on the far side. A low red brick wall extended from the house to surround a large flagstone patio with an umbrella table in the center. Several chairs lined the wall beside the sliding glass patio doors leading into the house, and on the opposite side of the patio was another, regular door.
The patio doors would be the easiest for an intruder to access, and with the gaps in the newly planted hedge on the one side, getting into the yard wouldn’t be that much of a problem, assuming he or she didn’t simply come down the drive.
I returned to the car as quickly as I could and drove off, pretty sure I saw a gray-clad figure watching from an upstairs window. And as I pulled onto the street, I recalled her saying she was “not employed by Mr. Fowler” and wondered exactly who, with Bement dead, she was employed by.
*
Thursday evening, after verifying with Jonathan as soon as he got home that there had been no unusual telephone calls or any sightings of the black Mercedes, I asked if Clarence had ever mentioned anything to him about his having made a new will. He looked at me a little strangely.
“No. Why would he do that?”
He had a good point.
After dinner, while I kept Joshua busy “reading” a magazine, Jonathan called Roger Rothenberger to tell him he was going to have to miss the next practice. We spent most of the remainder of the evening on the phone, calling the rest of the gang to let them know of the impending trip. We caught Bob and Mario just before they headed off to work at their respective bars, and they said they’d just talked to Tim and Phil, who had already told them about it. (Ah, the joys of the grapevine.) They invited me to join them for brunch Sunday, to which I readily agreed.
After Jonathan finished telling Cory, I asked to talk with him, and inquired if they, by any chance, knew Anna Bement. He said they did, which I couldn’t say surprised me, and that they could put me in touch with her whenever I wanted.
Coincidentally, as soon as I’d hung up, Tim and Phil called asking me to join them for dinner at Napoleon’s Saturday night—to keep me off the streets, as Tim put it—and Jake made a similar invitation later when I talked briefly with him. I told him of Tim and Phil’s invitation and suggested we make it a group thing. I felt a little like a traffic cop at a busy intersection by that time but reflected again on how nice it is to have friends.
*
Friday morning at the office, even though I was impatient to get moving, I forced myself to go through my rituals before calling Oak Terrace. I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol, or of just how much independence the, uh, residents had, but when I reached the switchboard and asked to speak to Mrs. Fowler, I was told she was in a meeting, which is a nice general euphemism covering a multitude of possible real reasons.
I asked if there were specific hours for visitors and was in turn asked if I were a family member. When I said “a friend of the family,” I was informed visitors were welcome between one and four p.m.
With time to kill, and the shot at Jonathan still very much in my mind, I decided to drive out to Woods Road. It was a nice day, cool, and the trees were turning. I took my time getting there.
Woods Road is paved for less than half a mile after it crosses the main road, and then it turns to gravel. It runs for probably five miles before ending at County Line Road. Jonathan was right—there wasn’t a single house on the entire stretch.
The railroad bridge Pardue had mentioned was about four miles in. I drove under it, glancing in my rearview mirror as I passed, and, returning my attention to the road, saw the bullet-riddled stop sign ahead. I had no idea why they’d put a sign there, since it marked a cross road that was little more than a dirt path. Still, I drove past it to the first place where I could turn around then headed back.
About fifty feet from the stop sign, I saw the pothole Jonathan had swerved
The patio doors would be the easiest for an intruder to access, and with the gaps in the newly planted hedge on the one side, getting into the yard wouldn’t be that much of a problem, assuming he or she didn’t simply come down the drive.
I returned to the car as quickly as I could and drove off, pretty sure I saw a gray-clad figure watching from an upstairs window. And as I pulled onto the street, I recalled her saying she was “not employed by Mr. Fowler” and wondered exactly who, with Bement dead, she was employed by.
*
Thursday evening, after verifying with Jonathan as soon as he got home that there had been no unusual telephone calls or any sightings of the black Mercedes, I asked if Clarence had ever mentioned anything to him about his having made a new will. He looked at me a little strangely.
“No. Why would he do that?”
He had a good point.
After dinner, while I kept Joshua busy “reading” a magazine, Jonathan called Roger Rothenberger to tell him he was going to have to miss the next practice. We spent most of the remainder of the evening on the phone, calling the rest of the gang to let them know of the impending trip. We caught Bob and Mario just before they headed off to work at their respective bars, and they said they’d just talked to Tim and Phil, who had already told them about it. (Ah, the joys of the grapevine.) They invited me to join them for brunch Sunday, to which I readily agreed.
After Jonathan finished telling Cory, I asked to talk with him, and inquired if they, by any chance, knew Anna Bement. He said they did, which I couldn’t say surprised me, and that they could put me in touch with her whenever I wanted.
Coincidentally, as soon as I’d hung up, Tim and Phil called asking me to join them for dinner at Napoleon’s Saturday night—to keep me off the streets, as Tim put it—and Jake made a similar invitation later when I talked briefly with him. I told him of Tim and Phil’s invitation and suggested we make it a group thing. I felt a little like a traffic cop at a busy intersection by that time but reflected again on how nice it is to have friends.
*
Friday morning at the office, even though I was impatient to get moving, I forced myself to go through my rituals before calling Oak Terrace. I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol, or of just how much independence the, uh, residents had, but when I reached the switchboard and asked to speak to Mrs. Fowler, I was told she was in a meeting, which is a nice general euphemism covering a multitude of possible real reasons.
I asked if there were specific hours for visitors and was in turn asked if I were a family member. When I said “a friend of the family,” I was informed visitors were welcome between one and four p.m.
With time to kill, and the shot at Jonathan still very much in my mind, I decided to drive out to Woods Road. It was a nice day, cool, and the trees were turning. I took my time getting there.
Woods Road is paved for less than half a mile after it crosses the main road, and then it turns to gravel. It runs for probably five miles before ending at County Line Road. Jonathan was right—there wasn’t a single house on the entire stretch.
The railroad bridge Pardue had mentioned was about four miles in. I drove under it, glancing in my rearview mirror as I passed, and, returning my attention to the road, saw the bullet-riddled stop sign ahead. I had no idea why they’d put a sign there, since it marked a cross road that was little more than a dirt path. Still, I drove past it to the first place where I could turn around then headed back.
About fifty feet from the stop sign, I saw the pothole Jonathan had swerved
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