High Country Fall

“Sure.”

“Do you have the whole file on the Ledwig investigation?”

He nodded.

“I was wondering about the older daughter’s alibi.”

“Carla Ledwig? What about it?”

“She has one, right?”

“I guess. I couldn’t tell you what it is off the top of my head, but I’m sure someone checked or I’d remember since it was her boyfriend who did it. Why?”

“No real reason.” I explained about the twins and how they’d said Carla Ledwig had been with them all afternoon. “I was wondering if I could read their statement since they’re my cousins.”

If my explanation sounded lame, he was kind enough not to call me on it.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have my secretary pull it for you.”

“’Preciate it,” I told him and headed for the courtroom to try and dispense a little justice.

The first case was being called before I realized I hadn’t noticed his green eyes at all.

Lucius Burke was as good as his word. A few minutes before the morning break, a woman handed the file to Mary Kay and I took it back to chambers with me to see if I could figure out why the twins had lied about where they were.

“In the library,” May had said.

“In Carla Ledwig’s dorm room,” June had said.

I read it through twice and was even more puzzled. According to the officer who took their statement, Carla and the twins had worked in the same restaurant that afternoon. Carla was a hostess there, and her unbroken presence was confirmed not only by the twins but by several prominent-sounding customers.

Now why would they lie to me about that?

I was halfway through the pre-lunch session before the answer hit me square in the face.

CHAPTER 13

TUESDAY, 9:30 A.M.

In the house at the top of Old Needham Road, Sunny Osborne paced the stone terrace outside her bedroom like a restless golden tiger.

A golden tiger tethered by a telephonic chain.

She wished that she could call Tina Ledwig or Carolyn Gimpel or any of the others whom she regularly met for tennis at the club. See if Tina was sober enough to play. Waiting had never been easy for her. She had always been a woman of impulsive physical action. She needed to be chasing after a ball, slamming it back across the net, working off the tension that had her keyed tighter than a guitar string.

From this height, she could see the tree-covered hills of three counties. All the colors of autumn blazed around her as far as any eye could see, but she had no thought for their beauty because her whole being was focused on Norman, willing him to call, willing him to come home safely. How could he have vanished so utterly and completely in the half-mile between the two houses? She had already called all the neighbors again this morning. Still nothing.

Anxiety kept her circling back and forth where the phone sat on a table just inside the open French doors. She knew she was spooking the hell out of Nellie but she couldn’t help herself. Every few minutes the housekeeper would peer anxiously around the corner, and here she was again, asking if there were anything she could bring. Tea? Coffee? A big glass of cold milk?

“Maybe you should call Miss Laura?”

“No!” she exploded. “Dammit, Nellie, go do your work and leave me alone!”

Calling their daughter would mean accepting that something dreadful, something unthinkable, something final had happened to Norman. He had always been bad for not checking in immediately when business required him to wine and dine someone unexpectedly. It was part of his good ol’ boy self- image.

“Now, darlin’, no real man calls his wife and gets permission to go out,” he would say. “Clients don’t wanna deal with a pussy-whipped jellyfish.”

Normally she didn’t mind. She loved being married to a man’s man, and his cheerful machismo didn’t bother her. Let him tell himself and the world that he was the good-timing man married to a good-hearted woman, and let them both believe it—she knew who held the narrow edge of power in this house. Besides, even on those late nights, he was usually home by midnight and he damn well did manage a discreet call every time.

Twice before in their marriage, however, there had been nights like the one she’d just endured. The first time began on a Saturday afternoon when Laura was a toddler, about a year before he finally hit it big. He had run out to pick up a gallon of milk and hadn’t come home until after seven the next morning—without the milk, and sporting a massive hangover. At the dairy case, he had run into an old Army buddy and had gone back to the buddy’s vacation condo, where they proceeded to empty every bottle in the house as they relived boot camp.

She had been terrified out of her mind and at two that morning had called the highway patrol and the local hospital to ask if there had been a wreck or if he’d been brought in half-dead.

He had acted embarrassed and repentant and swore on his mother’s memory that it would never happen again. Except that twelve years later, it did.

That time she had forced herself to wait it out, and when he came dragging in at midmorning the next day, she