    I wondered who had chosen this photograph, had it enlarged to full length. It told as much about the selector as it did about CeeCee Burke.
    â€œMr. Burke’s wife, Peggy, had it put there.” Ginger stared up, her face puzzled, perhaps trying to understand the willfulness of fate.
    So it was chosen by Peggy Burke, not by Anders.
    CeeCee’s head was thrown back, her long dark hair brushed back by a breeze, her face alight with happiness. She wore a plaid shirt and jeans and boots. An armful of Dalmatian puppies snuggled and licked and squirmed in her embrace. Bright sunlight glistened on a cottonwood tree and cottonwood puffs drifted on the summer air.
    â€œVery nice,” I said approvingly, but I struggled against the ache in my throat from that forever-gone image transfixed for one brief moment. It was a poignant reminder that Richard’s death had been preceded by another.
    I kept my face blank and walked on down the stairs. I played my part, making it clear that I was reassured about the goals of the foundation, but I wanted time to consider my course of action. I declined to leave my address and telephone number. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Cowan. And I certainly appreciate your kindness today. I am very interested in Mr. Burke’s commitment to nature.” I accepted an armload of pamphlets. “Do you enjoy the foundation as much since it has so drastically changed its aims?”
    She shook her head, smiled. “Oh, I didn’t work here when Miss Burke was director. I knew Anders from animal-rights marches. He asked if I’d like to be his assistant. I’ve loved every minute of it. It’s so wonderful to help animals.”
    I gave her a sharp, demanding look. “Is anyone here now who worked for Miss Burke?”
    â€œOh, no, ma’am.” She spoke without hesitation, sure that her answer would please. “Not a soul.”
    I left the Ericcson Foundation, my hands filled with brochures and exhortations. I also carried with me a good many questions. But not the ones I’d revealed to Ginger Cowan.
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    The office was in a strip shopping center on a shabby stretch of Mockingbird Lane. Plate glass windows and a legend in bright gold letters: STANLEY JAMES DUGAN, ATTORNEY AT LAW .
    The secretary looked up briskly when I stepped inside. She was a thin, middle-aged woman with faded blond hair, quick, intelligent eyes, and a tired, lined face. She wore good makeup, lightly applied. But her nose was shiny and the lipstick had worn to the edges of her mouth. Yes, she got up, started the day, put on makeup, but she didn’t bother to freshen it up. Usually, I’d have wanted to know why. I’d have wanted to know all about her, what brought her to asolitary, high-stress job, what kind of home she lived in, whom she loved or hated, what her children were like, why her mouth drooped in repose.
    Not now. Now she was simply an impediment, a challenge to be bested. But I knew I must curb my desperate impatience, the ravening hunger to gouge from this man or that woman the