Oddly, it was Morgan who put it into words first. “At this point, you’re probably asking yourself what made me so desperate to see you.”
4
Twenty minutes later Morgan concluded a dire description of how, given the prominent family involved, the case was likely to turn into a political minefield that could make or break his career—and how Gurney’s investigative talents, strongest in the areas where his own were weakest, could save the day. He had only one request—that Gurney come to Larchfield at 9:00 a.m. the next morning to examine the crime scene. After that, he could decide whether he was willing to get involved.
With some reluctance, Gurney agreed, and with a sigh of relief, Morgan departed.
After watching the man’s SUV disappear around the barn onto the dirt-and-gravel road, Gurney returned to the kitchen. He remembered suddenly that he hadn’t stopped for the milk Madeleine asked him to pick up on his way home from the academy. So he picked up his wallet, got in the Outback, and drove through five miles of old farmland to the village of Walnut Crossing.
“Village” was a word that brought to his mind the antique charm of places he and Madeleine had visited on their honeymoon in the English countryside. But “village” had become a misnomer for Walnut Crossing, which each year had been sinking deeper into the economic and social malaise of upstate New York, with its spreading blight of empty storefronts and expanding populations of the unemployed and unemployable.
He pulled into one of the main street’s two “convenience” stores and went to the small dairy section of the wall-length cooler devoted almost entirely to beers, soft drinks, and strangely flavored waters. He took a half gallon of nonfat milk to the cashier’s counter, where he waited while a toothless woman in a housedress and green rubber boots purchased a handful of brightly colored lottery tickets.
As soon as he got home, he put the milk in the fridge and took out an onion, a pepper, a stalk of celery, and a large zucchini. He chopped the vegetables and put them near the wok. He filled a pot of water for pasta and placed it on the stove. He set the pasta water on high and went for a quick shower and change of clothes.
The relaxing effect of the warm water streaming down over his back kept him in the shower twice as long as he’d planned, and when he finally returned to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner, he found Madeleine at the stove with her back to him, stirring the vegetables in the wok. The pasta was boiling, and the table by the French doors was set for dinner.
“Hi,” she said without turning. “Thanks for getting things started. I see you remembered the milk.”
“You didn’t think I would?”
“I figured it was a toss-up.”
He saw no need to reveal how true that was. He went over and kissed the back of her neck. Her tousled brown hair had a sweet outdoor scent. “How was your day?”
She turned off the gas under the wok and stirred the pasta. “The part I spent at the clinic had its ups and downs. Eight intakes referred by the drug court. Two of them were scared to death, possibly scared enough to embrace the program. The other six were in denial. I could see the little wheels turning in their heads, trying to guess what I wanted to hear, trying to beat the system—anything rather than face their addiction.”
Gurney shrugged. “Liars and manipulators. Your typical clinic clientele.”
“But the few who do want help and end up turning their lives around—they make what I’m doing there feel worthwhile.” She turned off the gas under the pasta, carried the big pot to the sink, and emptied it into a waiting colander.
He realized his tone had been needlessly negative. “Of course what you’re doing is worthwhile. I didn’t mean to suggest it wasn’t. All I was saying—”
She cut him off. “You don’t like addicts. You had your share of difficult experiences with them in the city. I understand.”
He smiled, having read somewhere that smiling makes your voice sound warmer. “So the intakes were the mixed-blessing part of your day. How was the other part?”
“Very interesting. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.”
She shook the pasta-filled colander gently until it stopped dripping, carried it to the stove, tilted its contents into the wok with the sautéed vegetables, and stirred everything together with a long wooden spoon.
Once they’d served themselves from the wok and were seated at the table, Madeleine removed a folded sheet of paper from under her napkin and passed it across to him.
“This could be a little project for us.” Her face was bright with excitement.
He unfolded the paper and saw what appeared to be a structural diagram for some sort of shed.
“Dennis printed that out from a farm website,” she added.
He frowned at the man’s name. “What is it?”
“An alpaca shelter.”
“We don’t have any alpacas.”
“Not right now.”
He looked up from the paper.
“But we could get one,” she said. “Or two. Two would be better. They’re very social. One would get lonely.”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
“I guess I started when I was helping the Winklers with their alpacas two years ago at the fair.” She fell silent, perhaps at the memory of how the fair had ended in disaster—the culminating horror of the Peter Pan murder case.
After a moment, she looked at him with a wistful smile. “It’s not something we need to do right away. We’d have to build that house for them first. And that could be a fun thing to do together.”
Gurney looked again at the design, then laid it in the middle of the table. “Alpacas are expensive, aren’t they?”
“That’s what everyone thinks, but when you take the pluses and minuses into consideration, they cost very little. Almost nothing.”
“The pluses and minuses?”
“I’ll let Dennis explain all that.”
“What?”
“I invited the Winklers for dinner.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“To give us an alpaca sales pitch?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. It’s ages since we’ve gotten together. If they want to tell us about their alpacas, that’s fine with me.”
They ate for several minutes before she laid down her fork and waited for him to meet her gaze. “The alpaca idea isn’t as crazy as it sounds. And the Winklers aren’t as awful as you think. Try to keep an open mind.”
He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
She picked up her fork. “Did you return that call from Mike Morgan?”
“I did.”
“His message sounded terribly anxious.”
“Some of that is just the way he is, but he does seem to be in an unusual situation. He actually came to the house to talk about it.”
“What does he want?”
“Help with a murder investigation in a village up north. Larchfield. Peculiar place. Peculiar crime scene. Most peculiar thing of all is that Morgan’s the police chief.”
“You don’t think he’s up to it?”
“Intellectually he may be up to it. But emotionally he’s a wreck.” He paused. “How much more do you want to know?”
“Enough so I can understand what you decide.”
“Decide?”
“About whether to get involved with his murder case.”
He didn’t respond to that.
She turned and gazed out through the French doors. “Look at the grass.”
He looked out past the little bluestone patio toward the henhouse and the old apple tree. The wet grass was glistening in the slanting evening sunlight. The only trace of the earlier snow was a cottony white patch at the base of the apple tree.