Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

“Not a squad, exactly,” Kentucky said, hiding a smile. “There are just two of us. It’s something new Cranford is trying out. We just came on board three months ago.”

“So I heard. And it’s a good idea. Too bad, though. A few years ago there wouldn’t have been anything for you to do here. But with the city elements creeping in, things are different. Everyone locks their doors and windows now, and if you’re going to be away, you make sure somebody cuts your lawn.”

Kentucky nodded politely and then went directly to explaining the reason for his visit.

The minister shook his head. “I can’t say I was ever very fond of Jim Fullerton. My wife and I often wondered how Sarah put up with him. But murder, that’s something else again. Sarah’s a fine woman. She sure doesn’t deserve this kind of trouble.”

“Mrs. Fullerton said she spent yesterday afternoon with you and your wife.”

“Yes, that’s right. We went over to Essex. There was a flower show the ladies wanted to see. They were hoping to get some ideas for some new plantings for the front of the church. My wife tripped and sprained her ankle, and we came home early. She’s still resting it. The doctor strapped it up and told her to keep it elevated for a few days.”

“What time was it when you took Mrs. Fullerton home?”

“It was about three o’clock when we got back, but we didn’t take her home. She had her car in the parking lot behind the church.”

Sarah had watched the detectives drive up the hill, and then she closed the windows and drew the blinds. When she’d rinsed out the coffee mugs, she went into the living room and flipped the switch that turned on the lamps at each end of the sofa.

She wanted to go back over everything they had said, but she knew she would have trouble remembering it all.

She’d meant to ask them sooner than she had about just how Jim had died, but after she heard where his body had been found, her mind just shut down. It was Kentucky who told her. “Our guess is that it was a blow to the head,” he said.

It seemed he was going to leave it at that, but she pressed him for details.

“We’ll know more after the autopsy, but it looks as though it was a golf club.”

It had taken all the strength she had to control herself then, but now she sank back against the sofa pillows and closed her eyes and allowed herself to see it all. It was like opening an album of photographs that had been carefully framed, snapped, and then neatly pasted in proper sequence. No, it was more than that. Her memory had none of the limits of a camera lens.

It began with Jim driving her along the dirt road behind the golf course. It wasn’t much more than a fire lane, with woods on both sides. When he came to the pull-off, he braked slowly and then eased into it, careful not to get too close, not wanting to scratch the car. Then, with the engine stopped, the hush of the woods engulfed them, magnifying the sound of the car doors opening and closing. Louder still was the slam of the car trunk. Jim had gone into it to take the number two iron from his golf bag — in case of snakes. They would walk along the dirt road then, looking for an opening into the woods. All sound was muted by the soft moist earth, except for the occasional high note of a bird or the rustle of a squirrel. Around them was the heady scent of honeysuckle.

Jim chose a different way into the woods each time, not wanting to beat a path and mark it for someone else to find. When he found a place that suited him, he would take the lead and part the way, careful not to break any branches and leave telltale scars. In the spring the sap was running and the new growth was supple, but even so their movements were deliberate and slow, adding a high charge to the counterpoint of their racing pulses, eager to reach their destination.

Finally, they arrived at the secret place, that small protected glade encircled by dogwood in white bloom. Jim would take his final step and then, like an actor on a stage, turn and toss the golf club to the ground, reach out, and invite her into his arms.

The memory rose and swept over her with the force of a hurricane. She felt the tremble begin and tried to stop it, but it swelled and went on, rolling over her, out of control. She clutched herself and waited for the awful turbulence of longing and regret to pass, helplessly reliving the moment when their bodies touched. She cried out, and then at last began to sob.

At police headquarters Player dialed Cindy Clarke’s number for the third time. “Damn! She’s probably off on a trip.” He’d wanted to talk to her before he called the airline. Then on the fourth ring she answered, a throaty voice, breathing hard.

He almost said he liked her voice, but decided he’d better not. Instead he told her who he was and asked how come she didn’t have an answering machine.

“I hate coming back to a string of messages. I shut it off when I’m gone. If anyone really wants me, they’ll call again.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Say, who did you say you are? This is the kind of call I don’t need.”