rug, ground it out.
'You pig,' she said.
He laughed. 'Don't forget, I'll be watching you.'
She waited until she heard the door close, ran to it and snapped the lock, rushed to the back door, locked that, then went to the living room to check the damage to the rug. Picking up the butt, she brushed away the ash. A black smudge marred the carpet. Club soda fixed the spilled sherry.
She dialed Colin. After one ring she hung up. What would she tell him? She didn't want to appear a helpless female unable to run her own life. He was the wrong one to tell. She should call the police. But she couldn't do it. There would be too many questions, and she was sure it would hurt her more than Steve Cornwell.
But what if he was the killer? She rationalized that if he was, he would already have killed her. Why bother with threats? Still, there was a nagging doubt in her mind. And as she left the house for her dinner engagement she silently prayed she wouldn't live to regret her decision.
LOOKING BACK-75 YEARS AGO
During the electrical storm Saturday night or early Sunday morning, the barn of John Fleet of Seaville was struck by lightning and a colt owned by his son, E. D. Fleet, was killed. It was a valuable colt and thought a great deal of by his owner. The telephone in the house was also burned out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Driving to the Carrolls', Colin wondered about the chief's request to not tell Mark what they were doing. Was Hallock afraid Mark would purposely hinder their investigation? Or was it something Hallock wasn't about to let him in on?
Along the road Colin noticed a few yard sales. Nobody seemed to be attending them. Was this more evidence that the tourist season was off in Seaville? Perhaps if he was a businessman on the Fork or if he had a wife and children, he would have been screaming for Hallock's hide too.
Sticking a Marlboro between his lips, he shoved in the car lighter. Did Hallock think Mark knew something about the murders he wasn't telling? Suddenly Colin pulled into a side street, turned around, reentered the main road, and headed back the way he'd come. The Carrolls could wait.
By the time he crossed the causeway into Point Haven, he was beginning to have doubts, thinking maybe he was nuts. Still he didn't turn around. He realized this had been in the back of his mind since Friday, but now it jumped to the front like a page in a child's pop-up book.
Point Haven was the most exclusive town on the Fork. Old money dominated. Point Haveners were snobs and thought the rest of the Fork was tacky. The houses here were old, large, lavish. But more and more outsiders were buying land, throwing up modern houses and, according to the natives, spoiling the place.
Slowing the car, Colin started looking at street signs. Mark had told him that Amy Stauber lived on Love Lane and, winking, said how apt it was. Colin recalled that the street was near the Candy maker on the main road. He spotted it and turned. Amy had designed her own house-a rectangular shape painted pink, purple, and blue.
Mark said it drove the natives wild. The house was halfway down the block, back about fifty feet from the road. The land around it was bare. He pulled in next to a green Austin. For a moment he thought he should leave. What was he going to learn here, anyway? But his curiosity smothered his doubts.
Standing next to the car he stared at the house. He'd never seen its equal. It was long and low and painted as Mark had described. Smiling, Colin couldn't help liking Amy for doing something a little different, and he was glad it drove the old money types nuts.
At the bright pink door he used the lion's head brass knocker. There was no response at first, but by the time he'd knocked again he heard footsteps inside.
'Who is it?' a woman asked.
'Amy?'
'Who is it, please?'
'My name's Colin Maguire. I work for Mark Griffing.'
For a moment nothing stirred, then Colin heard her unsnap a lock. When the door opened he was stunned. 'Are you Amy Stauber?'
'Yes.' She was at least thirty-five, definitely not a kid. But she was beautiful. At least that much was true. She was tall and had long silver hair parted in the middle. Her hazel eyes were large. The broadcloth shirt she wore was blue with a button-down collar, and her jeans were tight, showing off a spectacular figure. On her feet were worn blue espadrilles.
'May I come in?'
'Has something happened to Mark?'
'No. He's fine. I'd just like to talk to you for a moment.'
'Did Mark send you?'
'No.'
'I don't understand, then. What's this about?'
'Please, this is important.'
'How do I know you're who you say you are?' A thin line of sweat outlined her upper lip.
Colin realized she was frightened. Maybe she thought he was the murderer. 'Don't you recognize my name from the paper?'
'I don't read the paper,' she said coldly. 'Do you have any identification?'
He showed her his press card.
'Okay. Come on in.'
The house was pleasantly cool and smelled of cedar. Bamboo furniture from the forties filled the living room. The pillows were covered in a cotton fabric splashed with color on a black background. Plants were everywhere. A wooden fan hung from the ceiling.
Amy told him to sit. 'So what's up?' she asked.
'I want to talk to you about Mark?'
'Did Sarah send you?'
'No one sent me.'
'What do you mean, you want to talk about Mark?'
He wasn't sure what he meant. Part of him kept thinking if he didn't say it out loud it would go away; the other part knew it was too late for that. Still, all his reportorial skills seemed to vanish. 'I know you were close once,' he said awkwardly.
She laughed, a dimple dotting one cheek. 'Oh, that's cute.'
'I'm sorry. I don't blame you for laughing. I'm having a little trouble here. Mark's an old friend. I guess I feel disloyal.'
'So why'd you come?'
'A good question. Mind if I smoke?'
'I'll get an ashtray.'
He watched her cross the room and open a low bamboo cabinet. This woman was very different from Sarah. There was something fluid in Amy's movements, so opposite to Sarah's frenetic style, her constant motion. Sarah said chaos where Amy said serenity. He couldn't imagine her threatening suicide.
She handed him an ashtray. In its center in gold script was Martha and Allen 1972. He looked at Amy, questioning.
'I collect them. I've got about seventy-five. It's sad, isn't it?'
'Sad?'
'Well, take Martha and Allen for instance. Married in 1972, divorced when? I mean, forget it, you wouldn't give
