Free Stardust by Robert B. Parker

tree, rolled down toward a river. Horses moved about in the pasture. Beyond the horses and facing the pasture was a barn, newly built, that mimicked the old barns of New England the way fashion mimics clothing.
    I parked in the big driveway that made a half-circle in front of the house. It was done in paving stones. Water dripped from the roofline of the house and made a pleasant winter sound as I walked up the sinuous brick path to the glass and redwood entryway. A wind chime at the entry made a small tinkle. I rang the bell. Wherever it rang in the house I couldn’t hear it. But it worked because in a minute the door opened and there was the tall mean geek I had disagreed with earlier this morning. His eyes behind the rimless glasses were expressionless when he looked at me.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI’m with Dover Welcome Wagon,” I said. “I wanted to stop by and drop off some soap samples and the name of your nearest plumber.”
    He started to say buzz off, caught himself and changed it.
    â€œBeat it,” he said.
    I took a card out of my shirt pocket and handed it to him.
    â€œI lied about Welcome Wagon,” I said.
    â€œDon’t get foolish because you were able to sucker punch me this morning. I’ve pulverized tougher guys than you.”
    His voice had a hard nasal sound to it, the old Yankee sound, and he talked like the class bully at Deerfield Academy. A tough WASP?
    â€œSure,” I said. “I still need to talk with Rojack.”
    He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have authority to screen callers.
    â€œWait here,” he said and closed the door in my face. I waited in the tinkling silence, listening to the wind chimes and the roof drip. Then he opened the door again.
    â€œThis way,” he said. I stepped in. He closed the door behind me. The house inside was all angles and slants. I followed him through an open hallway that appeared to cut the house diagonally. Rooms full of glass and stone and costly furniture opened off it as we went. I got a glimpse of Oriental rugs and the kind of early-twentieth-century Mission Oak furniture from a factory in Syracuse that sells for $25,000 a couch. I also got the impression of a lot of Tiffany glass before I came out into an English conservatory, all glass, fully enclosed, heated, and furnished in white wicker with floral cushions.
    Rojack sat on the wicker couch among some huge potted ferns. He was wearing a Black Watch plaid shirt open at the neck, pressed chino pants and mahogany-colored penny loafers with no socks. On the couch next to him was a stack of manila file folders. On the coffee table before him was a laptop computer, its screen aglow with printing. He was drinking coffee from a white china cup that had a gold strip around the rim, and there was a full coffee service in silver on the table next to the computer.
    He was a good-looking man, short dark hair brushed straight back, dark expressive face. Medium sized, in shape. His nails glistened as he lowered the coffee cup and looked directly at me.
    â€œA private detective,” he said.
    â€œSad but true,” I said.
    â€œRandall’s dying to throw you out,” Rojack said.
    â€œWhy should he be different?”
    Rojack nodded. “You are often unwelcome?”
    â€œI often bring bad news,” I said.
    â€œThat is usually unwelcome. Do you bring bad news to me?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I bring questions.”
    I felt like I was trapped in a Hemingway short story. If I got any more cryptic I wouldn’t be able to talk at all.
    Rojack nodded, carefully. It was as if everything he did he had learned to do.
    â€œSit down,” he said. “Will you have coffee?”
    â€œYes, please. Cream, two sugars.” Asking for decaf seemed somehow inappropriate.
    Rojack nodded at Randall. Without expression he poured some coffee for me, added a splash of cream and two lumps of sugar, put a small silver spoon on