"But you do them anyway?"

"Yup." She paused, trying to find the right words. "We're not perfect, us humans. God knows, we're not even close. Yes, I think I could kill someone, given the right circumstances. But I hope I'd have the gumption not to rationalize my actions by pretending I believed what I did was right. I'd know damn well it was wrong. And be totally sorry later."

"What could happen so terrible to cause you to do something you felt so strongly against?"

She smiled, breaking the tension. "Probably nothing. I guess I'm just blowing off steam."

Dean was wondering about her answer, as the telephone rang. The call was for Cynthia. As she answered it, he pondered what she had said. He wondered if this beautiful, loving, compassionate wife of his whom he loved so dearly, was really capable of killing another human being. But when she returned and he saw her concerned look, his mind went to real-time matters.

"Who was that?" Dean asked.

"My mother," she answered.

"I hope she's coming to visit. I miss her cooking." Cynthia's mother, a widowed librarian, telephoned from Indiana frequently. While the independent woman had only been to Ouray once in the six months the Deans had been married, she and her son-in-law got along spectacularly. The lively woman was fun to be around.

"No, she's not coming down. She says they have plenty of snow up there." Then she added, "But she didn't sound her usual self. I'm worried."

"Is she ill?"

"I'm not sure. I pushed her and she did admit to having some tests but then dismissed them, saying the doctor was just running up his bill." Cynthia looked up at her husband. "Any admission by her usually means a lot more than what she says."

"Do you want to take a quick trip up there and visit?"

"Lord no! How could I get away with an inn full of guests? Besides, I'm sure I'm overreacting. It's just that lately everything keeps piling up. I'm a bundle of nerves with all that's going on around here. I've been a bundle of nerves since Edith Shipton first showed up on our doorstep. We go months with normal, pleasant guests, then all of a sudden we pick up a conflated collection of crazies! Alarm clocks ringing in the middle of the night, ghosts walking around, everyone hopping into someone else's bed, half the people wanting to kill the other half! And it's been getting worse daily."

Dean felt compassion. Cynthia was definitely not herself. "I'm insulted," he said with mock severity. "How could you think for a minute I couldn't handle this place? Go in the parlor and pour yourself a glass of sherry and put your feet up. I'll cook dinner." He opened the refrigerator and took out the fish that had been thawing. "Go on! Scat!" Cynthia rewarded him with a hundred dollar smile as he looked at the label on the package.




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