jumpily fixed on Tremaine's dreadful face, Gideon's were on the dead man's throat. Not on the naked, purple crease in which the cord had buried itself, but on the loose flesh beneath his chin; the old-man's wattles of M. Audley Tremaine—in life so carefully hidden by those tasteful, elegant ascots—now bared for anyone to see, fold on fold, layered against his bony, naked, elderly chest.
'Doc,” John said, “you have any way of telling how long he's been dead?'
'Me? No, you need a pathologist.'
John turned to Owen. “How do we get a pathologist?'
'We have to ask the state troopers to send somebody up from Juneau.'
'How fast can he get here?'
'In an hour, if he comes by seaplane. They can land in the cove. That's if somebody's available.'
'An hour,” John said. “Doc, the longer he stays dead the harder it is for anybody to tell anything; you know that. You're the closest thing to a pathologist we've got right now. Can't you come up with a guess? I'm not gonna hold you to it. What about rigor mortis or something?'
Gideon hesitated. “Well, yes, it looks as if rigor's set in, all right...'
'Sure,” Owen said. He was making a resolute effort to sound less qualmish. “The hands. They're all clenched.'
'No,” Gideon said, “that's different. The tendons in the wrist shorten after death. But...” He gingerly reached out a hand toward Tremaine's blue-clad forearm and pushed gently. The entire arm moved stiffly, with resistance, perhaps an inch. Gideon stepped back, barely restraining an unprofessional grimace.
'Well, there's large-muscle stiffening of the shoulder and arm, so I'd say it's fully set in,” he said. “If I remember right, that takes about twelve hours.'
'I don't get it,” Owen said. “Don't your muscles flex when you get rigor mortis? Don't you sort of curl up? Don't you—what the hell
'The muscles don't flex,” Gideon said, “they stiffen. From a decrease in the concentration of adenosinetriphosphate in the fiber. Which is caused by the postmortem conversion of glycogen to lactic and phosphoric acid.'
'If you don't want to know, don't ask,” John told Owen. “So what are you saying, Doc, that he's been dead twelve hours? Since nine o'clock last night?'
'Since ten, anyway. At least since then.'
'And you saw him alive when?'
'During the cocktail hour,” Owen said. “He came over to rake us over the coals. That was a little before six, wasn't it, Gideon?'
'About ten to.'
'Right,” John said with satisfaction. He raised the flap of a breast pocket and pulled out a little notebook. “Time of death,” he said as he wrote, “between 5:50 P.M. and 10:00 P.M.'
Gideon shrugged uneasily. He was out of his element. “Look, John, there are a lot of factors that can hasten or retard rigor; things I don't know anything about. Temperature...hell, I don't even know what all the factors are.'
'Stop worrying, will you? I told you I wouldn't hold you to it.” He had walked to the window while speaking and was examining the snap lock on the frame. “Locked on the inside,” he said, “but that doesn't mean anything. It's the kind that locks itself when you close it.'
He came back to the body, looked at it a few seconds longer. “Listen, Owen, will you give the state troopers a call and ask them to send their man out right away? And a crime-scene investigation crew while they're at it. Tell them what we've got here.'
'Crime?” Owen said. “You think this is murder?'
John looked at both of them. “I wouldn't be surprised, folks.'
'Jesus,” Owen muttered, “Arthur's just gonna love this.” He headed for the door. “Okay, I'll do it right now.” He exhaled softly. “Then I better tell Arthur.'
'Don't touch the knob,” John said. “Just pull it open. I didn't shut it all the way. And, Owen?” He hesitated. “I didn't mean to take over like I did. I'm here because you asked for help on an old murder. This'—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Tremaine's body— “is another case. You've got proprietary jurisdiction. If you want me to back off, just say so. It's your baby if you want it.'
Owen stared at him. “You gotta be kidding,” he said.
John laughed. “Okay, look, I tell you, one thing you could do is have this room sealed till the state people get here.'
'Uh, sealed?'
'Well, secured. Just have one of your law-enforcement types stand outside the front door. Somebody with a sidearm. And somebody outside by the back window too. I wouldn't want anybody getting in while the room's empty.'
'Empty? You're not staying here?'
'Here?” John said, surprised. “Hell, no, what about that bacon and eggs?'
* * * *
'Aahh,” John said, sloshing his English muffin through the glutinous orange residue of one of his sunny-side-up eggs, “this is great. The bacon's got a little fat on it for once.” He poured another glob of ketchup into the depression he had made for that purpose in his hashed-brown potatoes and shoveled another forkful into his
