“No.”
Her eyes would not meet mine.
“Do you know the names of the others who went to the lodge?”
She began fidgeting with the nozzle.
“Mrs. Veckhoff?”
“Pat never talked about those trips. I left it to him. He needed privacy, being in the public eye so much.”
“Have you ever heard of the H&F Investment Group?”
“No.” She remained focused on the hose, her back to me, but I could see tension in her shoulders.
“Mrs. Veck—”
“It's late. I have to go inside now.”
“I'd like to find out if your husband had an interest in that property.”
Twisting off the spray, she dropped the hose and hurried up the walk.
“Thanks for your time, ma'am. I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”
She turned with the door half open, one veiny hand on the knob. From inside the house came the soft bong of Westminster chimes.
“Pat always said I talk too much. I denied it, told him I was just the friendly type. Now I think he was probably right. But it gets lonely being by yourself.”
The door closed, and I heard a bolt slide into place.
It's O.K., Mrs. Veckhoff. Your answers were bullshit, but they were charming bullshit. And very informative.
I dug a card from my purse, wrote my home address and number on it, and stuck it into the doorjamb.
IT WAS PAST EIGHT WHEN MY FIRST VISITOR ARRIVED.
After leaving Mrs. Veckhoff, I'd bought a rotisserie chicken at the Roasting Company, then collected Birdie from my neighbor. The three of us had shared the fowl, Bird's tail fluffing like a feather duster each time Boyd moved in his direction. I was scraping plates at the sink when I heard the knock.
Pete stood on the back stoop, a bouquet of daisies in one hand. As I opened the door, he bowed at the waist and proffered the flowers.
“On behalf of my canine associate.”
“Not necessary, but appreciated.” I held open the door, and he went past me into the kitchen.
Boyd bounded over at the sound of Pete's voice, dropped snout onto front paws, rump in the air, then began cavorting around the kitchen. Pete clapped and called his name. Boyd went berserk, barking and racing in circles. Birdie bolted.
“Stop. He'll scratch the floor.”
Pete took a chair at the table and Boyd moved beside him.
“Sit.”
Boyd stared at Pete, eyebrows dancing. Pete tapped the dog's rump, and Boyd sat, chin upon his master's knee. Pete began a two-handed ear scratch.
“Got any beer?”
“Root beer.”
“Right. How'd you two get along?”
“Fine.”
I opened and placed a Hire's in front of him.
“When did you get back?” Pete lowered and tipped the bottle so Boyd could drink.
“Today. How did things go in Indiana?”
“The local arson investigators were about as sophisticated as the Bobbsey twins. But the real problem was the liability insurance adjuster representing the roofer. His client was working on a roof patch with an acetylene torch in the exact area where the fire started.”
He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his hand and drank.
“This asshole knew the cause and origin. We knew the cause and origin. He knew we knew it. We knew he knew we knew, but his official position was that they needed additional investigation.”
“Will it go to court?”
“Depends on what they offer.” He lowered the root beer again, and Boyd slurped. “But it was good to have a break from chow breath, here.”
“You love that dog.”
