On Harrow Hill

“He’s performing additional tests to get to the bottom of it. I just wanted you to know that he found something odd, since you asked for the analysis. I’ll call as soon as I hear more.”

The chance of returning to bed at that point for anything resembling sweet dreams was zero. Apart from the jarring effect of one more oddity being added to a case already bursting with them, he’d promised Madeleine that he’d spend the morning working with her on the shed.

The challenge would be to stay in the moment—to keep his mind on leveling and squaring, screwing and hammering—rather than slipping off into the world of murderers and sonic anomalies.

When noon finally arrived, he concluded that he’d reached his goal of remaining focused on his physical efforts about half the time; even that was quite an achievement. He wished he could pay as close attention to domestic activities as he did to crime scenes, but his brain just wasn’t built that way.

In any event, the shed had now grown into a recognizable structure, needing only exterior siding and waterproof roofing to be complete. Madeleine was clearly happy with their joint endeavor—a mood that carried over into their lunch together.

As he was getting into the Outback at three that afternoon to set out for Larchfield, she was making a list of flowers she wanted to plant around the old henhouse and the new shed.

She came over to his car door. “I’m thinking mainly cornflowers and hollyhocks on the sunny sides and begonias on the shady sides. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you even know what they look like?”

“I’m picturing . . . something colorful.”

She sighed, leaned into the car, and kissed him.

“Be careful,” she said with sudden seriousness.

51

Number one on Gurney’s mental list of things to do in Larchfield was the visit to Morgan. On his way there he stopped for gas and called Morgan’s cell number. The call went to voicemail, and he left a message saying he was en route. He couldn’t help wondering what condition Morgan would be in. None of the likely possibilities were good, and the man’s failure to answer the phone was not encouraging.

With an ominous feeling, he drove on.

The spring weather was in the midst of another reversal, and by the time he reached Morgan’s house the blue skies of the morning had given way to dismal clouds. In the gloom the wilted daffodils in front of the porch looked like dead weeds.

There was no response to his knocking on the door. He knocked again, harder.

“Mike, it’s Dave Gurney!”

The door opened, and Morgan stared out at him—still unshaven, his hair uncombed, his gaze emotionless. He was wearing a food-stained tee shirt, jeans with the fly open, and one blue sock. He smelled of alcohol and sweat.

Gurney tried to smile. “Hello, Mike. Did you get my message?”

Morgan blinked and shook his head.

“Can I come in? Or would you rather come out?”

“Come out. Get some air.” He stepped out on the porch, took a deep breath, and sat down heavily in the nearest Adirondack chair. Gurney took the one next to it.

“I’m sorry to be bothering you like this, Mike, but I want you to be aware of a specific effort I’m making to verify the suspicions I have about the case.”

Morgan closed his eyes, then opened them. “Suspicions about Lorinda and Gant?”

“Yes. And anyone else who may have been involved in the murders.”

“You’re sure about Lorinda.” It was mostly a statement, with the hint of a question.

“Apart from Hilda Russell, she’s the only person alive who benefits from Angus’s death. And if Aspern’s death was set up the way I think it was, she was part of that, too.”

“That’s what you came to tell me?”

“I came to tell you that I have a way of testing her to see if I’m right.”

Morgan raised his head in a show of interest, and Gurney explained his plan for evaluating Lorinda’s reaction to a would-be blackmailer.

Morgan nodded slowly. “You want to see who she brings in . . . to handle the problem?”

“That, but mainly I wanted to see if she’d call the police when she received the text, as an innocent person would—which she still hasn’t done, even though I sent it to her yesterday.” He took a printed-out copy of the text from his pocket and handed it to Morgan.

He read it and reread it, then lowered it into his lap. “You think she’ll bring in Gant?”

“Yes, if I’m right about him being the family hit man. Or someone else, if I’m not. Either way, I’ll end up knowing more than I do now.”

Morgan nodded and looked away. His gaze settled for a while on the bed of withered daffodils. Then he picked up the copy of the text to Lorinda from his lap and read it again.

“It’s a horror show,” he said softly. “Everything. Life. A horror show.”

After a long silence, Gurney made an open-ended offer of help, to which Morgan had no reaction. So he said goodbye and left.

When he reached the end of the dirt road that connected Morgan’s property to the county road, he stopped and entered the address of Aspern’s Harrow Hill house in his GPS.

As he was about to set out again, his phone rang. It was Hardwick.

“Yes, Jack?”