On Harrow Hill

“One of the classiest towns in the state! Dennis and I stayed at an inn on the lake on our tenth wedding anniversary. The inn, the lake, the homes—pure perfection! And that glorious little village square park—not one faded petal on the flowers. You could feel a sense of decorum in the air—something that’s become virtually extinct in our tawdry world.”

“True civilization is becoming a thing of the past,” added Dennis. “The great American aristocracy has been forced to retreat into a few islands of propriety, like Larchfield. A tragedy.”

From there, for the next two hours, the dinner conversation moved from one annoying topic to another, in Gurney’s opinion, often involving Dennis’s special occupations.

Among other things, he’d worked as a “natural-ecology arborist”—which involved a kind of matchmaking between trees and their evolutionary environments. He was also a hay-bale home builder, which he insisted was the most sensible form of residential construction. But he’d been forced to abandon that profession as a result of his hay allergy.

“And what are you doing now?” Madeleine asked, as Winkler paused to scoop the final bit of vegetable biryani from the casserole dish onto his plate.

“In addition to managing our alpaca farm, I’m now a CTB Life Guide. It’s the culmination of—”

“A what?” said Gurney.

“You’re not familiar with CTB? Contemporary Transcendental Buddhism. It’s by far the most—”

Gerry interrupted to ask if anyone was ready for tea, regular coffee, or espresso.

Gurney opted for an espresso, Madeleine for regular tea, the Winklers for herbal tea.

Gerry began filling a teakettle with water.

“Wait a second.” Dennis stood up, reached into a shoulder bag he’d hung on the back of his chair, and produced another bottle of water. “Would you mind using this for our tea?”

Gerry smiled. “No problem. Just curious—how is it different from our regular water?”

“Purity! A quality that should be built into more of the world’s products.”

Gurney recalled the eco-looking vehicle in the driveway. “Like your car?”

“Yes. It has zero emissions. Meaning it leaves the gentlest possible footprint on the world. There’s a CTB saying: Your footprint in this life forms the cradle of your next life.”

Deirdre nodded enthusiastically. “Your actions today create what your life will be tomorrow. That’s the true meaning of karma. Maybe all that horror in Larchfield is karma. Evil coming back from the dead.”

Dennis offered his own summary. “Evil is done unto him who evil does.”

Deirdre shuddered and crossed her arms. “That saying gives me goose bumps. But it’s true, when you think about it. It’s very deep.”

“Well,” said Gerry, standing up from the table. “It’s getting dark, and I’m feeling a little chilly. Time to close the windows. Once the sun has gone behind those hills, it doesn’t take long for the temperature to drop.”

Everyone turned their heads to follow her gaze. The sky had faded from purple to charcoal gray. Gurney stood up to help close the windows. From somewhere in the woods behind the house there came a mournful cry.

Deirdre’s eyes widened. “My God, what was that?”

Gerry shrugged. “Some kind of bird or animal. What else would be out there?”

“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Deirdre. “That sounds like a line in a horror movie.”

“Sorry.” Gerry’s smile was pure innocence. “I’ll check on the tea.”

Madeleine spoke up cheerily. “Let’s talk about alpacas.”

“Oh, yes!” said Deirdre. “They’re so sweet. And their wool is so gorgeous.”

“Finest wool in the world,” said Dennis. “Silky, durable, top-of-the-line. If someone wanted the ideal animal, the alpaca is the obvious choice.”

“Kind of pricey, aren’t they?” said Gurney.

“Quite the opposite, all things considered.”

“What things?”

“The hidden costs of other animals. For example, cats.” His intonation made cats sound about as desirable as rats. “When I met Deirdre, she had two cats, both with a preference for premium canned cat food. Two dollars a can. Four dollars a day. One thousand four hundred sixty dollars a year. And they lived for fourteen years.”

“They were inseparable,” said Deirdre wistfully. “Pippa died a week after Big Beau.”

“Fourteen years,” repeated Dennis. “At one thousand four hundred sixty dollars a year. That’s twenty thousand four hundred forty dollars. Over ten thousand dollars per cat. For food. You know what an alpaca eats? Grass! And best of all—”

Gurney’s phone rang. He pulled it halfway from his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Morgan.

“Sorry,” he said, “I need to take this.”

A sliding glass door led to a rear deck. He stepped out into the cool night air.

“Gurney here.”

“Dave! Can you hear me?” Morgan’s voice was charged with excitement.

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“Lorinda Russell called. She told me she just shot Billy Tate!”

“What?”

“She shot Billy Tate! She thinks he’s dead.”

“How did it happen?”