filtered down through the surrounding tree-covered hillsides.
There was a door dead center in the cabin with a window on either side, and the windows glowed with a warm orange light. Somebody must be home , Nick thought. It’s a good thing, ’cause I’m sure not driving all the way out here again . There was a car parked to the left of the cabin with a New York license plate; Nick pulled his car up alongside it and got out. He walked across the gravel drive and stepped up onto the hollow porch, surprised by the loudness of his footsteps in the dark, half expecting a face to appear in the window at any moment.
He knocked.
A moment later the door opened a few inches and he found himself looking into the face of an attractive woman with short black hair.
The woman looked him up and down. “Well, hello.”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” he began. “Are you Michelle Keller?”
“I might be. Who wants to know?”
“I’m Dr. Nick Polchak. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”
“About what?”
“About your husband.”
She opened the door a little wider. “About Marty? What about him?”
“If you’ll let me come in, I’ll be happy to explain,” he said.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Sheriff Yanuzzi told me—he gave me this address.”
She paused. “Well, you must be telling the truth, ’cause Ed’s the only one who knows I’m here.” She stepped back and let the door swing open. “C’mon in, hon. Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks,” Nick said. “I’m good.”
“You don’t mind if I do? There’s not much else to do way out here.”
“It’s your house.” As he said those words he took a quick look around the cabin. The room appeared to be lit by oil lamp only. The walls were made of knotty pine, and the lamplight made the shellac look glossy orange. There was a kitchenette at one end of the cabin with a chipped Formica countertop and false veneer cabinets. The opposite end of the cabin was dominated by a queen-size bed on a simple black-iron frame. Judging by the trophy mounts on the walls and the spartan decor, it was not her house—it clearly belonged to a man.
She turned to Nick with glass in hand. “Go ahead—say it.”
“Say what?”
“‘Nice place you’ve got here.’”
“I’d be lying,” Nick said.
“And you’re not the kind of man who lies? Honey, I’ve heard that one before.”
Nick didn’t respond.
“It’s home,” she said with a shrug, “at least for a couple of days a month.”
“Where’s home the rest of the time? New York?”
She sat down on an old leather sofa covered with a web of faint white cracks and patted the seat cushion beside her. “Sit down, hon. Make yourself comfortable. Stay awhile—it gets lonely out here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because it gets lonely in New York too. It’s ‘Nick,’ right?”
“That’s right.”
“ Dr . Nick, you said. Imagine that—way out here, late at night, all by my lonesome, and a handsome doctor comes knocking at my door.”
Nick wondered how much she’d had to drink. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m a forensic entomologist.”
“What’s that?”
“I specialize in the insects that are attracted to decomposing bodies.”
She shuddered. “Honey, you sure know how to change a mood.”
“That’s another specialty of mine.” He crossed to the opposite wall and adjusted his glasses to take a better look at two framed photographs that hung one above the other near the window. The top photo showed a grinning Ed Yanuzzi with his index finger hooked through the gill slit of a very large fish; in the bottom photo a rifle-toting Yanuzzi posed beside the rack of a glassy-eyed buck. Nick turned to Michelle. “Does this cabin belong to the sheriff?”
“Yes,” she said simply—and nothing more.
Nick made no comment.
“Shame on you,” she said. “It’s not like that at
There was a door dead center in the cabin with a window on either side, and the windows glowed with a warm orange light. Somebody must be home , Nick thought. It’s a good thing, ’cause I’m sure not driving all the way out here again . There was a car parked to the left of the cabin with a New York license plate; Nick pulled his car up alongside it and got out. He walked across the gravel drive and stepped up onto the hollow porch, surprised by the loudness of his footsteps in the dark, half expecting a face to appear in the window at any moment.
He knocked.
A moment later the door opened a few inches and he found himself looking into the face of an attractive woman with short black hair.
The woman looked him up and down. “Well, hello.”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” he began. “Are you Michelle Keller?”
“I might be. Who wants to know?”
“I’m Dr. Nick Polchak. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”
“About what?”
“About your husband.”
She opened the door a little wider. “About Marty? What about him?”
“If you’ll let me come in, I’ll be happy to explain,” he said.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Sheriff Yanuzzi told me—he gave me this address.”
She paused. “Well, you must be telling the truth, ’cause Ed’s the only one who knows I’m here.” She stepped back and let the door swing open. “C’mon in, hon. Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks,” Nick said. “I’m good.”
“You don’t mind if I do? There’s not much else to do way out here.”
“It’s your house.” As he said those words he took a quick look around the cabin. The room appeared to be lit by oil lamp only. The walls were made of knotty pine, and the lamplight made the shellac look glossy orange. There was a kitchenette at one end of the cabin with a chipped Formica countertop and false veneer cabinets. The opposite end of the cabin was dominated by a queen-size bed on a simple black-iron frame. Judging by the trophy mounts on the walls and the spartan decor, it was not her house—it clearly belonged to a man.
She turned to Nick with glass in hand. “Go ahead—say it.”
“Say what?”
“‘Nice place you’ve got here.’”
“I’d be lying,” Nick said.
“And you’re not the kind of man who lies? Honey, I’ve heard that one before.”
Nick didn’t respond.
“It’s home,” she said with a shrug, “at least for a couple of days a month.”
“Where’s home the rest of the time? New York?”
She sat down on an old leather sofa covered with a web of faint white cracks and patted the seat cushion beside her. “Sit down, hon. Make yourself comfortable. Stay awhile—it gets lonely out here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because it gets lonely in New York too. It’s ‘Nick,’ right?”
“That’s right.”
“ Dr . Nick, you said. Imagine that—way out here, late at night, all by my lonesome, and a handsome doctor comes knocking at my door.”
Nick wondered how much she’d had to drink. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m a forensic entomologist.”
“What’s that?”
“I specialize in the insects that are attracted to decomposing bodies.”
She shuddered. “Honey, you sure know how to change a mood.”
“That’s another specialty of mine.” He crossed to the opposite wall and adjusted his glasses to take a better look at two framed photographs that hung one above the other near the window. The top photo showed a grinning Ed Yanuzzi with his index finger hooked through the gill slit of a very large fish; in the bottom photo a rifle-toting Yanuzzi posed beside the rack of a glassy-eyed buck. Nick turned to Michelle. “Does this cabin belong to the sheriff?”
“Yes,” she said simply—and nothing more.
Nick made no comment.
“Shame on you,” she said. “It’s not like that at
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