Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds

shoes.
    Pausing at an elaborate wooden cabinet, she opened a door and touched the control of an expensive stereo system. Classical music flooded the room from hidden speakers. She tilted her head to judge the volume level, adjusted it a notch or two lower, and returned to the two men whose eyes had never left her.
    â€œDonald,” she said, her hand extended to Mercer. Her voice conveyed the depth and texture of brown velvet. “Do forgive me. I know it’s rude, but I cannot
stand
this room without music.” She withdrew her hand and offered it to McGuire. “Donald knows me well enough to understand. Hello. I’m Glynnis Vargas.”
    â€œLieutenant Joseph McGuire, Boston Police Department.” McGuire took the hand in his. The skin felt satiny, like the dress fabric in the portrait.
    â€œHe’s here about that mess from last week,” Mercer offered. He looked around, chose a chair and sat down. “Did the police talk to you about it this morning?”
    â€œYes, they were here,” Glynnis Vargas answered. She released McGuire’s hand almost reluctantly. “That poor man. Here we thought he was insane and now it seems he had reason to be paranoid.” She sat elegantly in a chair upholstered in buttery white leather. “He was from your corner of the world, wasn’t he Mr. McGuire? And do sit down. May I offer you a drink?”
    McGuire declined. Mercer opened his mouth to accept, realized the suggestion had been made only to McGuire, and sat back in silence.
    â€œHis name was Bunker Crawford,” McGuire said when he had settled himself in a chair opposite Mercer. “Did you know him?”
    â€œKnow him? Of course not.” She seemed offended by the idea. “He appeared here one evening, disturbing us all terribly. He actually threw a pistol through my window.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I mean, the man had his problems, but I feel he should have taken them somewhere else instead of to our doorsteps.” Her eyes opened again, large blue crystals that she flashed at Mercer. “Isn’t that right, Donald? You and I, we came here explicitly to avoid that kind of nonsense, didn’t we?”
    Mercer responded like a teacher’s pet invited to address the class. “Definitely, Glynnis,” he gushed. “That’s
exactly
why we came here. You know,” he said to McGuire, “a lot of people, they resent what we have. They’re envious of the way we live. And that’s understandable, I guess. But it’s no reason to try and destroy it. . . .”
    â€œThat’s right, Donald.” Glynnis Vargas turned to McGuire. “Donald worked very hard to achieve what he owns. I was a little more fortunate. My husband’s success permitted me to live in this manner, but I feel I was able to contribute as well, with my support for him. And my love.”
    â€œWhere is your husband?” McGuire asked.
    She lifted her chin and blinked several times. McGuire realized she was older than he had first determined. Forty, perhaps. Maybe a few years beyond.
    â€œMy husband died suddenly just over a year ago,” she said. “You may remember a plane crash in Sao Paulo a year ago last February. No? Well, that’s only because there were no Americans aboard, Mr. McGuire. But my husband was. He was returning from a business trip and I was awaiting his arrival in Rio.” Her voice grew almost defiant as she spoke. “He was a wonderful man who gave as much to Brazilian culture as anyone, who cared deeply for his people, and who I am proud to say loved me until the day he died.” She stared out the window, then turned away quickly. “After his death, I could no longer remain in Rio. So I returned here with,” and her slender arm swept in a circle to indicate the room, the house, the pieces of art, “the treasures he and I enjoyed so much.”
    â€œYou’re American,”