I sighed. I said, “That’s just great. Did you get a number, anything?”
“Anytime you call 911, we’ve automatically got it. Problem is, the guy called from the clubhouse. It could be any number of extensions. They sent a car over, and nothing suspicious was going on. Anyway. I’m going there to check after I leave you off. Someone at home at this house where we’re going, by the way?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“You got a house key?”
I was so out of it I couldn’t remember. And then I remembered they were in the Thunderbird. I said, “No keys.”
“Guess it’s good I turned up, huh?”
I didn’t answer. In the distance the golf course was a pastiche of soaked green and ice white. The snow was melting quickly, and golf carts were starting their buglike crawl up the paved path.
For some reason, this struck me as insanity. How could people play golf today? How could they just go on?
I moaned. Schulz reached over, lifted my left hand from my lap, and held it. He said, “Need me to pull over?”
I nodded and he did. I opened the door and was sick.
When I had wiped my mouth with tissues he discreetly handed over, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you to this place.”
I closed my eyes and mumbled the directions to Sam Snead Lane, a dead end. When I felt a little better I looked out again at the greens, but then changed my mind. Better just to focus on the inside of the car for a while.
“I wonder if they asked these guys if they could use their names,” said Schulz. I ventured a glance out. Schulz wrinkled his nose as he started down Arnold Palmer Avenue. I told him in a voice that still did not sound like mine that it had been the developer’s idea to make up for the loss of a second eighteen holes by naming the streets after famous golfers. Schulz shook his head. “No second golf course, but a dry sailing club. Houses here look like boats. Great big yachts tied up on the grass.”
I looked out at the pale gray and tan mini-mansions sailing past. While the other houses in Aspen Meadow were generally stained dark tones of rustic green and rustic brown, here the palette was light. The magnificent dwellings were indeed like ships made of pale wood and glass; they perched on waves of mountain grass rolling down from the tops of the surrounding hills.
Schulz squinted, rocked the car left onto Sam Snead Lane, then veered right into the Farquhars’ cul-de-sac. The tall and expansive pearl-gray Victorian stood on the highest wave of grass. The house’s brilliant white trim shimmered in the sudden sunlight.
“Code, Miss G.?” asked Schulz as we arrived at the security gate guarding the fence to the Farquhars’ two acres.
I stared at the closed-circuit camera and the panel of buttons. After a moment I remembered the code and told him what buttons to press.
On the porch Schulz pushed the lit doorbell. Inside, the chimes echoed plaintively. General Farquhar’s voice boomed
“General,” I said, “there’s been an accident. I’m here with a policeman. I don’t have my keys.”
“Just a moment,” cracked the voice.
“Nice security system,” said Schulz. “You living in a separate part of the house?”
I said, “Sort of. We have two rooms on the third floor, with our own back staircase to the kitchen and pool.”
“A pool in this climate? Amazing.”
“Heated. Adele has a herniated disc at her fourth lumbar vertebra, as well as degenerative arthritis. She has to swim every day.”
“Or ice-skate,” said Schulz.
There was a clicking behind the door: General Bo Farquhar was preparing to meet the world.
“Yes?” His sharp features were pinched in puzzlement at the presence of Schulz. “Please,” he said again when he recognized me, “please come in,” and he pulled the door open.
“I remember this guy from the news,” Schulz whispered to me.
I shook my head at him and warned with my eyes,
“Are you all right, Goldy?” the general barked.
I took a deep breath and nodded into the demanding gaze of the general’s pale blue eyes. General Bo Farquhar’s eyes weren’t just light blue, they were almost colorless, like his white skin and cropped-close white- blond hair. He towered over me, holding himself as erect as he had in the West Point class of 1960. General Bo Farquhar was not handsome. His lips were too thin, his chin too prominent, his nose too long. But he had the kind of effortless charisma that people pay thousands of dollars to get from image-development corporations. And don’t think he didn’t know it.
“Quite a system you’ve got here,” said Schuiz after introductions.
“All you need is one ambush,” said the general, with a grim smile. “What happened?” he asked.
I motioned toward the living room.
The general started to lead us in that direction, then turned and said, “You all go in and sit down. I’ll get some coffee. Brandy, too,” he said as an afterthought. Then he pivoted and disappeared across the dining room’s Oriental rug, a lilac-and-salmon-colored Kirman.
We settled into the pink and green ocean of a living room adjoining the foyer. I sat on one of the two rose- colored couches; Schuiz lowered himself uncomfortably into one of the pale green damask wing chairs. Another Kirman, this one in hues of pink and green, floated beneath us, while on the walls green and pink fans and dried floral wreaths vied with neo-Renoir oils.
Schuiz said, “Guy seems awful young for a general. Refresh my memory.”
“He was the army’s ranking man in studying terrorists. Methods and materials,” I said in a low voice. “But nobody told him to share his know-how with the Afghanis. He just did it. He had to retire, sort of a compromise. He still researches and writes about terrorists. My bet is he’s trying to regain the respect of the Pentagon crowd. He is a little odd,” I added.
“Uh-huh,” said Schuiz as he gazed at the shelves on either side of the fireplace. “Look at that.” He pointed to the Farquhars’ stereo. “Motion detector.”
I looked, but saw only a small red light on the side of one of the speakers. I knew how to turn off each of the four loops of the security system; that was the extent of my knowledge.
Schuiz halted his visual inspection long enough to finger a piece of fudge on the coffee table. “Okay if I have one of these?”
“Sure.” The last thing I wanted to think about was food. As an afterthought, I said, “I didn’t make them.” And then I remembered with sudden pain the golden balloons from Philip, which he’d brought with a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates.
Schulz eyed the fudge skeptically. “Does that mean they’re not very good?”
“It just means I didn’t make them. Julian Teller did. Resident teenager whose father owns a candy shop. Julian’s one of Mrs. Farquhar’s people projects, sort of like Arch and me.”
Schulz chewed and said, “Not bad.” Then he winked at me. “Not as good as yours, though.”
I nodded, uncaring. Fatigue was creeping up my legs like cold water. There was a knot in my stomach. The sight of Philip was coming back.
“I feel light-headed,” I whispered to Schulz. He nodded sympathetically.
“Here we go,” said General Bo as he strode in with a silver tray. “Brandy and coffee.”
“General Farquhar,” I said after clearing my throat, “I tried to help the person who was killed. His name was . . . Philip Miller. I’m sorry, I . . . ran the T-bird into a utility pole.”
“Philip Miller.” The general looked at me with disbelief. “Julian’s shrink?”
“Yes,” I said, although I had not known this. “And my friend.”
The general frowned. “Jesus.” He handed me a brandy snifter. “Unbelievable. How did it happen?”
During my retelling of the accident story, the general shook his head just perceptibly with each detail, as if I
