I was thinking how I’d like to experience what a Halloween-cum-harvest festival was like, not to mention a music and arts festival, when it hit me what was wrong about the view.

I realized that not only could I see all of town, if I was anywhere in town, I could see this huge, grand house on its rise.

I hadn’t exactly taken a tour of the entire town but from what I’d seen the houses were smallish, some of them older, established, having been around for quite awhile. Others much newer but not that new, looking like they’d been built the last few decades, not the last few years. They could all be described as comfortable but none of them could be described as luxurious. There were a couple of small apartment and condominium complexes like Mindy’s and Becca’s which seemed much newer, but mostly the town was settled and its income bracket was clearly identifiable.

This house and where it was positioned screamed “Look at me!” in a weird way. It demanded attention, I was guessing in order to rub people’s nose in its obvious expense, constantly lord over the entire populace. You couldn’t forget it was here because you couldn’t escape it.

It wasn’t an old house and I figured Curtis Dodd built it where it was for the reasons I deduced.

I felt a chill glide over my skin at what I suspected was not a popular decision on Dodd’s part, not to mention what it said about him, and I turned away from the window and took in the enormous room. Even the furniture, decoration and fittings were obvious in their lavishness. One could buy ten of my purses and five of Max’s couches for one of Bitsy’s.

I walked to a long set of interconnecting bookshelves that ran the length of the outside wall of the room, wishing to take my mind off my thoughts by perusing the many photos displayed in frames there.

From what I saw in the photos, the house and all its contents were not Bitsy’s idea. Bitsy, it appeared as I studied the photos, decorated like me. There were tons of pictures of happy, smiling people who clearly cared about each other and who Bitsy clearly cared about. In some of them she was healthy, standing, smiling, laughing and surrounded by loved ones. Others, I was heartened to see, she was in her chair, doing the same.

I decided then that I admired her. Charlie never got to that point. Charlie would smile after he lost his legs but it was never the same. Bitsy seemed to have come to terms with her life in her chair and continued to enjoy living it. Furthermore, it was apparent she didn’t mind reminders of the life she had before she was put in it.

I stopped when I saw a photo of Bitsy with a man taken a long time ago for they both looked young and they were both standing.

It had to be her husband, the now very dead Curtis Dodd.

I was surprised at the sight of him. Somehow I expected him to be short, maybe balding, looking squirrely, his eyes mean. But he looked kind of like Max, except not nearly as handsome or tall. But he was a Mountain Man, slightly rough, his hair fair to almost gold, his face tanned. He was smiling at the camera in a weird way, though, almost self-conscious, as if he wasn’t comfortable being photographed and wanted to put his best foot forward. Bitsy, on the other hand, was smiling with abandon, clearly happy, both her arms around his neck and her cheek pressed to his. She didn’t care what anyone thought and the only thing anyone could think was she was in love with the man in her arms.

I glanced through the other pictures, trying to find him in the faces, but that was the only photo of the two of them together and the only photo of him at all.

I moved to the last shelf looking for signs of Curtis, my eyes grazing the limited books and knick knacks displayed between the photos when I stopped dead.

Three photos had their own shelf, a lower one, Bitsy’s height, and they were arranged like it was a place of honor. Unlike the others, these pictures weren’t shoved in, a jumble to exhibit as many as possible to surround Bitsy with constant reminders that she was loved and of the ones she loved. These were just those three, three different sizes in frames that clearly showed the photos were important.

I leaned down and it took everything I had not to reach out and grab one, bringing it in for closer inspection. But I couldn’t touch them, couldn’t let my fingers give the signal to my brain that they were real.

Max. Max and Anna.

In all that happened I’d forgotten what Arlene had said the other night at The Dog, it totally escaped me.

Max had a wife, her name was Anna and she was beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. She matched him in her utter perfection.

Blonde to his dark, her hair long and wild, her complexion without flaw, her eyes gorgeous and dancing.

There was a photo, smaller, a snapshot of Max, Anna, Curtis and Bitsy, all in a row, all with their arms around each other’s waists, all smiling into the camera. Even Curtis looked relaxed and at ease. Good friends, out of doors doing something together, a picnic, a barbeque, enjoying good times.

There was another photo, much larger, more official, sitting in the center, Max and Anna’s wedding day. He wore a tux; she had on a simple white dress that she made stunning, daisies mingled in her long, wild hair that she made look sophisticated. They were depicted full-length, standing outside, the river behind them. They were front to front, arms around each other, Max’s head tipped down, Anna’s head tipped back, broad smiles on both of their faces that you could see even in profile. Happy. Exceptionally so. They both looked young, maybe early twenties, their life spread out before them filled with love and wonder.

But it was the last that caught my heart, that claw coming back to slash at my insides. It was a close-up, Max’s arm around Anna’s shoulders, her head against one of his, both of them looking in the camera, both of them clearly laughing, both of them deliriously happy and obviously in love.

Max’s bluff was behind them.

Something blocked my throat as my eyes seemed to swell against their sockets and, suddenly frantic, I walked the length of the bookshelves examining the other photos again.

No sign of Anna. No sign of Max.

Back to the shelf of honor, I looked at the smallest photo. Bitsy, younger, standing, smiling, one arm around Curtis who was to the outside, her other arm around Anna.

Then back through the shelves, Bitsy in her chair, no Anna, no Max.

“Oh my God,” I breathed as it hit me.

Mindy telling me Max wouldn’t forget what a visit from the police felt like. Max’s fierce vow about dying in an effort to take care of someone you loved. Curtis, Bitsy, Anna and Max, all standing linked and happy, friends once, good ones. Now, Max was one of the earliest suspects questioned in Curtis’s murder.