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  finished determining that.”

  She laid a hand over his. “I don't quite know what to say. What will you do now?”

  “Now?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Now I'll go out to the farm and tell my mother he's dead.”

  “I'll go with you.”

  “No, I don't want-”

  “Maybe you don't, but your mother might need another woman.” She remembered her own mother, coming home from a giddy evening with friends to find an ambulance in the drive, a crowd of people on the lawn, her husband in a body bag. “I know what it's like, Cam.” Without waiting for agreement, she slipped into the car. “I'll follow you over.”

  Chapter 9

  THE FARM WHERE CAM grew up had changed little in thirty years. In some ways it still held some of the charm he remembered from the years his father had been alive. Spotted cows still grazed on the sloping ground beyond the barn and milking parlor. A rolling field of hay waved in the light spring breeze. Rhode Island Reds pecked and squawked behind the chicken wire.

  The house was a rambling three stories with a wide porch and narrow windows. But the paint was peeling and dingy. More than a few of the windowpanes were cracked, and there were shingles missing from the roof. Biff hadn't liked to open his wallet for anything that didn't offer a profit, unless it was a beer or a whore.

  There were a few straggling daffodils, past their prime, along the rutted, muddy lane. Cam remembered that he'd given his mother money for a load of gravel two months before. He imagined she'd cashed the check, then handed the money over to Biff.

  He knew her kitchen garden at the rear of the house would be planted and meticulously weeded. But there were no flowers in the beds she'd once fussed over. They were full of witch grass and choking vines.

  He remembered a day, much like this one, when he'd been five or six-sitting beside her on the ground as she turned the earth for a flat of pansies. She'd been singing.

  How long had it been since he'd heard her sing?

  He parked the car at the end of the lane beside his mother's aging Buick station wagon and the rusty pickup. Biff's shiny new Caddy was nowhere in sight. He waited in silence for Clare to join him. She laid a hand on his arm and gave it a quick, supporting squeeze before they climbed the sagging steps to the porch.

  He knocked, and that surprised her. She couldn't imagine knocking on the door of a house she'd grown up in, with her mother still living inside. She wondered if she'd feel obligated to knock before she entered the house her mother and Jerry would live in when they returned from Europe. The idea was painful, and she pushed it away.

  Jane Stokey opened the door, wiping a damp hand on the front of her apron and blinking at the strong sunlight. She'd put on flesh in the middle over the last ten years. Cam supposed her figure would be called matronly. Her hair, once a sassy blond, had faded to a dull, neutral color. She had it permed twice a year at Betty's, paying out of her egg money, but now it was scraped back from her face with two big bobby pins.

  She'd been pretty once. Cam could still remember being proud and half in love with her as a young child. Everyone had said she was the prettiest girl in the county. She'd been Farm Queen the year before she'd married Mike Rafferty. There was a picture of her somewhere, in a white, frilly dress, with the winner's sash across her breasts, her young, triumphant face glowing with delight and promise.

  Now she was old, Cam thought with a pang in his chest. Old, worn out, and used up. It was worse somehow because you could still see traces of that youthful beauty in the lined and tired face.

  She wore no makeup. Biff had told her that he wouldn't tolerate his wife painted up like a whore. There were shadows under the eyes that had once been a bright, interested blue. Around the mouth that every boy in Emmitsboro had dreamed of kissing thirty-five years before, lines were dug deep.

  “Mom.”

  “Cameron.” The automatic twitch of fear faded when she remembered Biff wasn't home. When she saw Clare, she lifted a hand to her hair in that universal gesture of feminine embarrassment. “I didn't know you were coming by and bringing company.”

  “This is Clare Kimball.”

  “Yes, I know.” She dredged up her manners and smiled. “I remember you-Jack and Rosemary's girl. And I've seen your picture in magazines. Would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  They stepped into the living room with its faded furniture, starched doilies, and glossy big-screen TV. Biff had liked to stretch out with a six-pack and watch cop shows and ball games.

  “Sit down.” Jane was nervously wiping her hands on her apron again. “I can make some iced tea.”

  “We don't need any, Mom.” Cam took her restless hands and led her to the sofa. It smelled of him, Cam thought, and gritted his teeth.

  “It's no trouble.” She shot Clare an uneasy smile as she sat in a chair across the room. “It's warm today. Humid, too, after that rain.”

  “Mom.” Cam was still holding her hands, gently kneading them. “I need to talk to you.”

  Jane bit her lip. “What's wrong? Something's wrong. You've been fighting with Biff again. It's not right, Cam. It's not right that you fight with him. You should show him respect.”

  “I haven't been fighting with Biff, Mom.” There was no gentle way, he thought. No easy way. “He's dead. We found him this morning.”

  “Dead?” She repeated the word as though she'd never heard it before. “Dead?”

  “It happened sometime last night.” He searched for words of sympathy that wouldn't scald his tongue. “I'm sorry I have to tell you.”

  Slowly, like a doll on a string, she pulled her hands from his and pressed them to her mouth. “You-you killed him. Oh, God, my God. You always said you would.”

  “Mom.” He reached for her, but she jerked away and began to rock. “I didn't kill him,” Cam said flatly.

  “You hated him.” She rocked faster, back and forth, back and forth, her faded eyes on him. “You always hated him. He was harsh with you, I know, but for your own good. For your own good.” She was talking fast, words tumbling over each other as she wrung her hands. “Your daddy and I, we'd spoiled you. Biff could see that. He took care of us. You know he took care of us.”

  “Mrs. Stokey.” Clare went over to sit on the edge of the couch and gather Cam's mother in her arms. “Cam's here to help you. We're both here to help you.”

  While she stroked Jane's hair and murmured, she watched Cam rise and pace to the window. “I'll call Dr. Crampton,” he said.

  “That's a good idea. Why don't you make some tea?”

  “He hated Biff,” Jane Stokey sobbed against Clare's shoulder. “He hated him, but Biff took care of us. What was I to do after Mike died? I couldn't run the farm all alone. I couldn't raise the child alone. I needed someone.”

  “I know.” With her eyes on Cam, Clare continued to rock. Her heart was with him when he walked from the room. “I know.”

  “He wasn't a bad man. He wasn't. I know what people said. I know what they thought, but he wasn't bad. Maybe he liked to drink too much, but a man's entitled.”

  No, Clare thought. No one's entitled to be a drunk, but she continued to rock and soothe.

  “He's dead. How can he be dead? He wasn't sick.”

  “It was an accident,” Clare told her and hoped she wasn't lying. “Cam will explain it to you. Mrs. Stokey, is there someone you'd like me to call?”

  “No.” The tears welled and shimmered as she stared at the wall. “I have no one. I have no one now.”

  “The doctor's on his way,” Cam said as he set a cup and saucer on the coffee table. His face, his eyes were carefully blank. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Cam, I don't think-”

  “They need to be asked,” he said, cutting Clare off. If he couldn't be a son to her, he thought, he'd damn well be a cop. “Do you know where Biff went last night?”

  “He went out.” Jane groped in her apron pocket for a tissue. “Down to Frederi
ck, I think. He'd worked hard all day and needed to relax.”

  “Do you know where in Frederick?”

  “Maybe the Am-Vets.” A sudden thought seeped through, and she bit her lip again. “Did he have a car wreck?”

  “No.”

  Clare shot Cam an exasperated look at his dispassionate questions and answers. “Drink some of this, Mrs. Stokey. It'll help a little.” She brought the cup to Jane's lips herself.

  “What time did he leave last night?”

  “ ′Bout nine, I guess.”

  “Was he with anyone? Was he going to meet anyone?” “He was by himself. I don't know if he was going to meet someone.”

  “He took the Caddy?”

  “Yes, he took his car. He loved his car.” She pulled her apron up to her face and began to weep and rock again.

  “Please, Cam.” Clare slipped an arm over Jane's shoulders. She knew what it was like to be questioned, to be forced to think, after the violent death of a loved one. “Can't the rest wait?”

  He doubted his mother could tell him anything helpful. Shrugging, he strode back to the window. The chickens were still pecking away, and the sun shone on the hay field.

  “I'll stay with her until the doctor comes.” Clare waited until Cam turned back. “If you want. I know you have things to… take care of.”

  He nodded and took a step toward his mother. There was nothing he could say to her, he realized. Nothing she would hear. He turned and left the house.

  When Clare pulled up in front of the sheriff's office three hours later, she was wrung dry. Doc Crampton had come and with his habitual skill had soothed and sedated the grieving widow. Clare and the doctor agreed that Jane shouldn't be left alone, so Clare had stayed downstairs after he'd gone, and somehow the afternoon ticked by.

  She bypassed the television and the radio, afraid she might disturb Jane Stokey. There were no books in sight, so she paced until a combination of concern and restlessness had her creeping upstairs to check on Jane.

  She was sleeping deeply, her tear-streaked face lax with the drug. Clare left her alone and wandered around the house.

  It was scrupulously neat. She imagined Jane dusting and scrubbing day after day, going from room to room chasing down dirt. It was depressing. When she came across Biff's den, she hesitated at the doorway.

  Don't handle death well, do you, Clare? she thought, and made herself step over the threshold.

  It was obvious Jane wasn't allowed to wield her dust rag and broom in here. There was a deer head on the wall, cobwebs stringing from antler to antler. A glassy-eyed squirrel scampered up a log. A pheasant, its iridescent wings dusty, posed on a stand as if in midflight. A gun rack held rifles and shotguns. No dust on them, she thought with a grimace of distaste.

  A leather Barcalounger sat in one corner beside a table that held an overflowing ashtray and a trio of Budweiser cans. In a glass display case was a collection of gleaming knives. A buck knife, a Bowie, another with a hooked and jagged edge. And oddly, she thought, a beautiful antique dagger with an enameled hilt.

  There was a pile of pornographic magazines. The hardcore stuff. No Playboy for old Biff, she thought.

  She saw a shelf of paperbacks, which surprised her. He hadn't seemed like a reader. Then she saw by the spines and covers that the books were merely an extension of the magazines. Hard porn, grisly murders, with a few lighter men's adventures. She thought she might be able to pass an hour with Mercenaries from Hell. As she slipped it from the shelf, she noted a book behind it.

  The Satanic Bible. Nice stuff, she mused. Biff Stokey had been a real prince of a guy.

  She set both books back, then rubbed her fingers clean on her jeans. It was with profound relief that she heard a knock on the door downstairs.

  Now, relieved from her duties by Mrs. Finch and Mrs. Negley, she sat in her car in front of Cam's office and wondered what to say to him.

  When nothing came, she climbed out of the car, hoping this was one of those times when planning wasn't necessary.

  She found him at his desk, machine-gun typing with two fingers. Beside him a cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, and a chipped ceramic mug looked like it might hold coffee.

  She could see by the rigid set of his shoulders how tense he was. If it hadn't been for the kiss they had shared on her front porch swing, she would have found it easy to walk over and massage the tension from his shoulders. But a kiss, that kind of kiss, changed things. She'd yet to work out if that was for the best.

  Instead, she walked over, perched on the corner of the desk, and picked up his neglected cigarette. “Hi.”

  His fingers hesitated, continued. “Hi.” Then stopped. He turned in the swivel chair to study her. She looked fresh, soft. Two things he needed badly just then. But her eyes were full of weariness and sympathy. “I'm sorry I dumped that on you.”

  “You didn't,” she corrected and tried a sip of the coffee. It was stone cold. “I butted in.”

  “How is she?”

  “The doc gave her a sedative. She's resting. Mrs. Finch and Mrs. Negley came by. They'll stay with her.”

  “That's good.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Sighing, she tapped out the cigarette, then walked around the desk to massage his shoulders.

  Grateful, he leaned back into her. “A man could get used to having you around, Slim.”

  “That's what they all say.” Over his head she glanced at the paper in the typewriter. It was a police report, brutally frank and without compassion. She found herself swallowing as she read the condition of the body. Feeling her fingers stiffen, Cam glanced around. Without a word, he pulled the sheet out and set it facedown on the desk.

  “You've done more than your share, Slim. Why don't you go home? Fire up your torch.”

  She let her hands fall to her sides. “He was murdered.”

  “We're not ready to release an official statement.” He stood then, forcing her to take a step back. “And we don't want speculation running through the town.”

  “I wasn't planning on dashing over to Martha's and spouting off over a burger. Jesus Christ, Cam, if anyone knows what it's like to have death and scandal discussed in the beauty parlor and hardware store, it's me.”

  “Okay.” He grabbed her hand before she could storm out. “Okay, I'm out of line. I'm in a pisser of a mood, Clare, but after what you did today, you're the last one I should be taking it out on.”

  “You're absolutely right,” she snapped back, then relented a little. “Cam, your mother didn't mean those things she said.”

  “Yes, she did.” To comfort himself, he rubbed the back of his hand over Clare's cheek.

  “She was shocked and in pain. People say things-”

  “She's blamed me since I was ten years old,” he interrupted. “She knew I hated him, and maybe I hated her for marrying him, too. I couldn't tell her I was sorry he's dead because I'm not. I don't even know if I'm sorry he died the way he did.”

  “You don't have to be.” She lifted her hand to close it over his. “You don't have to be sorry for anything. You'll do your job. You'll find out who killed him. That's enough.”

  “It'll have to be.”

  “Listen, you look like you could use a break. Why don't you come home with me? I'll fix you something to eat.”

  He glanced at the clock, then at the papers on his desk. “Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you there.”

  “Make it twenty,” she said with a smile. “I don't think I have anything left but stale cookies.”

  Three men sat on a park bench. They watched Clare go into Cam's office. And watched her come out.

  “I don't like how she's hanging around.” Slowly, Less Gladhill brought the unfiltered cigarette to his lips. “Christ knows what she's telling the sheriff or what Jane Stokey said to her while they was out there all alone all that time.”

  “There's no need to worry about Clare.” Less's companion spoke quietly, a voice of reason. Behind them, in the park, young children squealed on th
e swings. “Or about the sheriff, for that matter. We have more important, and certainly more immediate, concerns.” He drew a deep breath as he studied both men beside him. “What happened last night could have been avoided.”

  “He deserved to die.” Less had enjoyed every swing of the bat.

  “Maybe he did, maybe he didn't.” The third man didn't like to