She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “From what I see in the news, we don’t have a reputation left to worry about. What matters is having the proper resources to bring this tragedy to a proper conclusion. I say bring them in.”
Morgan blinked, then sighed.
Aspern took advantage of the silence to pursue his own question to Morgan. “What do you mean by ‘a major sweep’—and why the focus on Harrow Hill?”
“Some security camera videos we retrieved suggest that Tate may be using that area as a base for his movements. We believe that sealing it off and combing through it, foot by foot, is our best option at the moment.”
Aspern looked troubled but said nothing.
“How long do you see this taking?” asked Russell.
Morgan turned up his palms. “Hard to say. It’s a lot of ground to cover, hundreds of acres. I’m thinking at least forty-eight hours, with teams working around the clock.”
“So, two more days? With no guarantee of success?” She shook her head. “I don’t think it makes sense to wait that long, not with state police resources just a phone call away. Suppose Tate strikes again? Then what?”
Morgan sighed. “I hear what you’re saying, Hilda, I really do. Maybe I can prevail on Bastenburg for more feet on the ground, push harder, complete the search in twenty-four to thirty-six hours. If we can wrap this up without surrendering control to an agency with no stake in—”
She cut him off. “Chandler, where do you stand on this?”
Aspern took so long to answer, he seemed not to have heard the question.
“I’m not happy about it, but giving the local department another thirty-six hours seems preferable to punting the ball to the state.” He glanced around the table. “Any serious objections?”
The question was answered with shrugs. Then Martin Carmody suggested that Morgan should issue a statement to the effect that the investigation was entering a new phase, with a breakthrough expected at any time. Speaking up for the first time, Peale endorsed the idea of giving Morgan another thirty-six hours. After a short silence the meeting was adjourned.
Gurney approached Hilda Russell. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
She led the way out of the building to a wrought iron bench in the village square park, next to a flowering crab apple tree. The afternoon sun was warm on the bench.
“So, what’s on your mind?” she asked.
“I noted your eagerness to bring in the cavalry.”
“Indeed.”
“Does that reflect a desire to expand the investigation? Or bring it to a close?”
She shrugged. “Maybe both.”
“Are you concerned that something is being overlooked?”
“Human beings tend to overlook things. A common failing, don’t you think?”
“Especially when overlooking them is advantageous.”
Russell smiled.
A soft breeze carried the spring scent of grass and moist earth, adding an incongruous tranquility to a conversation about murder.
Gurney mirrored her smile. “We could save some time if you’d tell me what you think is being overlooked.”
“I’m not clairvoyant. I just feel that the focus of the local police may be excessively narrow.”
“Are you saying your brother’s murder might be more complicated than it seems?”
“I’m saying that Larchfield’s flowery meadows are full of snakes. And my late brother was very much at home here.”
35
Gurney’s way home that afternoon passed through the east end of Walnut Crossing, coming within a quarter mile of Geraldine Mirkle’s house. He decided to stop and see if Madeleine needed anything and perhaps allay some of the fear the situation would naturally be causing.
When he pulled into the driveway behind Gerry’s yellow VW Beetle, he spotted them behind the house in a gazebo bedecked with baskets of petunias. The sight set off a momentary flashback to the petunias that were part of the savage conclusion of the White River murder case. He pushed that gruesome scene out of his mind and headed over to the gazebo.
They were sitting on opposite sides of a small table that supported a Scrabble board and a pitcher of iced tea. Gerry Mirkle was the first to speak.
“Good news or bad news?”
“Not much of either one.” He tried for a casual smile. “I was passing by and thought I’d drop in for a minute. Who’s winning?”
“Gerry, as usual,” said Madeleine. “Where are you coming from?”
“Lovely Larchfield.”
Her lips tightened. “Do you feel like you’re getting any closer to . . . ending this?”
“There’s a major manhunt underway right now, with a good chance of success.”
Neither woman appeared convinced.
“Is there anything you ladies want from the village?”
Gerry shook her head.
“No,” said Madeleine.
“Or from the house?”
“No. Just look in on the chickens. I think they have enough food and water, but it’s worth checking. And please be careful.”
“Right.” He kissed the top of her head, nodded to Gerry, and returned to his car.
The route to the Gurney property out in the western hills went through the center of Walnut Crossing. It was hard to tell whether the sad condition of the upstate economy was more accurately reflected in the vacant storefronts or in those occupied by the shabby businesses that had survived—selling discount cigarettes, secondhand clothing, used furniture, lottery tickets, and junk food. The only enterprises that seemed on a solid enough footing to keep up appearances were the hospital and the funeral parlor.
Fifteen minutes later, Gurney was parked in front of his barn. The grass was in need of mowing—a reminder of how difficult he found it to balance the domestic and detective sides of his life. He decided to deal with the grass while it was on his mind. Then, as he was about to get the mower out of the barn, he was struck by the aggressive ugliness of the bloody statement on the door. The urge to do something about that first pushed the mowing plan aside.
He figured the simplest remedy would be a quick sanding and repainting of the defaced area. Barstow had already taken photographs and surface scrapings for analysis, so there was no evidence-preservation issue, and he had the materials on hand in his workshop in the barn.
Half an hour later, the job was done. His painting could have been neater, but at least the creepy message had been covered. He checked his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. He hadn’t bothered to eat anything at Aspern’s lunchtime meeting, and he was hungry, but he decided to inspect the barn area before it fell into the shade of the tall cherry trees.
He walked a gradually expanding spiral route around the structure, just as he’d done at countless other crime scenes. He found nothing of interest until he came to the tread marks Barstow had made impressions of that morning.
The fact that the combination of the two tread patterns and the distance between them might identify the make and model of the car had Gurney itchy for a status report. Although he was pretty sure that Barstow would notify him promptly if anything useful turned up, he called her anyway. He reached her voicemail and left a message.
Then he drove up through the low pasture to the house, intent on getting something to eat—and making sure the chickens had enough food and water.
He discovered they had plenty of both. He took a few minutes to clean off their perches, air out the coop, and put down a few handfuls of fresh straw before going into the house. After getting a pot of water boiling and adding some pasta, he took a shower and put on fresh jeans and a polo shirt. He returned to the kitchen, drained the pasta, added some butter and leftover asparagus, and carried a bowl of it to the café table outside the French doors.