Full Dark, No Stars

“That doesn’t sound like my husband.” Or what Bob had told her, for that matter .

“No, but it probably was. Your husband, I mean. And a wife doesn’t always know what a hubby does on the road, although she may think she does. Anyway, one of the waitresses told me this fel a

drove a Toyota 4Runner. She knew because she had one just like it. And do you know what? A number of the Moore woman’s neighbors had seen a 4Runner like that out and about in the area of the

family farmstand just days before the woman was murdered. Once only a day before the kil ing took place.”

“But not on the day.”

“No, but of course a fel a as careful as this Beadie would look out for a thing like that. Wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose.”

“Wel , I had a description and I canvassed the area around the restaurant. I had nothing better to do. For a week al I got was blisters and a few cups of mercy-coffee—none as good as yours, though!

—and I was about to give up. Then I happened to stop at a place downtown. Mickleson’s Coins. Does that name ring a bel ?”

“Of course. My husband was a numismatist and Mickleson’s was one of the three or four best buy-and-sel shops in the state. It’s gone now. Old Mr. Mickleson died and his son closed the business.”

“Yep. Wel , you know what the song says, time takes it al in the end—your eyes, the spring in your step, even your friggin jump shot, pardon my French. But George Mickleson was alive then—”

“Upright and sniffin the air,” Darcy murmured.

Holt Ramsey smiled. “Just as you say. Anyway, he recognized the description. ‘Why, that sounds like Bob Anderson,’ he says. And guess what? He drove a Toyota 4Runner.”

“Oh, but he traded that in a long time ago,” Darcy said. “For a—”

“Chevrolet Suburban, wasn’t it?” Ramsey pronounced the company name Shivvalay.

“Yes.” Darcy folded her hands and looked at Ramsey calmly. They were almost down to it. The only question was which partner in the now-dissolved Anderson marriage this sharp-eyed old man was

more interested in.

“Don’t suppose you stil have that Suburban, do you?”

“No. I sold it about a month after my husband died. I put an ad in Uncle Henry’s swap guide, and someone snapped it right up. I thought I’d have problems, with the high mileage and gas being so expensive, but I didn’t. Of course I didn’t get much.”

And two days before the man who’d bought it came to pick it up, she had searched it careful y, from stem to stern, not neglecting to pul out the carpet in the cargo compartment. She found nothing, but stil paid fifty dol ars to have it washed on the outside (which she didn’t care about) and steam-cleaned on the inside (which she did).

“Ah. Good old Uncle Henry’s. I sold my late wife’s Ford the same way.”

“Mr. Ramsey—”

“Holt.”

“Holt, were you able to positively identify my husband as the man who used to flirt with Stacey Moore?”

“Wel , when I talked to Mr. Anderson, he admitted he’d been in the Sunnyside from time to time—admitted it freely—but he claimed he never noticed any of the waitresses in particular. Claimed he

usual y had his head buried in paperwork. But of course I showed his picture—from his driver’s license, you understand—and the staff al owed as how it was him.”

“Did my husband know you had a… a particular interest in him?”

“No. Far as he was concerned, I was just old Limpin’ Lennie looking for witnesses who might have seen something. No one fears an old duck like me, you know.”

I fear you plenty.

“It’s not much of a case,” she said. “Assuming you were trying to make one.”

“No case at al !” He laughed cheerily, but his hazel eyes were cold. “If I could have made a case, me and Mr. Anderson wouldn’t have had our little conversation in his office, Darcy. We would have had

it in my office. Where you don’t get to leave until I say you can. Or until a lawyer springs you, of course.”

“Maybe it’s time you stopped dancing, Holt.”

“Al right,” he agreed, “why not? Because even a box-step hurts me like hel these days. Damn that old Dwight Cheminoux, anyway! And I don’t want to take your whole morning, so let’s speed this up. I

was able to confirm a Toyota 4Runner at or near the scene of two of the earlier murders—what we cal Beadie’s first cycle. Not the same one; a different color. But I was also able to confirm that your

husband owned another 4Runner in the seventies.”

“That’s right. He liked it, so he traded for the same kind.”

“Yep, men wil do that. And the 4Runner’s a popular vehicle in places where it snows half the damn year. But after the Moore murder—and after I talked to him—he traded for a Suburban.”

“Not immediately,” Darcy said with a smile. “He had that 4Runner of his wel after the turn of the century.”

“I know. He traded in 2004, not long before Andrea Honeycutt was murdered down Nashua way. Blue and gray Suburban; year of manufacture 2002. A Suburban of that approximate year and those