Eleven

O n his second visit in a matter of hours, something about the indulgence of the Holms estate left Walt with a sickening feeling in his gut. It was far too big for two people; how would it feel now with only one?

He was informed by a staff member that Stuart Holms had already left for the conference. This kind of thing needed to be done in person. Walt drove over to Sun Valley. It took him twenty minutes of moving between various talks and coffee clutches, meeting rooms and hospitality suites to find Holms on the porch of the Guest House in a private conversation with the head of Disney. Walt asked to speak to Holms in confidence and took the vacated chair.

“There’s never an easy way to say this. I’m sorry to have to tell you that we found your wife out Adam’s Gulch. She was pronounced dead at the scene, apparent victim of an animal attack.”

The other man’s clear blue eyes ticked back and forth, alternately searching the air above Walt’s head. His brow knotted, and he nodded slightly, and sighed. Then his eyes fell to the plastic tabletop, and he dragged his trembling hands into his lap. “I’ve known since last night. I knew in here.” He touched his chest. “She’s never not come home before. Oh, God. An animal attack?”

“A cougar possibly. Yes.”

“Was it her period?” Stuart Holms asked. “I don’t even know, I’m sorry to say. That’s when they attack women, right?”

“A thorough examination is being conducted,” Walt said.

Holms kept his head down. He mumbled, “A cat? She liked cats. Loved cats. Volunteered at the pound. Did you know that?”

“At some point I’m going to take a full statement from you, sir. No hurry, but the sooner we can get to that the better.”

Holms lifted his head, revealing teary, bloodshot eyes. “Of course,” he said.

Walt waited a moment uncomfortably. “When?” he said. “When might we get to that?”

Holms looked away at a piece of the sky. “When I feel up to it, Sheriff. And not a minute sooner.”