Sublime

Blackshear sipped his drink uneasily, realizing that he had never actually known Verna Clarvoe. In the past he had seen her in character, playing the rôle she thought was expected of her, the pretty and frivolous wife of a man who could afford her. She was still onstage, but she’d forgotten her lines, and the props and backdrop had been removed and

Summer had passed. The winter of boredom had set in and frost had formed in the crevices of Blackshear’s mind.

The desk clerk, whose name-plate identified him as G. O. Horner, was a thin, elderly man with protuberant eyes that gave him an expression of intense interest and curiosity. The expression was false. After thirty years in the business, people meant no more to him than individual bees do to a beekeeper. Their differences were lost in a welter of sta

‘A lot of men sleep around,’ Xiu said. ‘A lot of men who aren’t married to Michelle Cutler. She’s almost certainly got “hitman” in her phone book somewhere. Right between “hairdresser” and “homeopath”.’ ‘I’m not convinced.’ ‘You’re probably right,’ Miller said. ‘I doubt she has a homeopath.’