In which talking and driving ensue, at the same time.

CHAPTER 36: BACKSEAT CRITIC
TIME AND LOCATION: 8:49, hotel parking lot
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast
FORTUNE: "Your companions will talk behind your back. A room of many forests awaits you."

Emily notices George seems more cheerful today than he ever has since this case started, and she thinks she can guess the reason. Oh boy, she thinks to herself. This is going to be a long morning. It can only help the sheriff's good mood that Agent York, for once, is right on time, coming through the hotel's front doors just as they get out of the car. He raises his hand in greeting as he approaches them.

"Hello, Agent Morgan," George says, pleasantly enough. "Did you sleep well?

"Morning, George. Yes, I did. Dreamland was quite nice."

"You do look well-rested," Emily says, yawning uncontrollably. She waves off the two men's stares. "I'm sorry, I was up practically all night doing paperwork. Thomas helped out so I was able to get some sleep, but not enough."

"Yes, and it shows!" York speaks so genially that at first Emily has no idea whether she's been insulted or not. Then she wonders if she ought to be used to this confusion by now, at least where York is concerned. She points at his chest and says, knowing it's a form of petty revenge that will have no effect on him whatsoever, "Are you really going to wear that to the meeting?"

"What, this?" York looks down at himself. "I assume you're talking about my tie."

"It's got pink hearts on it."

"I know, and I usually only save it for very special occasions," York says regretfully. "But I have a problem. A paradox, if you will. You see, even though I own more ties than suits, every time I need to get something cleaned, I always end up running out of ties before I run out of suits! Wearing this outfit is like eating that last chocolate chip cookie after you've already drank all your milk. You feel like something's gone horribly wrong, but it's nobody's fault, and you just have to live with it."

"Oh. Well. That's how the cookie crumbles, I guess," Emily says lamely, having nothing else to say to this.

"Diane got back into town late last night," George says, getting down to business. "I've arranged for us to pay her a visit. She said she'd be in anytime from 9 to 12, so we should get going."

"The art gallery, right?"

"She lives and works out of her office. Used to share a house with her kid sister- both of 'em are loaded, by the way- but eventually she just took up residence in the gallery."

"Sister, huh?" York gets behind the wheel, and Emily climbs in the backseat. George shuts the passenger door and York pulls out of the parking lot, still musing. "Have I met this lost Ames sibling yet?"

"I heard from Thomas that you dropped by her place yesterday after the funeral."

"Who, Becky?" There is rare astonishment in York's voice. "I had no idea she was related to Diane! I wondered how she was able to afford a mansion all the way out in the middle of nowhere."

"And then you took one of my men off the case to keep an eye on her. Is that right?"

Emily stiffens, but there's none of the usual tension in George's voice that suggests he might be trying to start a fight. What could have caused this change in him? It's like he's undergone a transformation, emerging from his bitter coccoon into a rather solicitous butterfly. At first she'd thought it was the prospect of meeting Diane that was causing him to act this way, but now she's not so sure...

"Yes, I hope you don't mind," York says, glancing sideways. "You had more than enough officers for the job."

"Well, I suppose they wouldn't be doing much except sitting around taking up space at the station anyway," George agrees, further cementing Emily's amazement. Then he adds casually, "Did she say anything to you?"

"About what?"

"Anything that might be related to the case. We've spoken to her before, both her and her boyfriend Quint Dunn, but neither of them divulged anything of importance. I thought maybe you'd managed to wrangle something out of her with your slick FBI interrogation techniques."

"Well, she was Anna's friend, that much you probably know. Other than that, she just seemed sick and scared. Perfectly natural behavior under the circumstances, especially since she's living all by herself out there."

He doesn't seem inclined to go into very much detail, so the subject is dropped. A few minutes pass, then York says reflectively, "Muses Gallery. Interesting name. Did Diane pick it herself?"

"I don't know," Emily says. "Muses... Weren't they from some ancient story?"

"They were the nine daughters of Zeus and the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne. They symbolized artistic inspiration in divine form, according to Greek mythology."

York and Emily look at him. George scowls. "What? It's a fascinating subject, mythology, even though most of it isn't worth bringing up in normal conversation."

"That covers the name of the building, but what about its contents?" York turns to George with a faint smile on his lips. "Don't tell me you're an art critic as well as a historian of antiquity."

George strokes his moustache, hesitates before replying. "Actually, I stop by the Gallery quite often. I find it very relaxing, just to go and be surrounded by paintings all day. ...Emily, I can hear you trying not to laugh. What's so funny, exactly?"

"I'm sorry, George. I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

"Well, don't be too surprised. I'm just as cultured as everyone else, you know."

"Don't get upset! I've hardly been to the Gallery myself. I just didn't know that about you, after all this time."

"Some people have sides to them that you'd never expect," York intones gravely, eyes on the road. The Gallery comes into view, looking somehow more imposing than ever against the pale skies and stark treeline. Cream-colored trim divides dark cherry-colored wood, the peaks of its gables towering above deep archways and slender columns. York parks, and the three get out of the car, gazing up at the building's handsome exterior.

"Looks more like a mansion than an art gallery," York observes. George nods in confirmation.

"Used to be. Diane liked the building so much, she had it converted. The outside's the same, but she had the whole interior torn out and reburbished."

York whistles. "Whew. You weren't kidding when you said she was loaded, then..."

Tastefully framed by blue-green shrubbery, a wooden sign to the right of the front steps announces MUSES GALLERY in engraved letters. They look at it with fresh understanding, but Emily can't help but feel irritated. She sniffs, "It's just like Diane to name it that way".

"Sounds like she's quite the scholar," York suggests.

"Maybe. She definitely acts the part."

"I sense by your reaction that this Diane is not popular among other women," York says, without a smile to indicate he might be joking. She frowns as George looks away, as if his attention has been caught by a squirrel on the other side of the parking lot.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, Emily. Is she attractive? Do you... appreciate her looks?"

Emily decides to try and play the game this time. "You're asking me if I find another woman physically appealing, is that it?" she says, crossing her arms. George starts clearing his throat, loudly. York ignores him.

"I'm just wondering if you're aware of the response she probably elicits in members of the opposite sex. You mentioned she's the sort of woman who would wear high heels to the ends of the earth and back. How does that make you feel?"

"That has nothing to do with it. She just seems to look down her nose at people. Always has. I'm not fond of that attitude, and you probably won't be either."

"That's probably because sexual magnetism probably has no effect on you. Am I right?"

George's throat-clearing turns into a full-blown coughing fit. Emily feels herself slipping, but is determined to play this to the end.

"I can't decide if you're out of line, or walking it. Either way, you're on thin ice, Agent York."

"And you, Deputy Emily, are mixing your metaphors," York replies, with that casual ease that she finds so provoking. "Anyway, I'm sorry if you thought I was poking fun at you. You just reacted so strongly to Diane's name that I figured there had to be some kind of tension going on below the surface. The only question was whether it was a general sort of frustration, the kind all women have against each other, or a more specific dislike-"

"Can we please drop this conversation?" Emily says desperately, deciding she's not yet ready to go head to head against the master of misdirection. "Diane's probably watching us from her office window, wondering why we're standing out here arguing."

"Good! Maybe you two can distract her while I catch her off guard. Sometimes I find that's the best way to approach a possible suspect."

"First of all, Diane may get under my skin, but even I wouldn't go as far as to call her a suspect. Second, you make it sound like we're planning to corner a wild animal with a net or something. Third-"

"-Don't tell me you're planning to leave us out in the lurch again, Agent Morgan," George finishes, some of the old obstinance creeping back into his voice. "You trying to say you still don't trust us?"

"Actually, there's a slightly different reason this time. You see, I always take the important meetings one-on-one. Interrogations, especially the informal ones, require a carefully balanced dynamic between the questioner and the subject. In fact, the subject shouldn't even know they're being interrogated."

"Agent Morgan..."

York holds up a hand. "In order to achieve such a balance, it's important that I do it alone. It's difficult for me to sense the subject's subtle reactions when there's too many variables cluttering things up with background noise."

"So I'm a variable and she's noise, is that it? And I thought this time was going to be different." George sounds genuinely disappointed. He waves his hand, resumes his gruff tone. "Well, go on then. You aren't going to listen to us anyway, are you?"

York looks inordinately pleased. "You're finally starting to understand me, George. Well, I'll see you two in a bit. Bye!"

And with that, York hops up the steps and disappears behind the thick oak doors, leaving George and Emily to shuffle awkwardly in the shade.

"Well, at least it's not raining out this time," Emily says, trying as usual to look on the bright side of things. George snorts.

"Yeah, thank God for small favors." He turns and walks back out into the sparse sunshine, hands in his pockets. Even though his back is straight, his head held high, Emily knows her boss well enough to sense when he's dejected. She follows him and they both lean on the hood of the police cruiser, looking up at the gallery with its large dark window panes and solemn facade. After a while, George breaks the silence.

"Maybe it would be better if we stopped expecting him to change all the time."

Emily looks surprised. She agrees, of course, but she'd thought it would be at least a full week before George started warming up to Agent York.

"I think so... It would help speed up the investigation, that's for sure. But I'm curious; what brought on this sudden change of heart? Watching you two argue for the first couple of days was like that old saying, 'unstoppable force meets immovable object'. I thought it would never end!"

"You were that worried about us, huh?" George adjusts the brim of his hat, thin lips twisted in a half-smile. "You can stop fretting about it, Emily. I don't have the energy to keep pressing him, and he's already made his position clear."

"It still doesn't give him the right to treat you like that."

"Are you trying to set us up for another fight? And here I thought you were the diplomatic one."

Emily feels her face reddening. "No! Of course, it's... I just want everyone to get along, without resentment. I mean, I get ticked off sometimes too, but it seems so selfish to be bickering when someone's just been killed. I can't believe it myself, sometimes... It's like I'm having a bad dream, and I want someone to pinch me to wake me up."

George takes a deep breath, leaning back until he's staring straight up into the featureless grey sky. Then he says, quietly, "So you want to know why I'm being so nice to Agent Morgan today."

"It did cross my mind as unusual, yes," Emily says, watching him closely. "I mean, it seemed to happen overnight."

"That's because it did. Agent Morgan stopped by my house last night, must've been right after leaving Becky's. It was a very strange encounter; I'm not used to having visitors so late in the evening... But what he did then made me believe that, no matter how annoying he gets, it's not personal. He's only doing it for the sake of the job. And I can respect that, in any man."

He shifts position on the hood, Emily feeling the cruiser bob slightly beneath her. After a few seconds of rummaging, he produces a small, white object from his jacket pocket. He holds it out to her, saying, "Careful, it's delicate."

Emily turns it over, curious. It's a wilted flower, its petals slightly crushed and barely clinging to the stem. If she saw it growing by the side of the road, she wouldn't give it another thought; but something about it, a certain translucent quality, holds her attention. Still, she does not understand what this has to do with Agent York, and says so.

"I guess the connection isn't that obvious," George says with a faint quirk of his moustache, taking the flower from her fingers. "I'll tell you what happened, though. It's not that long a story."

Emily glances over at the gallery's front entrance, at the large double doors through which Agent York had disappeared with hardly a warning. She sighs, makes herself comfortable on the cruiser's hood.

"I think I've got time for a story, George. Besides, it's not like we've got anything else better to do..."

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