“There are good reasons to meet with her,” he pressed on blindly. “And there may be some good reasons not to.”
“A very intelligent way of looking at it.” She seemed coolly amused. Or, at least, in an ironical mood. “Can’t talk about it right now, though. Don’t want to be late. For my book club.”
He heard a subtle emphasis on that last phrase-just enough, perhaps, to let him know she knew that he’d guessed. A remarkable woman, he thought. And despite his anxiety and exhaustion, he couldn’t help smiling.
Chapter 7
As usual, Madeleine was first up the next morning.
Gurney awoke to the hiss and gurgle of the coffeemaker-along with the sinking realization that he’d forgotten to fix her bicycle brakes.
Hard upon that pang came a sense of uneasiness about his plan to meet later that morning with Val Perry. Although he’d emphasized to Jack Hardwick that his willingness to talk to her did not imply any further commitment-that the meeting was primarily a gesture of courtesy and condolence to someone who’d suffered a dreadful loss-a cloud of second thoughts was descending on him. Pushing them aside as best he could, he showered, dressed, and strode purposefully out through the kitchen to the pantry, mumbling good morning to Madeleine, who was sitting in her customary position at the breakfast table with a slice of toast in her hand and a book propped open in front of her. Slipping into his canvas barn jacket that he removed from its hook in the pantry, he went out the side door and headed for the tractor shed that housed their bicycles and kayaks. The sun had not yet appeared, and the morning was surprisingly raw for early September.
He rolled Madeleine’s bicycle out from behind the tractor into the light at the front of the open shed. The aluminum frame was shockingly cold. The two small wrenches he chose from the set on the shed wall were just as cold.
Cursing, twice banging his knuckles against the sharp edges of the front forks, the second time drawing blood, he adjusted the cables that controlled the position of the brake pads. Creating the proper clearance-allowing the wheel to move freely when the brake was disengaged, yet providing adequate pressure against the rim when the brake was applied-was a trial-and-error process that he had to repeat four times to get right. Finally, with more relief than satisfaction, he declared the job done, replaced the wrenches, and headed back to the house, one hand numb and the other aching.
Passing the woodshed and the adjacent pile of logs made him wonder for the tenth time in as many days, should he rent a wood-splitter or buy one? There were disadvantages either way. The sun was still not up, but the squirrels were already engaged in their morning attack on the bird feeders, raising another question that seemed to have no happy answer. And, of course, there was the matter of the manure for the asparagus.
He went into the kitchen and ran warm water over his hands.
As the stinging subsided, he announced, “Your brakes are fixed.”
“Thank you,” said Madeleine cheerily without looking up from her book.
Half an hour later-resembling a paint-by-numbers sunset in her lavender fleece pants, pink Windbreaker, red gloves, and an orange wool hat pulled down over her ears-she went out to the shed, mounted her bike, rode slowly and bumpily down the pasture path, and disappeared onto the town road beyond the barn.
Gurney spent the next hour on a mental review of the facts of the crime as they had been related to him by Hardwick. Each time he went over the scenario, he was increasingly troubled by its theatricality, its almost-operatic excess.
At 9:00 A.M. exactly, the time appointed for his meeting with Val Perry, he went to the window to see if she might be coming up the road.
Think of the devil and the devil arrives. In this case at the wheel of a Turbo Porsche in racing green-a model Gurney thought sold for around $160,000. The sleek vehicle crept past the barn, past the pond, slowly up the pasture hillside, to the small parking area next to the house, its hugely powerful engine purring softly. With a mixture of cautious curiosity and a bit more excitement than he’d want to admit, Gurney went out to greet his guest.
The woman who emerged from the car was tall and curvaceously slim, wearing a satiny cream blouse and satiny black pants. Her shoulder-length black hair was cut in a straight bob across her forehead like Uma Thurman’s in
She took in her surroundings with a few appraising glances that seemed to absorb everything and reveal nothing.
She walked toward him with the hint of a grimace-or was it the customary set of her mouth?
“Mr. Gurney, Val Perry. I appreciate your making time for me,” she said, extending her hand. “Or should I call you Detective Gurney?”
“I left the title in the city when I retired. Call me Dave.” They shook hands. The intensity of her gaze and strength of her grip surprised him. “Would you like to come inside?”
She hesitated, glancing around the garden and the small bluestone patio. “Can we sit out here?”
The question surprised him. Even though the sun was now well above the eastern ridge in a cloudless sky and most of the dew was gone from the grass, the morning was still chilly.
“Seasonal affective disorder,” she said with an explanatory smile. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yes.” He returned her smile. “I think I have a mild case of it myself.”
“I have more than a mild case. From this time of year on, I need as much light, preferably sun, as possible. Or I really do want to kill myself. So if you don’t mind, Dave, perhaps we could sit out here?” It wasn’t really a question.
The detective part of his brain, dominant and hardwired, unaffected by the technicality of retirement, wondered about her seasonal-disorder story, wondered if there was another reason.
He led her to the patio that separated the French doors from the asparagus bed. He indicated a couple of folding chairs on either side of a small cafe table Madeleine had purchased at an auction. “Is this all right?”
“It’s fine,” she said, pulling one of the chairs out from the table and sitting on it without bothering to brush off the seat.
She studied his face with interest. “How much information has Investigator Hardwick already given you?”
“He gave me the basic facts surrounding the events leading up to and following the… the murder of your daughter. Mrs. Perry, if I may stop for a moment. I need to tell you before we go on how terribly sorry I am for your loss.”
At first she didn’t react at all. Then she nodded, but the movement was so slight it could have been nothing more than a tremor.
“Thank you,” she said abruptly. “I appreciate that.”
“But my loss is not the issue. The issue is Hector Flores.” She articulated the name with tightened lips as though biting down defiantly on a bad tooth. “What did Hardwick tell you about him?”
“He said there was clear and convincing evidence of his guilt… that he was a strange, controversial character… that his background is still undetermined and his motivation uncertain. Current location unknown.”
“Current location unknown!” She repeated the phrase with a kind of ferocity, leaning toward him over the little table, placing her palms on the moist metal surface. Her wedding ring was a simple platinum band, but her
