Free HardScape by Justin Scott Page B

were gone, as if Rita and Ron had adjourned hastily from hors d’oeuvres to bed. At least that’s how I read it.
    I found the tea in an airtight cabinet, chose Constant Comment. Sugar was where it should be, and a teapot was nearby.
    Trooper Boyce was watching from the mudroom door. “Know your way around pretty well, don’t you?”
    â€œI sell houses for a living.” I ran hot water into the teapot to warm the thick china. “You want some tea?”
    â€œNo.”
    I had not liked the look on her partner’s face when he found the gun. And just in case the slug Oliver had found in the grass matched it, I decided to polish my manners and make a friend at the cops. “Mrs. Long would like some tea. You sure you won’t have some too? Why don’t you come up with me?”
    â€œWho let you see Mrs. Long?”
    â€œI hope I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry if I did. But I figured you were through with us, and she seemed so upset. Is that a problem?”
    Marian Boyce regarded me warily. “I’ll take some tea, here. I’ll leave her in your capable hands.”
    â€œMilk and sugar?”
    ***
    Upstairs in the guest room, Rita had dozed off. I put her cup on the night table and covered it with a paperback Patrick O’Brian novel. I sat in an easy chair and sipped and studied the room. They’d had a fire in the fireplace last night—it had to be “their” room—and candles on the mantel had burned to the stubs. There was a vase of asters, and in the bathroom a pair of empty wineglasses, rinsed to be taken down to the dishwasher in the morning. Two terry robes, hung on the door hooks, blue as Rita’s eyes. And Ron’s eyes. Terrific couple, I thought again. But it was funny how casual they were about “their” room. If they were as careful about not getting caught as Rita claimed, why had they left all this night-of-love evidence around? I would have thought they’d have scoured the place before Ron left.
    Maybe he hadn’t left. Long was away. Maybe Ron had just driven down to New York to get his mail or something and was coming back tonight. A long round trip, but do-able. Then it dawned on me: In order to get shot he had to have left the cookout ahead of Rita and come back here before driving to New York.
    I heard a car door slam. I got up and looked out the window at the floodlit lawn. A Newbury volunteer ambulance was pulling down the driveway, flashers off and siren silent, doing double duty as a morgue wagon. I sat awhile longer, watching Rita sleep. Suddenly a whole slew of car doors slammed. I looked out again, this time on a scene out of Keystone Kops. State troopers were streaming from the house, running full tilt to their cars. Sirens whooped and gravel flew. Lights flashing, a caravan raced down the driveway.
    Rita stirred but did not wake. I went down to the kitchen. Steve was on the telephone, hurriedly explaining to Mildred that he was going to be late and didn’t know how late. He told her he loved her, and ran for the front door with his black bag. It was heavy and he was not young, so I grabbed it and ran alongside. We passed a rookie state trooper at the door, who looked put out that he’d been left behind.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œPlane crash,” said Steve, climbing into his car. “You coming? Hop in.”
    I looked back at the house. Rita wasn’t likely to wake up and the young trooper had it secured, so I got in. A shooting and a plane crash in a single day was more action than we’d seen since the Hawleyville Tavern burned down.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal—why’d the plainclothes go?”
    â€œThey found the plane at the end of Al Bell’s strip.”
    â€œSo?” There were a half-dozen private airstrips in the area—quarter mile cow pastures on the high plateaus.
    â€œSo when Al drove up to see if the pilot was okay, the