58 58MALCOLM NORTON OPENED HIS OFFICE ON MONDAY MORNING at the usual time, nine-thirty. He passed through the reception area where Barbara Hoffman’s desk faced the door. The desk, however, was now cleared of all Barbara’s personal belongings. The framed pictures of her three children and their families, the narrow vase in which she had kept seasonal flowers or a sprig of leaves, the orderly pile of current work—all of these were missing.
Norton shivered slightly. The reception area was clinical and cold once more. Janice’s idea of interior decorating, he thought grimly. Cold. Sterile. Like her.
And like me, he added bitterly as he crossed into his office. No clients. No appointments—the day loomed long and quiet before him. The thought occurred to him that he had two hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Why not just withdraw it and disappear? he asked himself.
If Barbara would join him, he would do just that, in an instant. Let Janice have the mortgaged house. In a good market, it was worth nearly twice the amount of the mortgage. Equitable distribution, he thought, remembering the bank statement he had found in his wife’s briefcase.
But Barbara was gone. The reality of it was just beginning to sink in. He had known the minute Chief Brower left the other day that she would leave. Brower’s questioning of both of them had terrified her. She had felt his hostility, and it had been the deciding thing for her—she had to leave.
How much did Brower know? Norton wondered. He sat at his desk, his hands folded. Everything had been so well planned. If the buy agreement with Nuala had gone into effect, he would have given her the twenty thousand he had gotten by cashing in his retirement money. They wouldn’t have closed on the sale for ninety days, which would have given him time to sign a settlement with Janice, then float a demand loan to cover the purchase.
If only Maggie Holloway hadn’t come into the picture, he thought bitterly.
If only Nuala hadn’t made a new will.
If only he hadn’t had to let Janice in on the change in the wetlands preservation laws.
If only . . .
Malcolm had driven past Barbara’s house this morning. It had the closed look that houses get when the summer residents lock up for the winter. Shades were drawn on every window; a smattering of unswept leaves had blown onto the porch and the walk. Barbara must have left for Colorado on Saturday. She had not called him. She just left.
Malcolm Norton sat in his dark, still office, contemplating his next move. He knew what he was going to do, the only question now was when to do it.