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.
Something had happened, something that put Bitsy in her chair and took Anna away altogether. And that something, I was sure, had to do with Curtis Dodd.
My recent conversation with Max in the Jeep came back at me, striking me, scorching, like a bolt of lightning.
“You had better?” Max had asked.
“No,” I’d answered.
Then he’d murmured, “Yeah.”
His “yeah” didn’t mean he felt the same. He hadn’t agreed that he hadn’t had better. He just knew I hadn’t.
Because he had. He’d been married to her. Funny, beautiful, forever young Anna with her blonde hair and her knack for making daisies, of all things, look sophisticated.
And he hadn’t said a word. Not one word.
All his pushing for me to share, he hadn’t shared. He’d mentioned his father, his sister, his mother, his land, but not the fact that he’d quite obviously been married to the love of his life and she’d died.