On Harrow Hill

“We’re trying to sort that out. If this isn’t some kind of a screwup, then Tate must have been in Angus Russell’s bedroom at some point. Exactly when, we can’t be sure. No precise way to date the prints. But we know it couldn’t have been last night, because last night Tate was laid out in a coffin in the local mortuary.”

Gurney knew that determining when and why an enemy of the victim had been in his bedroom would be an investigative priority, probably the key to solving the murder. At the moment, however, there was a simpler question on his mind.

Oddly, it was Morgan who put it into words first. “At this point, you’re probably asking yourself what made me so desperate to see you.”

4

Twenty minutes later Morgan concluded a dire description of how, given the prominent family involved, the case was likely to turn into a political minefield that could make or break his career—and how Gurney’s investigative talents, strongest in the areas where his own were weakest, could save the day. He had only one request—that Gurney come to Larchfield at 9:00 a.m. the next morning to examine the crime scene. After that, he could decide whether he was willing to get involved.

With some reluctance, Gurney agreed, and with a sigh of relief, Morgan departed.

After watching the man’s SUV disappear around the barn onto the dirt-and-gravel road, Gurney returned to the kitchen. He remembered suddenly that he hadn’t stopped for the milk Madeleine asked him to pick up on his way home from the academy. So he picked up his wallet, got in the Outback, and drove through five miles of old farmland to the village of Walnut Crossing.

“Village” was a word that brought to his mind the antique charm of places he and Madeleine had visited on their honeymoon in the English countryside. But “village” had become a misnomer for Walnut Crossing, which each year had been sinking deeper into the economic and social malaise of upstate New York, with its spreading blight of empty storefronts and expanding populations of the unemployed and unemployable.

He pulled into one of the main street’s two “convenience” stores and went to the small dairy section of the wall-length cooler devoted almost entirely to beers, soft drinks, and strangely flavored waters. He took a half gallon of nonfat milk to the cashier’s counter, where he waited while a toothless woman in a housedress and green rubber boots purchased a handful of brightly colored lottery tickets.

As soon as he got home, he put the milk in the fridge and took out an onion, a pepper, a stalk of celery, and a large zucchini. He chopped the vegetables and put them near the wok. He filled a pot of water for pasta and placed it on the stove. He set the pasta water on high and went for a quick shower and change of clothes.

The relaxing effect of the warm water streaming down over his back kept him in the shower twice as long as he’d planned, and when he finally returned to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner, he found Madeleine at the stove with her back to him, stirring the vegetables in the wok. The pasta was boiling, and the table by the French doors was set for dinner.

“Hi,” she said without turning. “Thanks for getting things started. I see you remembered the milk.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“I figured it was a toss-up.”

He saw no need to reveal how true that was. He went over and kissed the back of her neck. Her tousled brown hair had a sweet outdoor scent. “How was your day?”

She turned off the gas under the wok and stirred the pasta. “The part I spent at the clinic had its ups and downs. Eight intakes referred by the drug court. Two of them were scared to death, possibly scared enough to embrace the program. The other six were in denial. I could see the little wheels turning in their heads, trying to guess what I wanted to hear, trying to beat the system—anything rather than face their addiction.”

Gurney shrugged. “Liars and manipulators. Your typical clinic clientele.”

“But the few who do want help and end up turning their lives around—they make what I’m doing there feel worthwhile.” She turned off the gas under the pasta, carried the big pot to the sink, and emptied it into a waiting colander.

He realized his tone had been needlessly negative. “Of course what you’re doing is worthwhile. I didn’t mean to suggest it wasn’t. All I was saying—”

She cut him off. “You don’t like addicts. You had your share of difficult experiences with them in the city. I understand.”

He smiled, having read somewhere that smiling makes your voice sound warmer. “So the intakes were the mixed-blessing part of your day. How was the other part?”

“Very interesting. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.”

She shook the pasta-filled colander gently until it stopped dripping, carried it to the stove, tilted its contents into the wok with the sautéed vegetables, and stirred everything together with a long wooden spoon.