Eventually his GPS directed him off the state route onto Skeel Swamp Road, a winding byway through a lowland of tree trunks standing in the shallow beaver ponds that had rotted their roots. A little beyond the beaver ponds a faded sign announced that he was entering Cemetery Flats. The only visible structure in the next mile was Dick & Della’s Place—an old-time diner, surrounded by pickup trucks. A mile past that a sign welcomed him to Bastenburg.
Where it entered the town’s commercial strip, Skeel Swamp Road was renamed Center Street, and its speed limit was reduced to twenty-five, giving Gurney ample time to observe the defining elements of the place.
In addition to two fast-food franchises, he passed a Quick Cash soda-can redemption center, a Hardly Used clothing store, a Thirsty Boys Beer Emporium, Maria’s Pizza and Laundromat, Smoker’s Heaven, Dark Moon Potions and Lotions, Golden Dragon Takeout, Iron Man Martial Arts, a pawn shop, a bail bondsman, a no-name gas station, two tattoo parlors, and a hair and nail salon.
There was a memorable sign in the window of the last storefront he passed on the strip.
CHURCH OF THE PATRIARCHS
FOR GOD, COUNTRY, AND THE RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS
Leaving the commercial area, the road rose gradually toward a distant ridge. When he was about halfway to the top, a dark blue BMW sped past him, going at least twice the speed limit, despite the poor condition of the road surface and the presence of a Bastenburg police cruiser parked on the shoulder. The BMW flew by it, but the police vehicle stayed where it was. As Gurney drove by, he noted that the officer appeared alert but showed no indication of initiating a pursuit.
When Gurney finally arrived at the crest of the hill and could see down into the next valley, he was amazed at how different it was from the one he’d just driven through. In place of the desolate beaver ponds, a glistening stream meandered through emerald meadows. In the middle of the valley the stream widened into a sky-blue lake with chartreuse willows on its banks. The end of the lake was bordered by a postcard fantasy of a New England village, complete with a white church spire.
Halfway through the gentle descent into this postcard world, a small sign on the mowed grass verge of the road bore the word LARCHFIELD in polished copper letters on a dark blue background. Even the surface of the road was different here—smoother, quieter, free of the cracks and patched potholes on the Bastenburg side of the hill.
As he was passing through an intersection at the near end of the lake, Gurney noted that Skeel Swamp Road was now called Waterview Drive. It led him along the manicured edge of the lake, past the willows he’d observed from the rise, to the edge of the village square. His GPS directed him onto Cotswold Lane—and announced immediately that he’d reached his destination. His dashboard clock read 8:59 a.m.
He pulled over to the curb under a giant maple just coming into leaf. Looking around, he thought perhaps there’d been a mapping error or that Morgan had given him the wrong address. On his left was the square itself—a parklike rectangle of perfect grass, gravel paths, stone benches, and flower beds with boxwood borders. On his right was a shaded sidewalk and a row of three large Victorian homes whose wide porches were surrounded by lilacs. Nowhere was there anything resembling a police station.
He could just make out the address on the porch post of the home he was closest to. He recognized it as the number he’d entered in his GPS. He headed up the bluestone path that led to the porch steps. There was a discreet plaque mounted on the clapboard siding beside the front door. Just as he got close enough to read the words on it—LARCHFIELD POLICE HQ—the door opened and Mike Morgan stepped out.
“You’re here! I was starting to worry!”
Gurney gestured toward the house. “This is your police station?”
“Yes. I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get to the Russell estate.” He pointed to a driveway beside the house. “Bring your car around back. We’ll go together in mine.”
Gurney drove the Outback around to a parking area behind the house, where he noted three Larchfield police cruisers, two unmarked Dodge Chargers, and Morgan’s Tahoe. As he was getting out of his own vehicle and into Morgan’s, he saw that the areas behind the two adjacent Victorians were also paved parking areas. The vehicles in one were civilian and generally upscale. In the other, there was a metallic-silver Lexus with a rear wheel elevated on a jack.
Morgan explained, “The house on the left is the village hall—mayor’s office, justice of the peace, village board, code enforcement, et cetera. The one on the right is the Peale Funeral Home. The one in the middle is our headquarters. There’s a peculiarity in the village zoning ordinance—an architectural clause that requires public and commercial buildings to conform to residential design standards—part of the historic Russell grip on everything in Larchfield.”
Gurney took a moment to absorb that before changing the subject. “Any developments at the crime scene?”
“Couple of things. One of our guys discovered a surgical scalpel on the floor under some shelving—in a greenhouse-conservatory type of structure on the back of the house. Same area where the break-in took place. There was blood on the scalpel, probably the murder weapon. Looks like the killer stumbled and fell on his way out, and the scalpel got away from him.”
“Prints?”
“Smudged but maybe recoverable. Lab’s doing what they can.” He pressed the start-engine button.
“You said there were a couple of things.”
“The Russells’ dog. It was found in back of the house, out by the woods, dead. Head appeared to have been hit with a hammer. The ME agreed to take a look, but he wasn’t happy about it. Said we should be sending the animal to a veterinary pathologist. Very touchy about his status.” Morgan backed out of his space and headed down the driveway.
Before he got to the end, a dark blue BMW turned sharply into the same narrow passage from the street side, coming to a stop nose-to-nose with the Tahoe.
“Jesus!” Morgan grimaced. He put the big SUV into reverse and slowly backed up into the parking area. The BMW came up the driveway and stopped beside him. Morgan lowered his window. The other driver did the same.
He had close-cropped dark hair, small unblinking eyes, and a downturned mouth. He peered at Gurney for a long moment before turning his attention to Morgan.
“We need to talk.” His tone was emotionless, but his eyes were insistent.
“Definitely,” said Morgan. There was a tic at the corner of his mouth. “But right now I need to get out to Harrow Hill. Do you have any specific information about—”
The man interrupted. “Not about what happened to Russell. But we need to talk. There’s a lot at stake. I’m sure you understand. So, call me. Before noon.” Giving Gurney another once-over, he turned his car around and disappeared down the driveway.
“Jesus,” said Morgan a second time. He exhaled slowly, his hands on the steering wheel.
Gurney stared at him. “Who the hell was that?”
“Chandler Aspern,” said Morgan, as though the name had a sour taste. He put the Tahoe back in drive and drove slowly out of the parking area.
It wasn’t until they reached Waterview Drive, the road encircling the lake, that he spoke again. The tic was still working at the corner of his mouth. “He’s the mayor of Larchfield. For years the sharpest thorn in Angus Russell’s side. They both have enormous manor houses on Harrow Hill. All the land is technically owned by the Russell family, but Aspern has a hundred-year lease on half of it—a lease that Angus Russell was desperate to break.”