"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Courting Rites" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

The walls were thin. Neither the bookcase nor the painting could hide more
than a shallow money safe— and money didn’t concern me. I glanced in the kitchen,
approving of the stove island, the expensive hanging pots, and the more reasonably
priced (and obviously used) stoneware. The stereo lived in this room, which was
probably where Mariah spent most of her time.
I went out the side kitchen door and into a narrow hallway, lined with track
lighting focused on more framed, expensive art. The master bedroom looked as if no
one lived there. The bed had a regulation military feel to it, and nothing cluttered the
end tables. I opened closets and drawers, finding nothing except men’s
clothing—much of it silk, and much of it dated.
The master bath smelled dry and even lonelier than the bedroom.
Across the hall stood the only other bedroom. It was small, and lived in.
Clothes scattered all over the chair and desk, empty hangers in the closet, an unmade
water bed in the corner, and well-thumbed paperbacks stacked on the headboard. I
searched this room slowly, careful not to disrupt the mess.
Nothing.
The trapdoor to the attic delivered dust and mice droppings. The attic itself
was empty, as was the crawl space under the house. I walked back to the sunken
living room, turned and surveyed the place, worried that I missed something.
My search was fine. If Silas had been right, and she had stolen his banjo, she
certainly wasn’t hiding it here.
I sighed. I had more questions for him.
***
He looked even older when he answered the door at the house on Fifth and
Fremont. His hands were palsied, and age spots had appeared on his skin. His
beautiful silver hair was thinning.
“Come in,” he said, as if my presence annoyed him.
I stepped into the house and saw that the same person had decorated both
houses. They shared a creamy, expensive Southwestern look, a taste in modern art,
and a penchant for exact detail.
 “She’s not difficult to find,” I said, refusing to move away from the door so
that he could shut out the sunshine. “She spends every day at the hospital. She has
no need of money, and she has no banjo hiding in her house. In fact, when she
bought this house five months ago, the realtor said she bought it with a man in mind.
You, maybe?”
“Most likely,” he said.
“It’s time to tell me what you know.”
“You won’t believe me,” he said.
“I’ve been known to believe some pretty strange things.”
“Yes,” he said. “You have.”
He took me inside, and closed the door. The room grew dark, but not as dark
as I had feared. Sunlight filtered through the mini-blinds. He pushed aside some
cushions on the couch, as if he expected me to sit. I didn’t. He walked over to the
fireplace and turned his back to me.
His silver hair curled against his collar. He had a young man’s body, slender,
broad-shouldered, slim-hipped. From the back, I would have guessed him to be in
his thirties.
“We’ve met before,” he said.
I frowned. Surely, I would remember a man as old and as beautiful. “I don’t
remember.”