“You doubt the word of our coroner?”
“When someone's frozen like a fish stick, yes.”
He slapped her on the back. “That's what I like—an independent thinker.”
“A storm came in quickly and hung on a long time that night. And then today, we just got up in time. As we landed the clouds rolled down like a dirty gray rug.”
“Was there any similarity of the properties from the air?”
“Not really.”
“Hmm, Harry pepper you with questions?”
“No, she was pretty good.”
He sat in his chair. “Close the door.” He paused until she returned.
“I've read every comma, semicolon, period, and smudge on Van Allen's account books. He's clean.” He swiveled around. “What you're telling me is that Tommy was a damn good pilot.”
“Yes. After seeing the small landing strip, he was better than good,” Cynthia affirmed.
“H. Vane and Tommy already knew how to fly,” Rick said out loud, even though he was really talking to himself. He had found no double set of account books. He wondered if perhaps the other fellows kept accounts. He was pursuing the drug angle. “And they were all part of the Oak Ridge reenactment. At least, Tommy would have been.” She nodded and he continued, “Coop, we're in the ballpark, at least, but we still aren't on base.”
“Could it be that these land parcels represent just what they appear to: investments against future growth? I guess I should say, for future growth?”
“With the exception of two here bordering Sugar Hollow they're generally in this quadrant.” He took out a color copy he'd made of the map and put a ruler on the copy. With a red pencil he drew lines, and a pattern began to form. “See.” He slapped his thigh. “I'd like to think this map represents drug customers, but when we checked the farms—before they were purchased—no. There's no way old Ephraim Chiles would buy drugs. I want to make this fit and I can't. And I'm not sure why some of these parcels have new wells on them and others don't.”
“I see that there are two roughly parallel lines.”
“I see it and I don't know what it means. Think about what you saw in the air. Was there anything to suggest this type of alignment, something obvious like a low hill chain or a creek?”
“No. Besides, if there were a creek it would be on the map. We'd have noticed it before.”
He dropped his forehead onto his hand. “When's the next commission meeting?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“Okay. We'll tack this on the wall without saying anything. Has to be on the wall before anyone gets to the meeting. We might at least flush out Arch.” He smiled. “I think we're getting a little closer to our killer.”
“Good idea,” she said with little enthusiasm.
He fired his pencil at her end-over-end. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Out with it.”
“I've inherited your gut feelings. This doesn't feel right. Maybe half-right. Not complete.”
“Yeah, I feel that way, but the look on your face . . .”
“He's going to strike again. I just know it.”
“Something off-the-wall like Mrs. Woo's store. I think that was definitely part of this. The fire destroyed her files—all those reenactor files.”
“Well, she does bring us back to the reenactors. You're right.”
“In a funny way serial sex killers are easier to figure than this one,” Rick mused.
“But there may have been sex. Don't forget the empty rubber packet in Tommy Van Allen's trench coat.”
“Nah. I don't buy it.”
Coop sat on the edge of the desk. “I hope I'm wrong, but this is far from over. H. Vane better hire a bodyguard.” As she said that a loud clap of thunder startled them both and the heavens opened.
46
When the natural light struck Sarah Vane-Tempest's hair, the blond highlights glimmered like beaten gold. Her fingernails, perfectly manicured, complemented long, graceful hands. Not only was she a beautiful woman, she had perfected young those wiles so useful in reducing men to putty.
Since most men are taller than most women, the first trick she mastered—by fourth grade—was the disarming habit of lowering her eyes, then raising them as though only the object of her glance could call forth such a promising response. She modulated her voice so it was never loud, never strident, a bit soft so that he would have to strain to listen.
The more sophisticated snares, such as inflecting each sentence subtly so that it seemed a question only he with his superior wisdom could answer, she acquired by eighteen.
Lowering her shoulder a tad in his direction also sparked fire in the male of the species. The fact that these were calculated postures, as studied as an actress's blocking on the stage, never occurred to men. Even a man as highly intelligent as Sir H. Vane-Tempest devolved into a quivering hormonal puddle in Sarah's presence.
Her demeanor changed completely in the company of women. Her voice, straightforward, was not harsh but certainly not music to female ears. She looked her friends straight in the eye. She said what was on her mind. She never once dropped a shoulder or slightly turned her body to make a woman appear larger.
Her women friends giggled when she'd switch gears the second a man entered the room. Her profound falsity, although a subject of amusement to most and disgust to a few, did not make women mistrust her. Each woman, even Harry, knew why women performed as Sarah performed. It was an unequal world.
Beauty, short-lived, was a weapon to secure food, clothing, shelter, and status. Few women could stand alone and live well. They had to be attached to a breadwinner.
Although bright, Sarah was essentially afraid of the world, afraid she couldn't move in it on her own at the level she desired. She wasn't wrong. Few women have as much power or money as Sir H. Vane-Tempest.
She'd hit the jackpot. It was simple, really. She studied where the rich played. Since it was easier to get to Florida from Connecticut than to some other places like Aspen, she showed up, fresh out of school, then carefully edged closer and closer to the good parties.
She had also been careful not to do something stupid, like sleep with the wrong man or take a job in a clothing shop. That would diminish her mystery. She'd attend polo matches at Royal Palm Polo Club in Boca Raton. She'd watch, alone, hoping to catch a man's eye or that of an older woman needing an extra for a party. Usually men were needed as extras, but occasionally a young woman was needed to pep up an older visiting gentleman.
One Sunday at Wellington, west of Palm Beach, she happened to be standing near a string of ponies. The groom, called away by another groom needing help to catch a runaway, left a pile of polo mallets on the ground. They were organized by length and whippiness of shaft.
Sir H. Vane-Tempest thundered up. “Manuel, 51 green.”
Sarah reached into the pile of 51's, having the presence of mind to grab the one with green tape carefully placed where the shaft meets the head. H. Vane noticed immediately that Manuel had been changed by the good fairy into one of the most beautiful young women he had ever beheld.
The rest, as they say, was history. An expensive divorce from Wife Number One—who was, after all, showing wear and tear—soon followed.
That was seven years ago. Soon, very soon, actually, Sarah would be showing wear and tear herself.
Had someone whispered in her ear, as she walked down the aisle, that the price of marriage would be high, she would never have believed it. Lured by surface glamor, she didn't recognize the price was herself. She had lost herself. Once she realized it, she panicked. Such women seek solace in religion, booze, drugs, charitable work, children, and of course, other men.
When she walked through Archie Ingram's office door on Friday she closed the door behind her. She had made a point of never going to his office or calling him at the office.