 
MURDER ON THE FRENCH BROAD

A Murder Mystery

by Doug Walker

(C)2015 by Doug Walker

Published 2015 by Doug Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters, businesses, places, and events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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**Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

**Chapter 1**

Detective Inspector Lang Travis is reading a lurid paperback. The cover features a ravishing half-nude woman climbing a mountain. It might be an Alp:

After a brief respite the climbers continued their descent. Konrad, a leathery-faced forty-eight and the most experienced of the three, led the way. A howling storm that had come ripping abruptly from the northwest scoured snow from flinty outcroppings and tore at the three small figures. making every inch a challenge, every foot of progress a victory of sorts. The entire mountain moaned with each slight change of wind and seemed to move below them.

The three shared one unspoken secret: Their chances of reaching safety were next to nil The punishing storm showed no signs of letting up. Thin air, the lack of oxygen, dwindling food supplies, brutal cold driven before the storm and the treacherous kilometers before them formed an evil committee to map their demise. They shared hope--also unspoken--for one more night on the mountain.

Where there were three, there had been seven. The girl's lover, Peter, had been the most recent casualty. How Konrad and Serge, who was last in line, had envied him. Now the girl was roped between the two as they continued their painful descent.

In her own way Susan had loved Peter. But she was a sensual animal, warm and glowing, under her climbing gear and she felt a magnetic pull toward her mentor, Konrad, and more of an animal attraction toward the youthful and sometimes impulsive Serge. She had been very close to Peter at the final moment. Susan had in fact glimpsed his eyes as he twisted and plunged from the mountain. She had seen death there. A lonely, awkward, sort of death. No last second message of passion, or farewell. Just forlorn death. Although it was still midday, the storm had drawn a cloak of near night around the three. Serge could see Susan's careful movements a few feet ahead of him. He could see the mountain tent strapped to her back. It was slightly larger than most, certainly large enough for three people, and of a peculiar color to the Russian eye--hot pink. Peter had been carrying the life giving food for the two of them when he dropped off the ledge. So now it was Susan and the hot pink tent. How the others had fantasized over what went on in that tent! Serge found himself growing more excited and closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure.

Up ahead, Konrad was also thinking of the girl. He knew he would probably have to fight Serge. Experience against youth. But there was Little energy or food to spare among the three of them. To diminish it in that way seemed tragic, he told himself, then counted himself lucky to have had forty-eight good years. And one more good night, then to die a good death on the mountain. He found himself smiling...

The telephone rang. Detective Inspector Lang Travis moved his head slightly to the right to gaze at the offending instrument. On the fourth ring he picked it up. "Travis here."'

"Schultz," a voice replied. "Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, Sir."

"No problem. Just having a beer and reading a trashy novel. What's up?"

"We've got a dead one. A twenty-two year-old-woman named Sue Barker."

"Murder?"

"I would think so. A bullet in her right temple."

"Is it a family thing?" Travis patiently questioned Sergeant Schultz. Asheville is not a huge city, but it has its share of violence. The western North Carolina mountains are a paradise to some, but drinking, drugs and guns are not uncommon. The inspector knew that it would take an unusual feature to cause Schultz to call him on a Saturday night.

"Not that I know of yet. I don't even know if she has family in Asheville. She was found down by the French Broad."

"In the water?"

"No, Sir. Not at all. In a fifth floor apartment. It's one of those old brick buildings. There are two of them, side by side, connected by a bridge on the fifth floor. They've been made into apartments and offices." Schultz hesitated, then added, "Different things."

"I know those buildings, Schultz. Whose apartment was it?"

"Empty apartment. But I've been told it belonged to her ex-boyfriend up until a day or two ago. But he's gone."

"Well, you'd better find out where he's gone and talk to him. He sounds like-a pretty good suspect."

"That's just it, Sir. I think he's in Saudi Arabia and from what I've been told he probably left before Barker was killed."

"There's an alibi I've never heard," Travis mused. "I was in Saudi Arabia. Might I ask what he's doing in Saudi Arabia?"

"A teaching contract. His brother got it for him. I've been told that he left Wednesday morning."

"Might I also ask who's been telling you all these things and, also, is there a murder weapon?"

"A pistol, I suppose. But it's gone. The body hasn't been touched. We're waiting for the coroner. A girl named Janet Price. She lives next door. She came home tonight and for some reason went into the vacant apartment. She called the police. The two apartments, Price's and the empty one, they're the only two on the fifth floor. There's a lot more people involved in this, Inspector." Schultz paused a moment, then added the missing part that Travis had been waiting for. "I think the dead girl lived at the Grove Park."

Very few things surprised Travis, but this one did. Many people couldn't afford to even dine at the Grove Park Inn on a regular basis. But to live at the Grove Park. That was something! "You mean she lived there week in and week out?"

"Yes, Sir. That's what Price tells me. She was a very beautiful girl and very rich."

"She wasn't just a tourist, or a hooker?" Travis didn't believe any hookers lived at the Grove Park. It was too old, too establishment, too isolated, too everything, a great stone and timber structure that had hosted presidents and such notables as Henry Ford and General Blackjack Pershing. But it had never crossed his mind that anyone lived there on a regular basis.

"That's not the story I get so far. She had been in town for months. Price thinks from New York. She is, I mean, was, one beautiful girl. You should see her. I mean, even dead, she looks better than most live ones. It's amazing. Then, there's her friends. From this building, you can walk right across a bridge to the fifth floor of the next building. Right into the offices of 'City Nights and Days,' that entertainment paper. That's her crowd. They all hung out together."

Travis took another sip of beer and put a hand in the air as if to stop Schultz from talking. "Don't tell me any more. We'd better give this the treatment. Get a list of everybody involved. Ask the coroner to give the body the works. Search the apartment. Fingerprints. Search the area. Try to find the weapon. I'll call the station and OK manpower. I'll talk to Harley. Naturally, he'll be in charge. But you can work together.

"Of course."

"One of the two of you drop by to see me on Monday morning. If something happens before that, of course, you know where I am." Travis hung up the telephone and took another sip of beer. He picked up the book and read a few more lines: Susan knew that the two men might fight and she thought of ways to head off the confrontation. In a fight with ice picks and pitons, both men might be badly injured or killed. And they would surely fritter away valuable energy, those two healthy hot-blooded mammals. She wanted them both. There was room in the hot pink tent, room for three.

Travis snapped the book shut and put it aside. He decided to light a small fire in his stone fireplace. It was one of the great comforts of his room, one of the several reasons that he lived in the bed and breakfast. He had moved in shortly after his wife had died. A month's leave was adequate to dispose of his furniture and the house, the accumulations of twenty-three years in the same spot. After that, the arrangement with the B and B owners, Kip and Sandy, for a permanent room. At that time he had no plan except to take early retirement and catch up on his reading. His attempt to retire had been thwarted. During his career he had been successful in solving a number of vexing crimes, including a series of seemingly dazzling burglaries that had been carried off by members of the department. His skill had also extended to solving morale problems and ending knotty white-black clashes. The powers that be found something sound, a vein of substance, the epitome of the mountain city itself in Lang Travis.

They implored him to stay, pointing out that he was still a relatively young man, perhaps at the half milepost of his productive years, a man who could do great service for his community. He dismissed their entreaties as nonsense and said he was absolutely through with the day to day tedium of police work. But the mayor and law director put their heads together and countered brilliantly. The post of detective inspector was created for him. He need make an .appearance in the office only once or twice a week. There would be a pay reduction, but benefits would remain the same. In effect he would be more of a consultant, but always available to cope with the unusual. In fact able to devote his single-minded attention to the difficult problem.

The untimely death of Sue Barker seemed to fall into this category. Rich, beautiful and very young, Travis pondered. Where is the weapon and when did she die? Very likely the killer is someone she knew very well, probably a boy friend. Death, murder, the final dictum. In the flush of youth, a most bitter dictum. Very likely the case will be solved, closed for police purposes, long before the meeting with either Sgt. Russell Schultz, or Lt. Harley Swafford on Monday. He picked up the telephone and punched out the number for police headquarters. He would set a few wheels in motion. A small voice told him to avoid overconfidence.

Travis felt himself above the battle, or was it below the battle, trampled by the battle? His wife's death had been the destroyer. He tried not to blame her for deserting him. Him, Travis, the one on the firing line, the one who carried a gun and trod the raw edge, he had been left to linger on in something like a dream. At least nothing else could happen to him, no poisoned blades, or fire-tinged arrows could do him further harm. He had come face to face with despair and learned to coexist.

That the victim had lived at the Grove Park still nagged at him. There are two great structures in Asheville, aside from the art deco buildings that bear witness to a busted boom. They are the Biltmore Estate and the Grove Park Inn. The Biltmore Estate and winery, built by George Vanderbilt, took a thousand workers five years to construct. When it was opened on Christmas Eve in 1895, it was recognized as the most spectacular mansion in America. Now open to the public for a price, it has retained its baronial magnificence.

On the other hand, the Grove Park was intentionally built for the public, but an ultra elite public. Early guests include Harvey Firestone, Sr., Thomas Edison, Harvey Firestone, Jr., Horatio Winslow Seymour and Henry Ford. This illustrious group gathered there in 1918.

Edwin Wiley Grove owned a pharmaceutical firm in St. Louis which produced such products as Grove's Tasteless Chill Tonic and Grove's Bromo Quinine. He originally planned to establish a chemical company in Asheville, but found the climate so invigorating that he bought a large tract on the west slope of Sunset mountain in order to build a mountain resort.

His idea was to build something patterned after the Old Faithful Inn in the Yellowstone, but he was unable to find an architect who could grasp the idea Grove asked his son-in-law, Fred L. Seely, to try his hand at the project. Without architect and without contractor, Seely built what came to be called "the finest resort hotel in the world."

Boulders from Sunset mountain and the surrounding area provided much of the material. Italian stonemasons and hundreds of local laborers did the job in eleven months and twenty-seven days. On July 1, 1913, William Jennings Bryan delivered the opening address. The lobby, or Great Hall, is 120 feet long and 80 feet wide. Its massive fireplaces can burn twelve-foot logs. Through its years of colorful history, the Inn has been improved, including the addition of a country club complete with eighteen-hole golf course, fitness center and spa.

The Grove Park caters to the expense account crowd, conventioneers and the rich. For a twenty-two-year-old woman to live there for a period of months bothered Travis. But it did not bother him enough to make him leave his comfortable room. He opened another beer and fed the small blaze in the fireplace. Kip regularly kept his wood box filled with substantial logs and a bit of splintered kindling.

When he was satisfied with the fire, Travis pulled out a new book he had been saving for a late night of pleasant reading. It dealt with the excavation of a city called Kourion on the island of Cyprus. The city had been smothered in short order by an immense earthquake, probably sometime in July in the year A.D. 365. The year had been very well established by coins found in the rubble. The disaster had struck with such swiftness that it preserved the residents going about their daily tasks, like so many flies in amber. The inspector looked at the book as a gourmet would look at a well-turned roast and a bottle of good wine. His degree was in anthropology, including a year's study in Mexico City. His interest was in ancient cultures. How he had stumbled into police work, he sometimes wondered.

**Chapter 2**

Inspector Travis had long since had breakfast with Sandy and a pair of overnight guests in the bright, pleasant downstairs room just off the kitchen. He was having a second cup of coffee in his room and examining the charts and photos in his book on Kourion when Sergeant Schultz knocked on the door.

"Find the killer?" Travis asked, motioning Schultz to a chair.

"No. But I've talked to a lot of people. We might be close."

"Coffee?"

"No thanks." He had tried the inspector's coffee on a previous visit. No caffeine and weak, even so. "She was apparently killed late Thursday, or early Friday."

Travis did a double take. "And the body wasn't found until Saturday night?"

"That's right. No family in town. She does live at the Grove Park. Not cheap. I mean she didn't skimp up there. She had a suite. Great wardrobe. Everything expensive. Mostly

from New York. That seems to be where she's from. Manhattan."

"And the boyfriend?"

"Seems to be in Saudi Arabia. I checked the flight. He was listed on board. On Wednesday. They had an up and down affair. A few spats. But his plane left well before the murder, or suicide."

"Suicide?" Travis asked. "I thought you said there was no murder weapon found." He drained his coffee cup and set it well away from the precious book he had been reading.

"That's right," Schultz said a little lamely. "But someone in the group down there suggested it might be suicide. I think they got it from Garvy."

"And who in the hell is Garvy?"

"An older woman. Sort of a mother hen of City Nights. There are maybe ten, or a dozen people who help put out that paper. Most of them are part timers. The office is sort of a gathering place. They had a party there Thursday night."

"The night the girl was killed?"

"That's right. The apartment is just across this bridge in the other building."

"And the theory is that Barker snuck away from the party, went into her old boy friend's apartment and shot herself without a weapon. Do I have it right?"

"No, Sir. Of course not. That theory was that if she shot herself, that someone came along and took the gun. Maybe because it was their gun, or that they knew who it belonged to, or for some other reason."

"That sounds like a theory of last resort. What kind of gun was it? The paper didn't say."

"It was a .38. And we have a top suspect. A man named Daniel Smythe-Keye. He's in the advertising business. He and a partner have a firm called Keye Brown & Associates. That apparently means there are just the two of them and an answering machine. Brown seems to be on vacation and I haven't been able to find Smythe-Keye."

"Why are we looking for him?"

"Well, he helps with City Nights, and I've talked with two or three people who think he and Barker were together in the boyfriend's old apartment on Thursday night. And Harley talked to at least two people who said the same thing. They were definitely absent from the party during the late hours. That is before midnight and when the party broke up just after midnight."

Travis was taking notes on a yellow legal pad. "This was about the time of death?"

"That's right."

"You have statements from these witnesses?

"Not yet. We were going all day yesterday," Schultz explained. "We will get them in and make it official. Right now we're trying to find Smythe-Keye."

"And where might he be?"

"Maybe on the run. We have an alert out for him. He lives in out Chunn's Cove way. No one up that way has seen him since the middle of last week. He's numero uno right now."

"What kind of a person was Sue Barker and what was she doing in Asheville. Seems a slow track for a rich New Yorker."

"Like I told you on the phone, she was beautiful. Everyone agrees on that. Not only beautiful, but she had class. Style. She knew clothes and she knew make-up. She always looked like a model. And she was a nice person, a sweet girl. I haven't talked to anyone who didn't like her. Always a good word for everyone. Usually in good spirits. But maybe a little moody underneath."

Travis nodded. "I suppose by moody you mean suicidal. A little something to back up this suicide theory?"

"I guess. I can't give you a psychological profile after one day talking to acquaintances."

"I think you're right there. Do as much more solid police work as you can. Don't just sit on your hands and wait for Smythe-Keye to turn up. This girl has been dead since maybe Thursday. We don't want the trail to get any colder than it already is. Did the coroner say there's been any sign of recent sex?"

"You mean like rape?"

"Rape. Sex. Any kind of sex, natural, unnatural."

"No he didn't. You know the body was fully clothed."

"Yes, I read that in the paper. But if there was sex an hour, two hours before death, it could mean something. She was physically beautiful. In fact, outstanding, right?"

"Of course. I'm sure he checked. I didn't really read the report. I just talked to a technician. I'll have them send you over a copy, too."

"And you'll take a good look at it. I'm counting on you to solve this case, you know."

Schultz nodded. "If anything comes up, I'll call."

"Do that, day or night."

At noon, Travis strolled down to Bojangle's for a piece of chicken and a plastic container of dirty rice. Then he took a long walk on the other side of Merrimon Avenue through an area of big old houses that were being redone, the process popularly known as "gentrification."

When he returned to the B and B, Sandy, the perpetual motion proprietress was sitting reading in a straight-backed rocker on the broad L-shaped front porch. "Your phone's been ringing off the hook, Lang. I was tempted to answer it."

"They'll call back. Sorry to bother you. I'll try to remember to turn the bell off before I go out the next time."

"You should get an answering contraption."

"I don't like contraptions. Anyway, I don't like to talk to them. I think most people don't."

"Maybe. But we've got one. We'd miss a lot of customers if we didn't."

"How is business, Sandy?"

"Not bad for this time of year. Two couples are coming in tonight. One from Atlanta and one from Norfolk. One's just overnight, but the other's for two days. The weekend is booked solid. Honeymooners coming from Knoxville on Sunday night. There's your phone."

Travis moved slowly up the stairs. Whoever it was was determined and they would talk to him. That was certain. It was still ringing when he entered his room.

"Travis here."

"One moment, Sir. The mayor wants to talk with you."

"Lang, who is this Barker woman who got herself murdered? We're getting calls from New York."

"The New York police?"

"No, reporters. This woman was some sort of mystery heiress. I mean she was loaded, but nobody new much about her. Who knocked her off?"

"Don't know yet, but we're working on it. We have a good suspect. Could be a casual boyfriend."

The mayor chuckled. "You mean he knocked her up, then knocked her off?"

"We haven't established that."

"Just joking, Lang. If you've got your teeth into this thing, that's all I want to hear. I know you'll get to the bottom of it. This could be good or bad for the city. Things are coming together for us at last."

After he hung up, Travis wondered if he had shown too much optimism. The mayor was gung ho for the city and loved good news. There was an awful temptation to give it to him. Years ago Asheville seemed to be on the threshold of spectacular growth. The golden city of the Blue Ridge, a wholesome community in the wonderful mountain air. That's when the city. had gone out on the limb to build the art deco city hall, a lasting delight for the architecturally alert eye. Some other development followed. Then the bubble popped and growth had been painfully slow. But like the tortoise, it was steady and many of those who did heed the call were steadfast in their loyalty to their mountain home. And there were many who disdained growth for their mountain paradise, preferring to keep it to themselves.

Before the evening news, Travis poured himself an ounce of Red Label, dropped in a few ice cubes and filled the glass with water. He took great pride in the small refrigerator he kept in his room. It made him feel self sufficient, something like a survivalist on the high slopes of the Rockies.

The first face to blossom on the local news screen was the mayor's. Yes, there had been a sensational killing in an upward mobile apartment/business complex on the banks of the French Broad. Yes, the woman was a beautiful, young and wealthy New York heiress who had been living in the Grove Park for months. She had been taking a hand in running the City Nights (And Days) entertainment weekly. And, yes, the Mayor assured the populace, Detective Inspector Lang Travis was taking personal charge of the case and is even now on the trail of a hot suspect. The mayor made clear that when Travis is put on the trail of a miscreant, justice, like a shadow, will follow wrongdoing. And may God help the poor criminal who has the flawed judgment to cross swords with Travis.

Before pouring himself more scotch, Travis unplugged his telephone. Later, he would go down and tell Kip and Sandy that he wanted to see no one except bona fide police officers. He knew the press would soon be nipping at his heels. He drank to Sergeant Schultz's good fortune and health.

There was some kind of ruckus just after dawn the next morning. Travis couldn't tell exactly what was going on. His room was at the rear of the boxy old two-story wooden house. It overlooked some trees and a neighboring dwelling. First there was a hammering on the door, followed some minutes later by the door bell. Then voices. When the noise subsided, Travis donned a robe and went into the hall. He looked over the banister into the large entryway below. Nothing. The room just across the hall from his had not been occupied that night. He entered through the open door and went to the front window. There in the street was a TV van, a crew nearby panning the house. The inspector surveyed the scene and thought to himself: "Put out the lights, the party's over."

Thirty minutes later he had showered, shaved and was shoving ammunition into the cylinder of his .38. He hated to carry the revolver, not because it is a killing device, an instrument of death, but because of its bulk and weight, an inconvenience: But department regulations mandated it to be. Travis often thought of the modern cop as gadget man, draped with clubs, guns, cuffs, beepers, radios, and other esoteric paraphernalia.

In the first floor kitchen he surprised both Kip and Sandy. "You're dressed," Sandy exclaimed.

"Don't listen to her, Kip. I usually don't come down in the buff."

"I've wondered what goes on around here when I'm gone, which I was just before doing," Kip said. "I'll wave to the camera on my way out."

"Thanks, tell them I'll be along directly," Travis replied. "After I con Sandy out of a cup of coffee." "Things must be tough if you're drinking real he-man coffee. Bye." Kip picked up his brown bag lunch and headed out the back door to his car.

"I didn't know Kip left so early."

The computer repair business is booming right now. Maybe the factories are turning out junk."

"He works and you stay here in this grand house."

"Yes, it's a lark," Sandy said sweetly. "All I have to do is make breakfast for four guests, then make the beds, sweep the floors, do the dishes, do the laundry, shop, balance-the books, take reservations, go to the bank, get the car serviced, call the plumber and I'm sure a few other jobs will come up during the day. Then there's the gardening and yard work. You don't want real coffee do you?"

"Of course not. I'm sorry about the media people. Thanks for getting them out of the yard."

"No problem. You suppose the publicity will help us?"

"I don't know. I'll tell 'em your cinnamon rolls can't be beat."

"Thanks. Do you want a price list?" "No. I don't think I can go that far."

"OK. I suppose you'll be going to work more frequently now?"

"I suppose so. You don't have a morning paper, do you?"

"No. I stopped it. The boy didn't like walking clear up the hill. He kept throwing it in the shrubbery."

"That's better than on the roof. I unplugged my phone. So that won't bother you. If anyone shows up, tell them I'm at the office."

"The office? You mean the police station?"

"Sure. I have an office at the cop shop. It's not just a bunch of cells and interrogation rooms. It's really rather civilized."

"I'm glad to know. Next time I pay a parking ticket, I'll keep that in mind."

Travis finished his coffee, stood up and announced, "I'm off."

"Work hard and maybe they'll give you a uniform," Sandy shouted after him.

Travis stopped his car near the TV van. The camera was still set up facing the big house on the hill. A cameraman stood by as if waiting. He knew they expected him to get out of the car and walk in front of the camera. "Inspector, could you make a statement?" a TV newsman asked, approaching the car.

"I could. In fact I will. You're going to be ticketed if you continue to block this street with your van and that equipment. You're parked two feet from the curb."

"We'll move it, Sir. But about crime."

"Crime?"

"Yes, the murder. Sue Barker's murder. Could you make a statement?"

"I can. I think the entire community is always diminished by a murder. Now I must get to the office."

"I wanted something for our camera, Sir. Something about solving the crime," the newsman said as Travis began to pull away.

"You don't have a camera," the inspector pointed out.

"There's a camera over there," the newsman pointed to the other side of the car. The camera was still facing the house, the technician standing idly by.

"Oh, I see. The camera's over there, you're over here. You two should get together." He pulled away. With one newspaper and one TV station, Travis often thought the Asheville media lacked that certain fire in the belly that characterized the rough and tumble press wars of yore. In fact, the media folks seemed to enjoy a mysterious celebrity status, mysterious because it seemed totally unearned.

At the station he pulled into his own parking spot. There was no name on it, just the numeral "2" stenciled in white on the black asphalt. The chief's spot carried the numeral "1."

Travis waved to the desk sergeant and walked down the hall to his small office. He had a sad little desk, the oak scarred, drawers battered, top ringed by generations of coffee cups. There was a matching credenza and a grey metal bookcase stuffed with police manuals and crime text books. A map of Asheville was thumb tacked to the wall. On the opposite wall was a larger map of Buncombe county, a county famous for contributing the second meaning (nonsense) of the word "bunk" to the English language.

A second door led from the office, this one to the chief's outer office. When Travis was in they shared the secretary. He opened the door and saw that Mae had just come in and was putting her lunch in a file drawer. "I'm in if anyone wants me."

"Inspector," Mae said in delight. "You're at the top of the wanted list. Did you see His Honor on the tube?"

"I had the misfortune."

"Huhhhh," Mae laughed, "that's going to stir up the animals. Did you see that girl's picture? She was beautiful!"

"No. Was it on TV?"

"I don't think so. The morning paper has it. She was worth millions. I wonder what she was doing in Asheville?"

"If you find the answer to that one, let me know. Let Schultz and Swafford know I'm in. Is there anything I should look at?"

"Same old crap. The chief has another memo out. He got it from one of the bright boys over in city hall. It's on your desk. You want coffee?"

"Not right now. A cup of decaf a little later." Technically, Travis was attached to the Criminal Investigations Division. At his desk he picked up the latest memo for the division. It involved goals and objectives and looked a great deal like previous memos. The goals were to improve community service and efficiency of department operations through continued implementation of the so called "2014 Plan" and similar measures.

The objectives were three fold:

One. To improve crime control efforts by increasing the clearance rate of cases assigned for follow-up investigation from 35 percent to 45 percent.

Two. To improve crime victim services by increasing the number of volunteers available to assist victims by 100 per cent and presenting a number of Victim Assistance programs to community organizations.

Three. To increase positive police and juvenile interaction by conducting several special function activities through neighborhood community centers and schools.

Travis read the words and wondered how many other departments across the nation had similar goals and objectives. He was proud of the Victim Assistance unit which did fall under his division.

Other divisions were struggling with other problems. The Support Division was attempting to increase by 100 percent the number of minority members taking the Civil Service Police Officer entry examination. It was also pushing community watch programs. Attempts were being made to reduce duplication of work done by the police and sheriff's departments.

The backbone of the force, the Patrol Division, was attempting to support city housing programs. A training program was underway that addressed city ordinance enforcement. A drive was also being conducted to computerize information and decrease traffic accidents at high incident locations.

The Administration Division was doing its best to increase the number of minorities and females employed by the department.

The Technical Division, overworked and understaffed as usual, was attempting a host of programs. At the moment it was attempting to renovate public areas to make it easier for the public to deal with the police. A large effort was also being made to make the big, sloppy filing system a bit smaller and easier to handle through a spiffy automated retrieval system.

These were some of the battles that Travis had fought most of his adult life and he was, frankly, tired of it. He would like to crawl into an illustrated book on archaeology, or, better yet, go on a dig to Egypt, or China, or maybe New Mexico. He wasn't too particular.

Mae managed to hold off face to face interviews with the press, but Travis did answer a series of telephone inquiries. "Are you going to personally crack this case?" a print reporter asked.

"You think I'm Sam Spade? What are you a numbskull? I'm a desk jockey. Ask the men in the field what they're doing."

"Who are they and where are they?"

"You're the newshound, not me. Do your job!" Goading the press into working was one of the inspector's favorite devices. A criminal, he knew, would tend to lay low, like old Brother Fox. But, if one could create enough excitement and confusion, there could be panic. A fox on the run is easier to spot. Particularly if one has the high ground. The press could take the role of dogs, of baying hounds, while Travis hoped to be master of the hunt. The chase was on. A quickening in the blood.

**Chapter 3**

Both Lt. Harley Swafford and Sgt. Russell Schultz came to see Travis at mid-morning.

"We found the shit head," Swafford announced.

"Which shit head is that?" Travis asked politely, hoping that Swafford wasn't referring to the mayor or another city official.

A glowering Swafford opened his notebook. "Daniel Smythe-Keye. A fancy name for a little shit head. An advertising man," he added scornfully.

"How did you two bulldogs track him down?"

"He was in his office," Schultz replied.

"Masterful. You'll have to write this one up for a true crime pulp. I suppose you rolled him in custody and have a complete and detailed confession?"

"The shit head won't talk," Swafford said glumly.

"Did you ask him in a nice way?"

"Damn right," Swafford said.

"That's right," Schultz agreed. "Even Harley was polite. This man is uncooperative. It's something to do with his youth and maybe drugs. He says the police treated him, uh, badly. He says he knows better now. He doesn't have to say a word and he won't say a word. If we arrest him, he says we'll be talking to his lawyer."

"He's guilty as shit," Swafford tossed in.

"You have signed statements that he was in that room with Sue barker on Thursday night and early Friday?"

"I'm sorry, Chief," Swafford said. "We just haven't had time for that nitshit."

"Nitshit, or not, we can't move on this man unless we have some evidence. This man does have rights. He doesn't in fact ever have to talk. Who's his lawyer?"

"Some shyster shit head," Swafford said.

"But which shyster shit head? I don't believe that's in the telephone book."

"I understand what you mean, Chief. I'll find out. But if this shit head was honest, he'd talk to an officer. That's only right."

"You have a point there, Harley. But in the meantime, time is slipping away and the farther we get away from the crime, less chance we have of solving it. Here it is Tuesday, close to noon. The crime may have happened Thursday night. We have just now talked to the major suspect. He won't talk. That means more time down the drain. Russ, why don't you drop everything else and get statements from the witnesses. I mean signed and sealed. And, Harley, why don't you go out to the Grove Park and see what you can dig up. No rough stuff, no ignoring rights. There's big money and big lawyers here someplace."

"And a few two-bit shyster shit heads," Swafford added.

"Let me know what develops, gentlemen. Be kind to the press, but don't tell them too much."

"Them prissy shit heads," Swafford grinned. Then the two were gone.

Travis sighed. He liked Harley Swafford, an older man who had come up the hard way. He had given up trying to stop Harley from calling him chief.

When he was sixteen, Swafford had come down to Asheville from a cove deep in the mountains. The big-boned boy had hitched a ride on a rattle-trap pickup truck. In one hand he carried a cardboard suitcase and in the other a paper poke of cathead biscuits stuffed with country sausage. Even then his big hard fist could knock a good man silly. Swafford had mellowed only slightly over the years. The rough edges still stood out like threatening blades. He was a church-going man and he feared God and hated evil. He could also drink three fingers of white mule from a canning jar, wash it down with beer and then cut half a cord of wood.

He was a man not easily cowed, except by his ninety eight-pound wife, Cora, who he viewed as a saint with a streak of dirty mean. Half of the blood in the little lady's veins was pure Cherokee. Her ancestors and living relations inhabited the Smoky Mountain area west of Asheville that straddled the North Carolina-Tennessee border. The hickory tough woman had been brought up in a cabin overlooking the Oconaluftee River, a hard day's walk from the town of Cherokee.

When the mood was on her, and that mood generally corresponded directly to her husband's alcohol intake, she had a dark and evil eye. Then Swafford knew it was time for him to sit quietly and take whatever punishment she cared to mete.

If Swafford was the old breed, Schultz was the new. College educated, a degree in criminology, a course at the FBI Academy. They made a well-balanced pair, really. And Travis knew that Swafford's police work was better and more discreet than his private office talk. And, he would not enjoy being pitted against the man in an alley fight.

Travis spent the rest of the day in the office, skipping lunch. He attempted to list the salients of the case, what few he had, on a yellow legal pad. At the top of the page he wrote: Sue Barker, 22, rich, beautiful, shot in the right temple with a .38.

On the next line: Suspect, Daniel Smythe-Keye, advertising executive, age unknown. Believed to have been with victim at the time of death.

Writing the word "victim" caused him to pause momentarily. The Asheville Victim Assistance program, as good as it was, would do nothing for Sue Barker. Nor would her money. In his lifetime, in his career, he believed the move to assist victims was possibly the greatest step forward taken by any police force. Traditionally the justice system had been geared to protecting the rights of the accused. His department, and others, were attempting to turn that around--to protect the victim from further harm. To keep the victim fully informed and to allow the victim to speak.

After leaving work, Travis crossed the French Broad river and drove out Patton Avenue to a fish house. He didn't go there often because the fish was too good and the beer too cold. Fish, hush puppies and chips--all you could eat for a small price. At his age, he had to constantly watch his weight. But how he did like fried food! There might be advantages to growing old, but one seldom came upon them. He returned home well after the news and opened a can of beer. The phone was still unplugged and Travis decided to leave it that way. He settled into his chair and surveyed his domain. The room was actually quite cluttered, but not with his belongings. Sandy had a theory that any bit of space--on the wall, floor or table top, should be filled. Empty space offended her. She did not believe less is more. Instead she believed more is more and piling on more is much more.

The room was large and had a small bath. The bath had been a closet. There was a metal shower stall, no tub. The toilet and basin were jammed together. There was a mirror and a light, but no cabinet. There were high shelves. The floor of the room was polished hardwood, except for a small machine-made Oriental rug. A bay window, bulged slightly, five windows in all. The rough, white-painted slab of wood that served as a mantelpiece for the fireplace held ten volumes of The Library of American Literature, printed in 1892 and bound in fake leather. Sandy had picked them up at a garage sale during her scrounging. Travis enjoyed them from time to time. There were essays, poems, a few longer pieces and some illustrations--solid bedtime reading.

A three-panel screen stood at one side of the room near a cedar-lined steamer trunk. There was a hat rack, two bent wood rockers, a three-drawer oak dresser, a small writing desk and chair, a low bench, four lamps and a paddle fan overhead. Bric-a-brac included a potted palm, sea shells, candles and holders, a wash pitcher and bowl, a pewter pot with fake yellow roses, and a cookie jar covered with tiny sea shells. Centerpiece of the room was a large, round bed covered with a pink spread.

The room pleased the inspector. He liked it partly because he didn't own most of the contents. This gave him a feeling of unfettered freedom. He might someday just pack up and go off on a dig. He had not changed a thing except to jam a standing bar hanger behind the three section screen. His few possessions fit in the steamer trunk and the oak dresser, with the overflow in three cardboard boxes on a high bathroom shelf.

The room was cool, not cold. Rather than put on a sweater, he made a small fire. When it was crackling, he sat down in front of the blaze with the autopsy report. It revealed no secrets. No sign of sexual abuse, or recent sex. No bruises, or marks. Some alcohol, but no drugs. The bullet entered the right temple and did its job. Death was instantaneous, like flicking off a light switch. Total shut-down. If everything went well in the next day or two he mused. If witnesses placed Smythe-Keye at the scene of the crime. Then if Smythe-Keye confesses... But if not, the key is the girl herself. What was she doing in Asheville? Who could hate a beautiful twenty-two-year-old girl so much to push them to murder, except jealousy, or some other seething passion, Jealousy. Jealous of looks, jealous of riches, jealous of life style, a jealous suitor, a spurned lover.

Lieutenant Swafford was waiting when Travis got to his office the next morning. "Chief, I spent a lot of time yesterday talkin' to a good old boy that has a couple of stories that will set you on your ass!"

"That good, huh?" Once again he had forgotten to buy a newspaper. "You want coffee, Harley?"

"Sure do. Cora was fit to kill me this mornin'. I was out late talkin' to this old boy. She can be stubborn as a Tennessee mule."

The inspector opened the door and asked Mae to get them a couple of coffees. Then he turned back to Swafford. "Who is this good old boy?"

"He's a bartender at Grove Park and he knew Ms. Barker. She used to stop for a drink and chew the rag. He liked her real well."

"Was there anything between them. I mean sex?"

"No, Sir. He was too smart to try that. That's one of the stories. I told you there were two, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." Mae brought the coffees and put them on the desk. Swafford picked his up, cupped it between his hands and blew on it. Then he slurped a swallow of the steaming liquid.

"Whoooeee, that's hot. Well there was another old boy there, a real shit head from down in Charlotte. He was a bartender and he did try to get it on with Ms. Barker. Shit, this girl was prettier than ten possums. And rich to boot. I don't know if she could cook, or not. But who cares? This old boy from Charlotte said some things to Ms. Barker and she asked him to quit botherin' her. She asked him in a nice way, so I'm told. Well, here's a shit head who don't know where his bread is buttered. He didn't quit. So she told the hotel manager and that old boy's ass was bounced."

"They fired him?"

"Damn right, they did. Quick as a jigger."

"How long ago was this?"

"It's been maybe five or six months. I can find out from the hotel, but it may not be important. What happened next was this dumb bastard lifts a few and waits in the parking lot for Ms. Barker."

"At the Grove Park?"

''Shit yes. Right there at that big hotel. He hid somewheres. She came in late and alone and he grabbed her and tells her what he's going to do to her. He was fixin' to drag her off, but she screams and a hotel guard came a runnin'. That place doesn't screw around on security. They got it."

"They collared the ex-barkeep?"

"No. He run off. But later on, Ms. Barker told the bartender I talked to what happened. And he told her that he had seen this fired guy around town and that he allowed he was goin' to get even. Then she said that she always tried to be as nice to people as she could be. But sometimes people wouldn't let her alone because of her looks, or because of her money. She allowed that sometimes she couldn't tell which. But she said she tried to treat everybody with respect. And he admired that and so do I."

"A wonderful characteristic, I'm sure. Did anything else happen?"

"Bet your rosy ass it did. The shit hit the fan. She had also asked if he, this bartender, would see anything wrong in her doing something. He laughed at that. I mean he didn't know what she could do. But he said she was obliged to do anything she could against this shit head."

"That she should seek revenge?" Travis questioned. This avenue seemed to be leading somewhere.

"Something like that, but he didn't know what. They was just jawin' as far as he was concerned. But he's a good old boy and he knows right from wrong. See what I'm gettin' at?"

"I know the good old boys have a keen sense of justice. This gentleman from Charlotte, I presume, is not a good old boy. What's his name, anyway?"

Swafford opened his notebook. "Anthony Wacker. He may have been from Virginia, or somewhere up north. Although he claimed to have lived in Charlotte, as if that's any recommendation."

"Did this Wacker try to bushwhack the girl again?"

"Not three days later two guys looked Wacker up and beat holy shit out of him. They stomped that old boy's ass. We're talkin' hospital. They mentioned to him that he better not try to see Ms. Barker again."

"How'd your source find this out?"

"He knows Wacker's girlfriend: Lives in the same neighborhood. She told him."

"What kind of girl is she?"

"Freelance hooker, I think. Fat little bitch named Pat. I've seen her around town enough."

"Is Wacker still in town?"

Swafford laughed. "Not hardly. But that's not the end of the story. You see he was in the hospital a couple of weeks. Then sends word by way of Pat to the bartender to tell Ms. Barker that he's sorry and wants to apologize. He asks her to come to the hospital, to his bedside mind you, at seven o'clock on a certain night. Now doesn't that beat all?"

"It sounds a bit bizarre. I don't believe I would have gone had I been in her shoes."

"Bet your sweet ass. She didn't show, but a couple of tough customers did."

"The same ones who had given him the beating?"

"Pat says she doesn't think so. But they could have. First one of them closed the door and the other searched Wacker. Now he's layin' in bed. They found nothin'. Then they noticed Pat's purse. They go through that and find a gun. They ask how come she's got a gun. She says for protection. They's a host of bad people walkin' the streets where she normally does business. They don't buy it. One of them sticks the gun up her nose and says she better tell the truth or her brains are going to be on the wall. She tells them that lover boy Wacker asked her to bring it to the hospital and keep it in her purse."

"How bad off is Wacker?"

"Not bad off. Seems like he could have checked out of the hospital. Pat isn't sure what Wacker had in mind. He is one mean shit head, but he needed money. She thought he would first try to get some money from Ms. Barker by some kind of blackmail or force, then go to work on her body. He wanted both, but he had to have money. But she knew that he wanted that sweet child in his power."

"What did the two guys do?"

"They told Wacker and Pat that the four of them were checking out of the hospital. Don't cause no trouble and everything will be dandy, they said. That's just what happened. They saw what kind of a bitch Pat was. When they got out of the hospital one of them handed Pat $200 and told her to take off. She did."

"They kept Wacker?"

"Bet your ass. They watched her 'til she turned the corner. She doesn't know if they had a car, or what. She's pretty sure that they were from out of town, maybe east coast, like New York. But she never seen Wacker again."

"Did she file a complaint?"

"Shit no. She was right pleased to trade Wacker for $200. She says he was nothin' but a pile of shit anyway."

"She has a colorful way of expressing herself."

"Pat's a dandy, but not too smart. She was behind the door when the brains was passed out."

"You suppose this Wacker's dead?"

"I'd put some hard cash on it. That shit head's body could be anywheres east of the Mississippi river, or maybe in China. They was cool customers. They didn't give a shit for Pat. But they handed her $200 like it was twenty five cents. They know she won't talk and she won't. So, case closed. Maybe Wacker needed killin'."

"I don't know, Harley. When we think we know who needs killing, it's time to quit. You don't suppose Pat would have killed Ms. Barker for revenge, or blackmail, do you?"

"That girl's scared shitless. She was happy as a hound dog with fresh-killed rabbit with that $200. But you want me to check her out, don't you?"

"Of course, find out what you can. I presume she has an arrest record."

"Long as your arm. Might even be on probation. I'll check everywhere, Chief."

"You said there were two stories." He glanced at his watch. Time was not his friend. The first story was better than advertised. If true, it seemed to cast Barker as accessory to murder, or pay-to-kill murder. But a murder that at least Harley believed was richly earned. If this sweet young thing hired a pair of killers did she know what she was doing, or were they overzealous?

"The second story will stand your hair on end, Chief. It involves a celebrity who threatened to kill Ms. Barker just a few days before the murder."

Lang Travis smiled. "You certainly aren't disappointing me this morning, Harley. Shoot."

"You heard tell of Bumbley Woods, Chief?"

"Country and western singer."

"You're dead on mark. He's a regular at the Grove Park. Stays there when he hits town. You know he's a local boy from up around Spruce Pine, anyways between there and Banner Elk. So he passes some time here. And he always gets the same room. If you're guessin' it's near the one Ms. Barker had you're right ag'in. The two of them hit it off like ham and eggs. They was a number."

"Just a minute," Travis interrupted. "I thought Ms. Barker had a boyfriend, this what's his name, Tom Hansen, who went to Saudi Arabia. Or at least that's where he's supposed to be."

"This Ms. Barker was twenty-two and chipper as a cricket on a hot skillet. We're talkin' now and then when Bumbley was in town and we're talkin' late at night. I mean late,late. Deep in the night when most folks is havin' sweet dreams. Those two were going at it like Frankie and Johnny."

"I understand the comparison, but such behavior doesn't usually end in violent death."

Swafford raised a finger in the air to make a point. "You must remember that Bumbley is near the top of the heap. He's young, good lookin', healthy. The world is his oyster. Nashville, L.A., big time. I mean where he is, you'd think you'd never die. You feel like a river that will flow forever. We were both young once, Chief. And we were all mean once."

"True enough. Thoughts of immortality fled years ago. But I do remember youth. Continue."

"The bartender. Lowry's his name. He was gettin' things straightened round to close up just over a week ago, when no one but Bumbley Woods comes in. He already had a skinful. Lowry said he looked like a boiled owl, but he was rarin' to go. Nothin' would do but Lowry go with him to some cabin back in the hills."

"Up toward Banner Elk?

Swafford looked perplexed. "No, that's right peculiar. Down the mountain in McDowell county." When Swafford said McDowell, he emphasized the MAC like the mountain people do. It was down beyond Black Mountain, an upscale summer and retirement town. It was actually at the start of the piedmont and Swafford spoke of it with humorous derision. Even though its small courthouse town of Marion was named after the Revolutionary War hero known as the Swamp Fox, the mountain people scorned the county with its summer heat, so unsuited for their temperament.

Swafford would no more live in McDowell county than he would in New York, or Atlanta, or some other foreign place. Swafford continued his story, speaking in earnest: "Some shit head, one of his fans, gave Bumbley a key to a cabin on some back road near a place called Clear Creek. Bumbley wasn't fit to drive, so Lowry did that. As Lowry tells it, the cabin was a big ol' place, fancy as a lace skirt. Skylights and I don't know what all. Bumbley was a little sober when they got there, but he soon fixed that. There was whiskey, enough to last a month, and anything else a man might want. It was some cabin."

Travis imagined the woods, late at night, the stillness. Maybe a silver moon with a whisp of clouds, the dark pines. Could you hear insects, or a night bird calling? He wondered. He remembered a vacation long ago. Just he and his wife in a cabin. He had gone looking for firewood and had seen the yellow light shining through the window. Nothing lasts forever. Wind coming down from the mountains steals through the pines, a sudden chill. "Were there just the two of them there?"

"Yep. Just Bumbley and Lowry. There was guitars in the place. Lowry likes to pick and grin as well as the next varmit, but naturally, he was out of his class. But Bumbley wouldn't take no and the two of them were singing train songs."

"Train songs?" the inspector puzzled. "Like 'Casey Jones?" The telephone rang. It was the mayor asking about the case. There was no doubt which case. There had been more calls from the press. National TV and a supermarket scandal sheet were climbing on board. Travis thought carefully and finally said, "`We're not letting any grass grow under our feet."

"Good boy!" the mayor exclaimed. "Go gettum, Tiger." Then he hung up. Travis turned back to Swafford.

"Train songs with a guitar, two guitars, is more like 'Wreck of the Old 97,' or 'Orange Blossom Special.' Maybe 'Folsom Prison.' I mean they was settin' the woods on fire. Hootin' and howlin' in them McDowell hills. With guitars like that you try to make noises like trains. Whoooeeee." Swafford pretended to strum a guitar and sang: "This is not 38, but old 97. Put her into Spencer on time. Whoooeeeeee."

"I think I understand," Travis said. He was still thinking of the mayor's call and hoping that Smythe-Keye would confess and end this business. Maybe he hadn't taken it seriously enough early on. Perhaps some of his edge was gone, but he damned well didn't want to slime off in disgrace.

"Like I said, Bumbley had the world and its gold. He dresses in them flashy white suits with glitter. He ain't overburdened with smarts, but he's a good old boy. He got jawin' about Sue Barker and how she pulled the plug on him and what he was goin' to do about it."

"Christ, he can play the field." Travis interjected, "Women are probably banging at his door. Why would he worry about losing one? A rich, pretty one, I'm sure, but still he's rich."

Swafford leaned across the desk toward the inspector to make his point. "She didn't put him down, but she didn't play him true. He says she gave him AIDS and that's a death sentence. He almost cracked up when he told Lowry he's a goner. History."

Travis stared a moment, attempting to digest the information. "That, of course, seems impossible. AIDS takes quite a while to develop. Didn't he think of that? Anyway, why does he think he's got AIDS?"

"I got to thinking about the time later, and do you know, Chief, it don't make sense. But, it don't matter, too. If Bumbley thinks the little woman gave him AIDS that's all that matters. He said his intentions were to shoot her with a pearl handled .38 that his daddy give him on his fifteenth birthday."

"When did you say this took place?" Travis questioned. "Just two or three days ahead of the murder."

"Where is Bumbley now?"

"I checked this mornin'. He's supposed to be at his place in the mountains on his Christmas tree ranch."

"Christmas trees?"

"Yep. He's got almost a thousand acres of Christmas trees up there. When he's home, he says he just sits around and watches 'em grow.

"Must be a patient man."

"Shall I bring him in, Chief?"

"By all means. Bring him and his pearl handled weapon in for questioning. Explain to him that this will pass quietly if he has an explanation. Particularly if he has a good alibi for the night of the murder. If his piece checks out negative and so forth. If he won't come in voluntarily, then it's public property. Bumbley's a public figure. We can say anything we damn well please about him and he knows it."

"I'll bring him in today, Chief. I'll be proud to meet him."

"I'll be waiting."

**Chapter 4**

When Swafford was gone, Travis picked up the phone and called the coroner. "Doc, this is Lang. I need some more information on the Barker case, the young lady who was shot in that apartment by the French Broad."

"I'm acutely aware of the case. Lang. In fact, I've just hung up after a call from New York. A young lady who works for a magazine had a zillion questions. What can I do for you?"

"It's a bit of a wild card, but someone suggested the young lady might have AIDS. Is there anyway to check?"

"Not at this date. Body's been cremated and the ashes sent to an attorney for final disposition. And we didn't look into that exact question."

"Oh, well, I didn't think there was anything to it. But as you know the interest in this case seems to be building. Better cover your ass. What do you think? Could she have had AIDS?"

"I'd say no. She had every sign of radiant good health. She was one of the most perfect women I've ever seen. Hated to see a body like that burnt. What a waste. Nothing we found would indicate that foul bugaboo. And let me check with the lab technician. We still might be able to come up with something. But I'd give her a clean bill."

"Thanks, Doc. Oh, I need to know where those ashes were sent."

The coroner shuffled through papers and finally read reported: "The law firm headed by J. Frank Patterson."

"Prestigious," Travis said. "Corporate stuff. Somehow I thought Barker would have had a New York set of attorneys. You talk to him?"

"No, a secretary called here. The firm was guardian for Ms. Barker when she was a minor. And still handles her affairs. In fact, I believe there's a parent's will that's still active."

Travis' retirement had been mostly imaginary. So many changes since he had entered the force with the intention of supporting himself temporarily. So many plans on hold. So many ideas shunted to the sidetrack. But he loved Asheville. And, crazy as it was, as it is, he felt rooted to the mountain city, or as it is sometimes called, Freak City or Crystal City--a wonderland of strange people, strange ideas, exotic restaurants, culture clashes, affluent retirees, ragged street people, Bohemian coffee houses, a wild and wacky group of drummers who convene in downtown weekly and effete monied, come lately condo owners who file carping ignored complaints about the jungle thumpers, large scruffy dogs leading hippie types on crude rope ties, a burgeoning Latino populace, inventive attire as well as a cluster of first class medical facilities and a forward looking city government housed in a pink Art Decco city hall built long ago on the cutting edge.

But modern crime in this mish-mash of writhing humanity kept Travis more active than not. Standard police officers and patrolmen, busy with routine enforcement. The more involved cases that take some unraveling, tossed his way, handed off to the one who younger officers called the old man. He wasn't really all that old--and he belied the image of the kindly, aging peace officer. More than once he had proved himself deadly with a pistol.

It wasn't just the influx of oddballs and retirees that gave Asheville the zest and joy of life that kept repeating itself. Just thirty miles away, Black Mountain College was founded in the 1930s and somehow attracted a host of artistic and literary giants. The school is now defunct but an undying flame was sparked.

Most recently a man named John Cram injected a fresh supply of life into Asheville itself beginning in the early 1970s. Cram's road was bumpy at times but many say he transformed the small city into Cramelot. He now owns the worthiest fine arts gallery in town, the Blue Spiral, also the top fine arts gift shop located in Biltmore Village, near the grand estate. Then there's the small art theater downtown which he saved--where films that would never make the giant screens, such as Al Gore's global warning lecture, are shown, but also independent films can be viewed. And Cram started his ventures when Asheville appeared to be a sleepy, bypassed mountain city--one of the few U.S. cities actually located in the mountains. Denver, for instance, is next to, not in the Rockies. Asheville also boasts loads of so called "halfbacks. " These are mostly New Yorkers who moved to Florida, wearied of the plastic pink flamingo paradise and moved half way back. Some who arrive look down on the locals at first, but the wiser ones know better.

But of course it's not all culture and art. The people like to have some fun. Any type of alternative medicine you've ever heard of, and some you haven't, are embedded in these Blue Ridge Mountains. A weekly newspaper called the _Mountain Express_ explored Asheville's urban legends. It searched for the city's incredible drawing power. What Pied Piper brings these spiritualists, seekers, shamans, seers, vegans, animal worshipers and those who grapple for self realization? One theory: The vortexes, the lines of power that crisscross the landscape churn out a mystic energy. Or it might be the fond embrace of the misty mountains.

Others believe Asheville is the last resting place for the lost children of Atlantis. And still the most prevailing theory that hidden deep beneath the city is a giant crystal, unfathomable, alive, pulsing with power. And this is what brings these lost souls to this sacred gathering place. And what messiah will emerge?

Add this to the rumor that 40,000 lesbians live in Asheville. That would be more than half the population. But the rumor persists. Although one such person thought it might be because they are so visible. But the urban legends endure. The C of C says that once one visits Asheville, he or she will curse their luck that they don't live there already. Others say that the Cherokee laid down a dark curse--once you arrive you can't leave. A possible truth, even though there are few great careers except in fast food, the green folks culture or animal rights. Usually there is a protest in progress.

Native son Thomas Wolfe, born 1900, dead in 1938, grew up on the streets of Asheville. He moved from room to room in his mother's boarding house, never having a real room of his own. His father, a stonecutter, lived nearby. Possibly something in the city's magic, or the mystic mountains, inspired Wolfe's literary genius. Here's a sample from "Of Time and the River: " "But this was the reason why these things could never be forgotten -because we are lost, so naked and so lonely in America. Immense and cruel skies bend over us, and all of us are driven on forever and we have no home. Therefore, it is not the slow, punctual sand drip of the unnumbered days that we remember best, the ash of time, nor is it the huge monotone of the lost years, the unswerving schedule of the lost life and the well-known faces, that we remember best. It is a face seen once and lost forever in a crowd, an eye that looked, a face that smiled and vanished on a passing train, it is the prescience of snow upon a certain night, the laughter of a women in a summer street long years ago, it is the memory of a single moon seen at the pine's dark edge in old October--and all our lives are written in the twisting of a leaf upon a bough, a door that opened, and a stone.

"For America has a thousand lights and weathers and we walk the streets forever, we walk, we walk the streets of life alone."

And the boarding house where Wolfe grew to manhood among his family and the odd inhabitants, is now his shrine in downtown Asheville.

And once a year the city goes absolutely insane for a summer weekend known as Belle Chere, a title with little actual meaning, but it is a great gathering of people, a huge festival of music, entertainment, food and drink. If there is anything to Asheville, it is music, all sorts of music from bluegrass to the blues and on and on.

Then there is the regional Folk Moot that brings together music, dancing and other forms of entertainment from around the globe to various venues in the area for a sustained period in the wondrous summers. And the fall is the color season and don't forget Christmas, unforgettable at the Biltmore House, Grove Park Inn, Resort- Spa and downtown dressed in its holiday finery.

Schultz looked a little glum when he came into the office and dropped a sheaf of statements on the desk.

"You look like someone threw your dinner in the dirt. Have a seat."

The sergeant nodded. So far I haven't found one witness who saw Barker and Smythe-Keye enter the vacant apartment together. Not one."

"Have you talked to everybody?" Travis asked seriously. "Well, no. There were quite a few people there that night moving in and out. Coming and going. It was one of those things."

"One of what kind of things? Is there a list of guests?"

"No, nothing formal. This group that puts out City Nights, some of them aren't even paid. In fact no one gets a full salary. Not a living wage. Maybe Garvy does all right. She seems to run it. So it's partly like a social club. People bring their own stuff. They share."

"Just where did we get the idea that the murdered girl and Smythe-Keye were in the apartment together?"

Schultz picked up the top statement and flipped through the three pages. "This woman said she had that impression. She definitely saw Sue Barker when the party began, knew what she was wearing. She was drinking something called a greyhound and talking to a newspaper reporter. And she didn't see her toward the middle, or last of the party."

"Was she there 'til the end?"

"No. She left about midnight. There were still quite a few people there when she left."

"Why did she think Barker was with Smythe-Keye?"

"It's in her statement here. She said, 'I think Garvy told me.'"

Travis shot him a hard glance. "She thinks Garvy told her? That's the shabbiest sort of hearsay available. What do the others say?"

"What you might call variations on the same theme. If they remember at all, they think Garvy might have told them. Or it's, 'I think someone mentioned it.'"

Travis shook his head and stared at the stack of reports. "Anything else? Any new leads in there?" Schultz shook his head no. The buzzer sounded and Travis picked up the telephone. Smythe-Keye and his attorney had arrived. He suggested they meet in the small conference room down the hall where there'd be room for all of them and a secretary to record the statement.

Travis thought Smythe-Keye appeared a bit sulky, but he was not openly hostile. After introductions, they settled in their seats. "We're conducting a murder investigation here and our purpose is to ask a few questions in the public interest in order to fit a few pieces together," Travis announced.

"I know absolutely nothing," Smythe-Keye insisted. He was about to say more when his attorney put in, "I've asked my client to answer any reasonable question. I'm here to insure that the questions do stay within reason."

"I can assure you they will. And I assume you've told your client his rights. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Am I under arrest?" Smythe-Keye whined.

"No, of course not," the inspector said. "You did know the murdered girl, that is Sue Barker, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes. Everyone at City Nights knew her. Some better than others. But I didn't kill her."

"You're not accused of killing her. Can you recall where you were at the time of the murder. That would be either late Thursday, or early Friday, last week."

"My memory is that good. I was in Houston, Texas, attending an advertising convention." Slight smiles traced the mouths of both Smythe-Keye and his attorney. Travis started to glance toward Schultz, but then thought better of it. Guessing correctly that Smythe-Keye was telling the truth, Travis was concerned about saving some scrap of esteem. He continued as if the answer was no surprise

"Was there a dinner of some sort that night?"

"The banquet was on Saturday. There was a mixer, a cocktail party Thursday night. I talked to several people.Then I was in the hotel bar with a group until well after midnight. If you want me to continue after that, there was a young lady."

"No need," Travis said quickly. "When did you return to -Asheville?"

"Sunday evening. My car was parked in the long-term parking section of the airport. I got home just after dark. I had eaten on the plane. I was tired, so I showered and went to bed."

"Could you tell me what kind of a person Ms. Barker was?"

"Charming. Delightful. Very pretty. Very witty and intelligent. Up to the minute. Knew all the new jokes, new fads. Wore all the new clothes. Had traveled to anyplace worthwhile you could mention, and a few not so worthwhile."

"You liked her?"

"Inspector, everybody liked her. You're going to have a hard time finding people who didn't like Sue. Why don't you just call it suicide and be done with it?"

"Mainly because we have found no weapon. Where is the gun"

"How should I know," Smythe-Keye said impatiently. "Someone must have taken it. But you're a big policeman. Surely you can do a little thing like find a gun. Don't you have a gun dog or something?"

"No, we don't have a gun dog. But tell me, Mr. Smythe-Keye, where did the strange notion that this might be suicide come from? Did you think it up yourself?"

The advertising man paused for a moment. Travis guessed that he was making up his mind whether or not to name the source of the suicide theory. And that he would decide not to. "It wasn't my idea, but I've heard it from more than one person. It's logical, a clean wound to the right temple. That would end it, wouldn't it?"

"I don't believe the general public would buy it. I won't. Also, we'd be letting a murderer walk. I don't intend to do that. Is there anything you'd like to say about the case. Anything?"

"No. "

"Thanks for coming. Your public spirit is great." Everyone shook hands and the two left.

The two sat in silence as the secretary gathered up her things and left. Then Travis said, "There goes our number one suspect. It appears to me we've been focusing attention on the only suspect who has an airtight alibi. Do you agree with that line of thinking, Russ?"

Schultz shrugged. "I do."

"Someone has been blowing smoke up our ass."

"Garvy?"

"Who else? Tell me something about her."

"I haven't been able to talk with her. She's never been there when I'm there. I talked to her on the phone briefly, one time."

"That's interesting. Has anyone told you anything about her? Let's go back to my office." The inspector asked Mae for a couple of cups of coffee on the way through the outer office.

"I'm a police professional," Mae retorted. "Why should I get your coffee? I can have a woman's rights group throw a ring around this building."

"Shall I ask the chief to have you stop doing your nails, making personal calls and extending your lunch hour for shopping excursions?"

Mae smiled sweetly and asked Schultz, "do you want cream and sugar, Honey?"

"Both, but not much sugar." In the office Schultz speculated that Garvy was some kind of aging battle axe who might feel protective toward the group.

"But Sue Barker was part of her group. Of course you might write off the dead and protect the living. At any rate, I think I'll look her up for a chat. We've got to bear down on this one. I want you to compile a list of everyone who was at the party. I want you to ask everyone who they can remember seeing and at what time. Did any of them see any strangers? Get descriptions, of course. Spend full time on this work up. We've got to know exactly what happened at that party." Travis paused when Mae brought the coffee.

"Making any progress on the Barker case?" she asked.

"So far it's tough sledding', Mae. You getting any flack?"

"The chief's gotten a few calls. I've been directing them to his honor. He's better at PR than we are. In fact you could call him an artist of one type."

When she had gone, Travis asked if the party had been confined to one floor.

"No. In good weather they usually spill over onto the roof and this one did. There's a structure there for the top of the elevator shaft, then an asphalt floor, or whatever roofs are made of. A wall all around. Then people do stand out in that bridge. There's a small entryway in the next building with doors to the empty apartment where Barker was found and to Janet Price's apartment. Usually the door at the end of the bridge is locked. Thursday night it wasn't. So anyone could have gotten at least that far."

"To the door you mean?"

"Yes, to the doors of both apartments by means of the bridge. But actually they could have walked into the ground floor door of the building next door, taken the elevator up and been in the same place."

Travis had made a rough pen sketch of the two buildings. He almost always carried an 02 drawing pen with a plastic tip. He loved to doodle. He finished drawing in the bridge between the two buildings. His guess was it was about fifteen feet long. "The building next door isn't locked?

Both buildings are managed by the same company. A resident manager locks both buildings between ten p.m. and midnight. It varies. Unlocks at six a.m. for the paperboy." "The resident manager. You talked with him?"

"Yeah. He's a woman. She had driven out Tunnel road to a movie that night. The party was still on when she returned, but she went right to bed. She doesn't understand that set. You know, arty, sometimes strange clothes, strange hours, strange talk. But she has a standing invite for any party. She told me one of their parties started at midnight on Friday and ran through to Saturday noon."

"You don't know where this Garvy lives, do you?" "Oh, sure. The fourth floor. An apartment just under the City Nights office. Handy."

"One flight up? She wouldn't even need a car."

"But she has one. A bright yellow Mercedes. Someone pointed it out. They said she likes to take long drives alone up on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Maybe up to Grandfather Mountain, or Blowing Rock. The old bat probably can't get anyone to go with her."

When the sergeant was gone, Travis turned his mind for a moment to long drives on the Blue Ridge, that long, scenic two-lane strip at the crests of the mountains, devoid of advertising and tourist traps, reaching from Rockfish Gap in Virginia, south to the half-million acre Smoky Mountains National Park. Minutes away, the road passes east and south of Asheville, 469 miles in all. In years past, Travis had taken the drive, often to a place called Crabtree Meadows, but sometimes to a high summit thick with rhododendrum with the descriptive name of Craggy Gardens.

There were clearings, meadow-like, at the peaks of many of the mountains, large grassy knolls, bald tops. No one seemed to know why. Some speculated that Indians, or early settlers had burned off the forest cover. The inspector remembered the warmth of the sun in the clearings, the cool wind rising from the woods below. Hickory, oak, pine, laurels, rhododendrom, flame azaleas, the bright wildflowers of spring and summer.

A rap on the door. He called, it opened, enter country and western singer Bumbley Woods, unshaven, a little down at the mouth, followed by a smiling Harley Swafford. Bumbley was not wearing one of his thousand dollar glittering white coats, or a rhinestone shirt. Not even velvet tights. He wore a white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, a green and white warm up jacket and scuffed brown boots.

Travis rose and shook hands with the star. He had seen him more than once on TV. If he was not impressed with the man's musical talent, he was impressed with Bumbley's ability to make money.

"I'll be right happy to get this mess cleared away," Bumbley said.

"That's right, Chief," Swafford said brightly, "Mr. Woods insisted on coming back with me. No lawyer, or nothin'. A flat honest man."

"I got to drinkin' the other night and said some things I oughtn't to. But it was that whiskey talkin'. Not old -Bumbley. Me and Lowry--and he's a good old boy and I don't hold this ag'in him one little bit--we went over yonder to McDowell and made them hills ring with music. My head felt like a rubber balloon the day after. It was thumpin' like a flat tire on a country road. I said a nasty about Miss Sue, God rest her soul, but I had my reasons. There's an old doc up near Banner Elk that set me off."

"He told you you had AIDS?" Travis questioned.

"Yup," Bumbley said glumly. "He did surely tell me that. But now that I think on it, I believe it was partly because the old boy--and he's a hardshell Baptist, a real rock ribber--I believe he thinks I lead a profligate life." Bumbley stretched out the long word prof-leee-gate. Swafford wondered what it meant and Travis wondered where Bumbley had heard it. Probably in church, he reasoned. The pastor very likely had been talking about him at the time. "You mean you don't have any symptoms?"

"Oh, sure. They's symptoms right enough. I was all het up. Blowin' up over trifles. was losin' weight. My heart beat like a drum now and ag'in. I jest couldn't seem to get my breath sometime. I was so hungry sometime I could of et the asshole out of a skunk. They was plenty of symptoms."

"What did this doctor tell you to do? Did he prescribe something?"

"Fact is, he didn't know what to do. He's a mountain wonder, he is. He told me to get my,affairs in order and to get right with God."

Swafford was unable to stifle a laugh, a sort of muted guffaw.

"That's right, Harley. I didn't know should I laugh, or cry. I know heaven's my home, but I jest ain't homesick yet. What would you think if a doctor feller told you that? A man with a certificate on the wall?

"I think I'd get a second opinion," the inspector said.

"Maybe a second, third, fourth and fifth. You betcha. Well, it took me a few days to think of that. I didn't even know how long it took this AIDS gig to get to you, maybe years."

"So I'm told. You went to another doctor?"

"I went to the best I could find. First to Atlanta. Those old boys down there told me I probably didn't have AIDS, but whatever it was that had got hold of me vexed them too. They sent me off lickety-split, up to a clinic in Cleveland, Ohio. They wanted them Yankee pill pushers to take a gape at me."

Bumbley dug in his jean's pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper. Taking care, he unfolded it and smoothed it with his hands. "The special doc who finally let me know my troubles is called an 'endocrinologist.'" He read the word from the paper, then continued to read. "What got hold of me is named 'thyrotoxicosis,' or you can call it 'Grave's disease.'"

Travis had heard of Grave's disease, but knew nothing about it. He wasn't one to read about diseases. Not only was he not interested, but it gave him a creepy feeling to learn about the horrible and disgusting things that can happen to one's body. "Is this disease, whatever it is, serious?"

"Now that's the beauty part," Bumbley finally smiled. "It ain't serious. The bad part is the symptoms. And can you believe this, I got it from eatin' health food. You're lookin' at a sort of health nut. On the road I get into the damdest places you're likely to ever see. The eats and the drinks would like to kill a mule cold. So I took to totin' my own eats. Health food. Kelp, what have you. I became a health store junky."

The singer returned to the small piece of paper. "This thyrotoxicosis is caused by your thyroid hormones gettin' thrown outta whack. Too many, or not enough. That kelp I mentioned is one of the culprits. I was nibblin' that stuff instead of peanuts."

"What do you do? Just lay off kelp?"

"Kelp and other stuff. The doc's mailin' me a list. I tell you, boys, I'm goin' back to pizza. I want it oozin' cheese and loaded with sausage and those salty little, hairy fish. Screw health food. And, if this don't get you, nothin' will. I take aspirins. That's the treatment. Plain old aspirin."

"Aspirin," Travis said. "I've always heard it's a -wonder drug. I'll bet you were pleased."

"You can tote that to the bank. Losin' weight and I was mean as a snake. When you been healthy and then things start happenin' to you. I mean, we all better count them blessin's."

"When did all this happen?" Travis asked.

"I just come back from Cleveland last night. One Godawful mess up there if you want my true word. I was there Monday and Tuesday. Flew up there on Sunday. But I already knew I didn't have AIDS. The old boys from Atlanta called me."

When was that?"

Bumbley hesitated a moment, then said, "Friday."

"Friday," Travis repeated, then asked: "Where were you when you got the call?"

"Up yonder. Up home."

"How about Thursday night?"

"Up home. I canceled everythin' when the old doc told me the word."

"Who was up there with you?

"Nobody. Just an old blue tick hound dog. I ain't been married for goin' on five years. If I was, I'd expect my woman to lie for me, wouldn't you?"

Travis nodded. "I would think so. What you're telling me is that you have no alibi, no witnesses, for the night of the murder."

"That's God's own truth, to my sorrow. But I ain't done it. I didn't gun that pretty little Miss Sue. I wouldn't a done. it, even drunk. I admit to some whiskey talk, though."

"Perhaps you'd better give me your gun. We can check it out. Ballistics."

Bumbley fished a .38 pistol from his warm up jacket pocket, held it by the barrel and passed it across the desk. The inspector examined it. The weapon was fully loaded. He opened it and the shells clattered on his desk. Clean as a whistle, recently oiled. No rust, no grime. Walnut grips. "I'm disappointed," Travis said. "I was expecting something with pearl handles."

"Sorry, Inspector," Bumbley smiled sheepishly. "I didn't have no time to go a shoppin' before Harley here come a callin'."

You own a pearl handled .38?"

"I did right enough. My old daddy give it to me on my fifteenth birthday. I kept it all these years. But, and this is the truth as the good Lord is my witness, I can't find the damned thang. Maybe it's been took, I don't know."

"OK," Travis said. "I'll ask Lieutenant Swafford to give you a receipt for this one. We're all three times seven and know you could have brought any gun from any place here today. And you could bring five more in tomorrow, all pearl handled. But we'll check this one out. This is a nasty business, murder. It can have a bad impact on anybody it touches. We aren't just trying to nail anyone. We want a genuine article, the real killer. So if you're clean, Mr. Woods, we'll do our best to keep this quiet. I thank you for coming in. You seem to be shooting straight with us."

"I thank you for sayin' that, Inspector. And I hope that you will believe that I will carry Miss Sue's precious memory and remember her in my prayers. It's been right nice meetin' you and Harley here. And I sincerely hope you clean this mess up soon." The three men shook hands and Harley and Bumbley left the office.

Travis drummed his fingers on his desk and stared at the door to the hall. Finally, he pulled out his sheet of paper and wrote next to Bumbley's name: Made death threats. No alibi. Gun missing.

**Chapter 5**

Travis sat on the edge of his round bed and tried to see Thursday morning through one of his five windows. Between the tree branches and the house next door, it seemed to be starting out well. Sunshine, he could see a scrap of blue sky. A jewel of a fall day. When he had showered and shaved and brushed his teeth, he pulled on a comfortable pair of suntan trousers, a short-sleeved pullover shirt and a sleeveless sweater with a hole in the center of the chest. Not a large hole, but there were loose ends of yarn. But it was a favorite sweater. It smelled of woodsmoke. He topped off his outfit with a tweed jacket, as comfortable as an old Indian blanket.

His intention was to see Garvy, but it was still a bit early to make a call. And he did intend to go directly to her fourth floor apartment and beard her in her lair.

Sandy was vacuuming the sitting room when he descended the wide stairs. She cut off the machine and said, "There's hot water in the kitchen if you want coffee. There's a white box with a couple of stale croissants."

"Stale croissants! This must be my lucky day."

"They're tough and chewy. Stick to the ribs."

"You should be a menu writer." Travis headed for the kitchen, carefully avoiding the knick-knack jungle along the way. When he had his coffee and a croissant wrapped in a napkin he took them to the L-shaped porch. He settled into one of the nine wicker rockers that stood in a silent row on the long arm of the L. The porch measured eighteen paces long and four paces wide and stretched across the east side of the wooden house. It included the massive stained-wood front door with its beveled oval glass. In addition to the rockers, there was a round picnic table with benches and three small tables. The short side of the L measured only fourteen paces in length and accommodated four tables and chairs, plus a glider. Breakfast was often served there during fine weather.

The bed and breakfast boasted an exquisite setting, an acre of land rising from two cross streets, dotted with dogwood, pine, maple and oak--some of the latter of mammoth proportions. Seated in the rocker, sipping coffee and munching the rich, crescent-shaped pastry, Travis could see a long ridge to the east, possibly three thousand feet above sea level. The air was like wine and the morning was magic, still, with sun rays stealing through the limbs of the trees. There was pleasure in the slightest breeze and joy in the stirring of a branch. Travis thought the realities of love, death and loneliness should be alien to this mountain, this ancient city of Thomas Wolfe, bypassed by time in many ways.

The last of the coffee gone, the final crumb of croissant devoured, Travis stirred and stood. "I've got to solve a murder," he said to himself.

The apartment parking lot was in sight of the shallow, swift waters of the French Broad. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and found a door with the name "Garvy" beside a -bell.He rang.

"Come in," shouted a pleasant voice from within the apartment. The voice seemed too loud. He glanced up and found the explanation. There was an open transom over the door. An old building, the door must have belonged to an office. He opened the door and entered. No one in sight. "I'm in the kitchen," the voice said.

Travis was about to speak when an attractive woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands with a dish towel. She was wearing grey slacks and a pullover V-neck red sweater. He guessed her age to be about forty. But she was no battle axe. "Come in the bedroom," she ordered. Travis was about to protest, but she turned on her heel and was gone. He followed. She was standing, by the bed pointing toward the ceiling. "Look at that."

The room was feminine, tastefully furnished. A mirror and little bottles and jars that Travis associated with beauty aids, neatly arranged on the dressing table. The bed was made, covered by a slick, quilted spread. The closet door was closed. The room ran to earth tones. A piece of Oriental pottery adorned a small bookcase. There was a glaze, but the texture was rough. A single kanji scarred the surface. He wondered what it meant. Probably something very mundane, like "tea," or "water." He looked at the ceiling where she was pointing. He was finally allowed to speak. "Looks like water damage."

"That's exactly what it is," she agreed. Her words seemed to commend him on his acutely accurate observation. He felt a bit proud of himself. "A basin flowed over up there. Those kids can be careless."

"There are children upstairs?" he asked

"No, not children. Sometimes they act like children. It's a magazine. Entertainment and art. City Nights. They come and go all the time. Sometimes they eat and drink." She took her eyes off the ceiling and fixed them on Travis. They were as black as coffee, he noted. "Well, what can you do about that?"

"About what?" he questioned.

"About the ceiling, of course." Travis was about to recommend that she call a plasterer, when the door bell rang.

"Just a minute. I'll be right back." He heard muffled voices in the living room, then she returned with a workman following in her wake. "This is the plasterer," she said in an odd voice.

"Just the man to fix the ceiling," Travis said.

"Yes, but who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Detective Inspector Langley Travis." He pulled his shield from his pocket and held it so she could get a close look.

"Well, why didn't you tell me?" she said in an exasperated voice.

"You didn't give me a chance. You wanted me to look at the ceiling. I've come to talk to you about Sue Barker."

"I guessed that," she said coldly. "I suppose I might as well talk to you. Go in the living room and have a seat." There was something of the school marm in her voice. She seemed accustomed to being obeyed. Travis followed orders and took a seat on the couch. He could hear her discussing the ceiling with the plasterer. In a few minutes the two of them came into the living room and she saw the workman out. "All he wants is an arm and a leg for mending two square feet of plaster," she complained.

Travis rose to his feet. "Are you Mrs. Garvy?"

"Ms. Garvy, if you please. I'm unencumbered. Have a seat." He sat back down on the couch and she dropped into a facing chair. The furniture was bright and modern. A large window afforded an excellent view of the hills, touched with autumn. It was an entirely pleasant place.

"Someone should have talked with you earlier," Travis began. "You were Ms. Barker's employer and probably know more about her than most. I wonder if you could tell me a little about her?"

"I suppose she worked for me. I have the title of editor and publisher, but half the time the staff doesn't get paid. There are certain costs: printing, paper, film, circulation, postage and so forth that must be paid. The staff comes last. We have a group of dedicated people working here."

"That sounds very noble. Just what are they dedicated too?"

Garvy smiled for the first time. "I suppose they're dedicated to having fun. Hedonism. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"I suppose not."

"And along the way we put out a very fine product, an entertainment and arts book that mirrors Asheville as the lively place it is. I have no apologies."

"None were asked. And Ms. Barker?"

"She just dropped in one day many months ago. Attracted by the magazine, I suppose. She wanted to get involved in our work. Poor little rich girl from New York, Manhattan Island. She fit in. A lot of odd shaped parts make our puzzle whole. She had something to offer. Beauty, a developing talent, and she didn't ask a dime. But several of the people get no pay. They have other reasons for working here."

"All related to pleasure?" the inspector questioned. He had started to wonder if there might be a drug connection.

"Not entirely. Contacts. The staff gets into every nook and cranny of Buncombe county. Sometimes at a very high level. They meet some high powered people. These mountains are a gathering place, but you know that."

"Yes, I do know," Travis said. He went over a few of the famous names associated with the area--of course Thomas Wolfe had been born here, George Vanderbilt was drawn here, 0. Henry was married and buried here, then Carl Sandburg spent his last years at nearby Flat Rock and so on. "Tell me something about Ms. Barker."

"Other than she was rich and pretty. Well, let's see." Garvy became very serious. "She had some talent. She liked to write about art exhibits, shows. And antique shops and some flea markets. She didn't have a good grip on legitimate theater, though she enjoyed it. She was no good for films. She simply didn't like them. And she was getting into layout work. They call it page design now. I do most of that myself, but she did a few."

"How about personality, boy friends? That sort of thing?"

"Well, up until recently Tom Hansen and Sue. They were a couple. It was his apartment where Janet found the body. So that was her boyfriend."

"In police work, Ms. Garvy, we often find the best person to tell about a crime is the victim. If we know the victim, we can often find the criminal. See what I mean?"

"Of course I see. But you're dealing with a dead woman. There's very little she can tell you."

"On the contrary, Ms. Garvy. The dead can speak volumes. There is, of course, physical evidence, but more important, they are survived by friends and associates. We start with a bare canvas and little by little the friends can paint in the background, and the foreground. If they are candid."

"Are you suggesting that someone has been less than candid?"

"I'm hinting in that direction. If you want to talk red herrings, several witnesses, people who attended the party last Thursday night, said they thought that Ms. Barker was alone in the Hansen apartment with Smythe-Keye. It turns out they were quoting you." Travis leaned forward and spoke in an accusatory manner.

"I'm not sure that I should be talking to you, Inspector. You seem to be in a feisty mood."

"It's my normal mood, Ms. Garvy, and we can talk here, or we talk at the station. It doesn't matter to me. Any judge is going to recognize you as a key witness in this case. Your options have dwindled to one."

"Just what do you want me to say?" the woman demanded. "If you're going to make me talk, I suppose the next step is to tell me what to say. Do you want me to swear that I witnessed a murder?"

"Don't make a complete ass of yourself," Travis snapped. "I just want you to tell me the truth if you know what it is. First, I'd like know why you said Smythe-Keye was in that apartment with Ms. Barker Thursday night. He was at an out-of-state convention, you know!"

"I know that now." Garvy had risen to her feet in prelude to asking Travis to leave. She reconsidered and sat down again in her chair. "That was one of those things. I mean Sue was at the party fairly early. She had a drink, a greyhound I think, she was in a good mood. I saw her on the bridge later and thought she might have gone over to Tom's old apartment. It was empty and I thought she probably had a key."

"But she could have gone to Janet Price's place, or she could have gone downstairs and left the building."

"Could have," Garvy replied. "But she and Janet weren't close friends. And she wouldn't have normally left the building that way. She would have gone through this building. So time passed and I didn't see her again. Then Daniel Smythe-Keye wasn't anywhere to be seen. Dan was a regular, always at every party. He's in advertising and hungry for business. He picks up any morsel he can at any place that he can. So I thought they might be together. I mentioned it only once and more as a joke than anything else. After all, I had a couple of drinks too. I'm not immune to alcohol. Are you?"

"No. I like a drink and I like a good time. Who did you say this to?"

"Standing in a group. But it was like a joke. You see, I don't think Sue would of had anything to do with Dan. Dan's a loser in more ways than one."

"What kind of a loser is he?"

"You've seen people with 'Born to Lose' tattooed on their arm? Dan should have it tattooed on his forehead. He's a flop in the advertising game, he dresses in an odd way, he's socially gauche, he has halitosis and his shoes are never shined. In advertising you've got to sell yourself. He's got an inferior product."

"How does a guy like that keep going?"

"I think he gets money from his mother. He lives with

her."

"What you're saying is that you said something as a joke and other people took it seriously, at least they repeated it to the police."

"I suppose," Garvy conceded. "The police probably pressed them and that's all they could remember."

"But you also floated a rumor that Ms. Barker's death might be a suicide. How about that one?"

"It just seemed to me that nobody walked into that apartment and shot Sue in cold blood. I couldn't accept it. I still don't."

"But you think she had reason to kill herself? This beautiful rich girl?"

"No, I don't. But sometimes things go on in the mind that we can't imagine. You see, I think she might have had a gun. And she might be capable of recklessness. You never know."

"A gun?" Travis questioned. "Where and why?"

"Her boyfriend, Tom Hansen. He had a small pistol. He couldn't take it with him to Saudi Arabia. Strictly forbidden. So he gave it to Sue for protection. She had had some trouble once with someone at the hotel."

"Where she lived?"

"Yes, something happened. Pretty girls sometimes attract it. Anyway, suicide explains it, doesn't it?"

"The gun's gone, Ms. Garvy. There was no note. No illness, no financial problem, no despondency. No it doesn't explain it. Not by a long shot."

"But someone could have entered the apartment and taken the gun. It was unlocked. She was in there dead for a long time. I shudder to think of her there on the floor for all that time."

"You cared for her?"

Garvy fixed him with her black eyes and said: "I like all my kids."

"Even Smythe-Keyes," Travis countered.

"I like some more than others. You want me to rate them from one to ten?"

"In my book, it's murder, Ms. Garvy, and I'll proceed on that tact until it's proved otherwise. Also, this thing about her boyfriend, Hansen, this is not another joke, is it?"

"What in the world do you mean, Inspector?"

"I mean he may not have been her one and only."

"We do live in a modern age. Things happen. I don't stick my nose into every sleazy corner. You might describe their affair as tempestuous, I suppose."

"You mean they quarreled?"

"Don't all lovers?"

"Some more than others. Was there ever violence?"

Garvy thought a moment. "Maybe I'd better not tell you."

"Why don't you take a chance and tell me? This is a murder investigation."

"I guess there's no harm in it now. We were up on the roof having a picnic. We made tables with saw horses and boards. Tom, quite by accident, spilled catsup on Sue's blouse. She poured a mug of beer over his head."

"What did he do?"

"The best thing possible. Took it as a joke. It diffused her anger. Sue had a lot of poise generally."

"I don't see any special significance in that. As you say, lover's quarrel. Even sex is sometimes violent. Why did Hansen go off to Saudi Arabia and leave this rich, beautiful girl?"

"That's hard to say. I mean I can't be sure. But I think Sue had no intention of marrying anyone for a few years. She liked Tom. Tom is a very handsome boy. But that kind of love and family life, I think Sue thought, uhh, uhh."

"Her death must have been a terrible shock to all of you."

"It was. Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea? I'm sorry I didn't offer you anything earlier. That business with the plasterer."

"Thanks, but no. I do have some work to do." He waited expectantly.

She was silent a moment, then picked up the thread of their conversation. "Yes, about her death. It was an awful shock. There's still a sense of unreality about it. I think we here, the group, that we were about the only family she had. There's a law firm, but it just handled her money. As far as I know she was an orphan. She never talked about family "

Travis made a mental memo to check with that law firm.

"What have you done to mark her passing?"

"You mean like a funeral? Her ashes were sent to the law firm. I don't know what will become of them."

"But there are memorial services. You don't need ashes, or a body, to remember a friend."

"I suppose sometimes we might do that. Now the whole business is too fresh in the mind. I'm sure no one wants to be reminded of it."

"You did nothing yourself?"

"No." Her answer came very quickly, a knee jerk response. Travis could tell that something was happening in this handsome woman's mind. Her eyes were troubled. He waited and she finally said:

"You're right. I felt there was a need to do something. I lit a candle."

"Here?" Travis asked.

"No. There's a Catholic church nearby. It seemed more solemn, more meaningful."

"You're Catholic?" `

"No I'm not. But where else do you light candles?"

"You've got a point there." This bright, airy apartment is no place for votive lights, Travis thought. But his room, a little on the dark side, with a fireplace. A candle would go well. He put candles out of his mind. Garvy had given him a few pieces of information, but not much. It was almost like she was feeding him the minimum amount. Go from A to B, then if he pressed, continue to C. But why? And maybe it was his imagination. He rose to leave. She walked with him to the door. She moved well, he thought. Attractive, well proportioned and with class. A good mind, too. "Maybe we should talk more sometime, perhaps dinner."

"Dinner," she said, breaking into a smile, "At the city jail?"

"No, I thought a restaurant somewhere. You know, pleasant atmosphere."

"Are you looking for a confession?"

"No. Maybe it was a bad idea." Instantly, he was embarrassed. It had been a bad idea. It had just come out and now she had the edge. He hurriedly added, "I may have more questions later."

"Well, a dinner may not be such a bad idea." She cocked her head in a provocative way. "Are you interested in me?"

"I'm interested in all the citizens in this community." He hoped she would drop the subject.

"Well, I'm honored to be included in that group. You've asked me a lot of questions. May I ask you one?" "Certainly."

"Is there a Mrs. Travis?"

"No. There was. My wife died some time ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Yes, I was too. They say that-death is a part of life. I must be going."

She followed him to the elevator. "I hope you don't think I'm too rude. It's just that this whole thing has been upsetting. Maybe dinner would be a good idea."

"Thank you, I don't know. This investigation is," he paused, then said, "difficult."

"I can imagine." The grey steel door of the ancient elevator slid slowly open. Travis stepped inside, turned and waved a hand to Garvy. Then the door closed.

He went to his car and drove to the office. Using his hall door to avoid any calls, he flopped down behind his desk and spent several minutes reviewing his thoughts. Finding his sheet of paper, he wrote: Miss Garvy (he realized he didn't know her first name) fairly cooperative. May be holding something back."

Then he walked to the connecting door, opened it and saluted Mae. "His honor's on the war path," she cautioned. "Called here two or three times."

"What's he want?" Travis asked blandly.

"What do you think? Either a killer, or your scalp on a long pole."

"Would he settle for my hide nailed to the wall?"

"His boot's gonna be up your ass unless you call him soon."

"How you talk, Mae. And you a southern lady. Put through a call for me, would you?",

The phone buzzed in less than a minute. "The press are on my heels, Lang," the mayor began. "I can feel their hot breath down my neck. Should I throw you to the scavenging wolves?"

"Not yet, Cotton. These things take a little time. I'm not looking for a quick solution to this one."

"We've got to move on this, Lang. We may get network TV in here any day. This could give the city the little boost we've been looking for, or it could make us look like mountain buffoons. Do we need more manpower?"

"Maybe, but not just yet. You know we don't have the men to spare. We aren't that big."

There was a hopeful chord in the mayor's voice when he asked: "But you're making progress?"

"Yes, I'd say so. We're questioning suspects. We've cleared one top suspect. We're working on others. And there is an out of town angle. The girl spent a lot of her life in New York and other places. We haven't checked every angle, but me and the boys will go to the mat for you, Cotton."

"Good. I have faith in you, Lang. You know that. I'll do a little talking about this out of town angle. Toss a sop to the newshounds."

"Of course, if you want off the hook, Cotton, we can put Mae in charge of the press, funnel everything through this office."

"Lang, Lang, you old son of a gun, you know a politician runs on words and a friendly handshake. If City Hall comes tumbling down on my head, I want to be the man behind the microphones announcing the details. Give me thirty seconds on national TV and watch my smoke."

"Just thought I'd make the offer, in case the going gets. tough you can lay in the weeds.I do promise to keep you informed if there's a break."

"Not if, but when."

After the mayor hung up, the inspector asked Mae to get J. Frank Patterson on the phone, Sue Barker's attorney. While he was waiting he rang the detective section and found Lt. Swafford at his desk. "You check out Bumbley's story, Harley?"

"The gun checks. I mean it ain't the murder gun. But Bumbley didn't give no alibi. He was just up home, so he says."

"No body's going to bring us a murder gun on a platter. The question is, was Bumbley in Asheville on Thursday evening? Was he anywhere near that party? He's the victim of terrible timing. He didn't find out that he didn't have AIDS until Friday morning, hours after the girl was dead."

"I been tryin' to check him out the best I know how."

"Also, there's this Pat whatever-her-name-is, the prostitute. What's her story? And is there any chance her boyfriend, Wacker, is still alive? You better keep digging at the Grove Park. The Mayor is taking some heat over this one."

"Old Cotton Jones," Swafford said in surprise, "What's he gettin' up a head of steam about?"

"He may be old Cotton Jones to you and me, but he is also the Mayor with all the power that goes with it. He can turn us both out."

"I'll get myself back out and toss a few down with those shit heads at the Grove. But Cora surely lays the bad eye on me when I come home adrinkin'."

"It's for a good cause," Travis said. It entered his mind to call Cora, but the wiry black-eyed spitfire would climb on his case, too. Some women had an exact picture of the way the world should operate and they were quick to spell out detailed rules.

**Chapter 6**

The inspector left the office and drove out Tunnel Road in search of fast food. The day was a blue diamond, blustery with clouds scudding before the wind across the mountains. He caught a whiff of diesel fumes from a huge rig that labored in front of him. Even that smelled good to him on such a blue and gold day. The eighteen-wheeler was likely headed for Interstate 40 and a long stretch of sharp downgrade nicknamed "Killer Mountain" where more than one trucker had gone to glory with smoking, worthless brakes.

If the truck made that passage safely, past three sand-bunkered escape ramps, it would rumble on past Old Fort, Marion, Hickory, Statesville, and maybe to Winston-Salem and points east. Years back, Travis had once spent an entire vacation probing the banks of the Catawba River, not far from Marion, seeking a lost Spanish settlement. After Hernando de Soto landed at Tampa Bay in what was to be called "La Florida" in 1539, he spent three years leading 600 men on a rambling walk through the southeast.

He had called the settlement that Travis had sought, Xuala. But when Spanish Captain Juan Pardo reached the same community in the late 1560s, it was called Joara. To Travis, who somehow seemed to be in the wrong profession, the mere thought of Joara was evocative of leather booted Spanish conquistadors with their ridged iron helmets, metal breastplates, tough hide gauntlets, gleaming swords and powerful crossbows.

A handful of miles from where Travis now ordered an individual pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms and green peppers, the black bearded Pardo parleyed with painted savages, the ancestors of the Cherokee and Creek nations. If Joara was ever rediscovered, Travis would spend days at a dig along the banks scraping, piecing together to solve a centuries-old mystery.

Mae fluttered like a bird behind her desk when he returned to the office. "Sergeant Schultz is waiting in the meeting room down the hall. He has someone with him and he's anxious for you to talk to her. A red headed woman."

"Who is it? Do you know?"

Mae consulted a slip of paper. "Janet Price. She found the Barker body."

"OK, I'll go to the big interrogation room. You ask Schultz to bring her in."

Janet Price was above average in height, and thin. Model type in frame and stature. The word "willowy" came to mind. She wore what appeared to be an eastern European peasant smock made of a particularly rough textured cloth. Maybe hand-loomed, a popular mountain craft. Her hair was fine and of a rare red hue, running from bright to bronze, like a flare in the autumn woods. The woman had been in the room only briefly when Travis noticed something remarkable' about her--she was both beautiful and ugly. He could find no fault in her slim body, small buttocks and breasts. It was her face. He saw her smile only once and she was radiant, dazzling. But her brows were heavy, her cheekbones wide, and, her nose, while straight, a bit flat. There was something primal about her, something Neanderthal. In repose her countenance was brutish. Possibly some of it was due to her mood: angry, hunted, frightened. Her eyes darted from Travis to Schultz to the closed door.

Travis thought: This is a person who would kill. At that moment he would have been afraid to put a loaded gun on the table. This was a mountain woman with an inordinately thin veneer of polish. This, a woman who would be the truest of mates, but not a pleasant enemy.

"Miss Price, I'm glad you could come in to tell your story."

"The sergeant here made it sound like I didn't have much of a choice." She flicked a quick thumb towards Schultz.

"She came voluntarily, Inspector. I've told her her rights."

Rights, Travis thought, Schultz must consider her a major suspect. Then he said, "Always a police formality, Miss Price. We're trying to find out as much about the murder and as much about the victim as we can."

The red head looked at him narrowly. "I suppose it would be just great by you if I confessed. Well, I'm not going to because I didn't do it."

"There was some bad blood over Miss Price's boyfriend," Schultz interjected.

"Yes, little miss hot pants was after my man," the woman said scornfully.

"She tried to steal your boyfriend?" Travis questioned.

"Hell no, she didn't try to steal him. She could have had him and twenty like him with her looks and her body and her money."

"But, you said she was after him?"

"Damn right! And she was too. But she didn't want a purchase, not even a long-term lease. She was looking for short-term rentals. Maybe a couple-of hours, all night at most. They were doing what they called recreational sex."

Travis squelched a smile. He saw a grin start on Schultz's face, but he also controlled it. The woman was intense and seemed-to grow angrier by the minute. "Could you be more specific, Miss Price?"

"Specific? What would you think of two people stark naked in bed and going at it hammer and tongs. Is that specific enough?"

"What I meant was, Miss Price, that maybe they were just putting you on talking about recreational sex. It could have been a joke of some sort. Not a nice one, but still."

"My man is built like a sleek bull and hung like a stud horse. That's what the hot little bitch was after. I made the mistake of telling her about him one night when we were the only two working at the magazine. I say that to my everlasting sorrow. She didn't let a week go by 'til she had him between her thin sheets."

"It was more than talk then?" Travis questioned.

"It was. They even let me watch," she said flatly. "

"You watched them in bed, having sex?"

"Yes," she sighed. "It was at one of the parties. We had all been doing considerable drinking. She had bolted down two or three of those damned greyhounds she liked so much. Then we were over at my place, just the three of us. I had gotten wind of what was going on so I jumped them about it."

She paused and Travis said, "You quarreled?"

"They laughed. They thought it was hilarious. It was just recreational sex and meant nothing to them. So the three of us are in the bedroom and they're both naked and in bed and I'm sitting on a chair by the bed. They kept saying things like, 'Don't be a baby. Get in with us.' So Finally, I did." There was a note of resignation in her voice, her face was sullen.

"I see," Travis said gently.

"Maybe you see and maybe you don't," Janet Price almost snarled. "They made me do something and I hated them both. They made me and I'll never forget it and I hate that bitch dead or alive, I hate her."

"But she is dead and there's no use hating her now," Travis said, attempting to calm the woman.

"It wasn't Hank's fault. How could he resist someone like her? He would have tossed me over for her, but she never did want him for more than that. He isn't the smartest dude to ever walk down the lane. But that girl is burning in hell. I can almost hear her screams," she said through her teeth.

"Does that make you happy, Miss Price?" Travis asked.

"Damn right it does. I'm a Christian, too. And a damn good one. And she's in hell. You can bet the farm on it."

"Did you shoot her?" Travis questioned.

"No," she spat.

"But you hated her enough to kill?

"Yes I did, but I am a Christian and I do fear hell. I'm not a killer, but if thinking it makes me a sinner. Well, maybe I'd better ask forgiveness."

"Do you have any sort of an alibi?"

"What do you mean? Where was I last Thursday?"

"Yes, Thursday night, early Friday."

"I was at the party. I was with Hank. We were in the main room, then some of us were up on the roof for a while, then the two of us went to my apartment. Hank stayed over. He left about six O'clock Friday morning. He had to go home and change before he went to work."

"So at some point in the evening you both, together, crossed the bridge and went to your apartment?"

"That's right. It was fairly late. Maybe just before midnight, maybe after."

"At that time Sue may have already been dead."

"Could be," the red head shrugged.

"Did you see anything? Anyone strange, or anything outof the ordinary?"

The woman nodded, "No."

"Would the people at the party have heard a shot?"

She looked at the floor and pursed her lips. "Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. It was a cool night. The windows were closed. Both bridge doors were closed when we went across. One at each end."

"But you were on the roof?"

"Not for long. Just after dark. A bunch of us went up there to look at the lights and see the river. It's pretty at night."

"But dark?"

"Dark, yes, but the texture of the flow over the rock, undulating. It's compelling. And there are reflections, long, shaky lights across the rippling dark surface of the French Broad."

"You paint a very romantic picture, Miss price."

Her eyes met his for a moment and lingered a fraction too long. They were variegated shades of green and not unpleasant. Feline, feminine, claws sheathed in velvet.

"It was very nice, but also chilly. We didn't stay long. I can see much the same view from my apartment window."

"And during that magic evening you were keenly aware that your boyfriend, Hank, had developed a type of sexual liaison with the murdered woman?"

"Had is the operative word. The thing had cooled. You see, Hank didn't like being led around by the nose. Sue was calling the shots. She played God. The bitch liked that. She wanted him where and when she was in the mood. Other than that she treated him like dirt, made fun of his intellect."

"Hank's a type of intellectual, is he?" Travis questioned.

She had smiled once when she first entered the room, more of a nervous flash. Now a flicker of mirth traced her lips.

"Hank's no brain. He had a football scholarship to UNC, but he flunked out on academics. I mean, even with all the help they give them, he flunked out. But I don't like other people putting him down. He didn't mind her tacky insults and snide remarks when things were hot and heavy. In fact, I doubt if he understood most of them. I don't think Hank's ever read a whole book complete. But even he was getting fed up."

"Had they quarreled?"

Janet didn't answer immediately. Travis was patient. "There was a fight some days ago. If you don't know it now, you'll find out with all your questions. Hank told her he's a mind to kick her ass. And she said some damned cute little thing. But that was all. It still wasn't over between them, that seemed clear to me. He was still at her beck and call at that time."

"Could Hank have killed her?"

"No, Hank didn't kill her." She had calmed down, but Travis could see that she was getting upset once more. He didn't know if the emotion sprang from a protective feeling toward Hank, or her white hot hatred of the dead woman. But her anger had returned, that was certain. "If Hank had mixed feelings about that bitch, he had his reasons. But I wasn't the only one who hated her insides. Her ex was nearby and he knew a thing or two, and he is a bitter man. Then there was the Limey. If you're looking for her enemies, just shake the tree." She stood up and looked toward the door, then looked at Schultz.

"Just a minute," Travis protested. "By her ex, I assume you mean Tom Hansen. We've been told reliably that he was either in Saudi Arabia, or well on his way. Do you have evidence to the contrary?"

"Look, Mr. Detective, you should be able to find out that yourself, don't you think? I've told you enough. I have to get back to the shop."

She was at the door with her hand on the knob. "One more thing," ` Travis added, "Who's the Limey?"

She was in the hall. "Ask Garvy," she shouted, then slammed the door. Travis stared at Schultz.

"Hansen was on that plane, wasn't he?" he questioned.

"The airline confirmed it, Inspector. T. Hansen. The ticket was in his name and he showed up and caught the flight."

"How did you say he got the job in Arabia?"

"I believe it was through his brother." "His brother works over there?"

"I think so," Schultz said, then locked eyes with Travis. "That's it. Maybe it was the brother. I think his name might be Ted. T and T Hansen. It could have been either one of them on that Wednesday flight. I'll check it out, Sir."

"Do that. You'd better approach this Hank, whatever his name is. Did you-get his name?"

"No, but I'll call the red head. She works at a craft shop, the Mountain Trover."

"Keep me posted. The dead girl doesn't seem to be as sweet a person as I once thought. Maybe we'd better shake the tree a little harder."

When Travis returned to his office he pulled out his case sheet and added two names: Janet Price and boyfriend, Hank. He noted: Red headed and temper to match. Capable of murder. No alibi except Hank. Both have motive: Hatred. Then he wrote: The Limey.

He had just put the sheet away when his phone rang. "Inspector Langley Travis here."

The voice on the other end was definitely female and fairly mature. "Are you the one on the Sue Barker Case?"

"I am. What can I do for you?"

"I think a person who knows something about the case, or might know something, should come forward, don't you? A citizen. I mean a good citizen?"

"I couldn't agree more." He picked up a plastic pointed pen from his desk and doodled on a pad. "Who am I talking with?" He sketched a picture of an elephant, then a zebra.

"I'd rather not say. This borders on gossip, but I do have information. There's a woman who threatened to kill Sue Barker with a gun."

"OK, what's her name?" Was he imagining things, or was half of Asheville out to gun down Sue Barker?

"I'd rather not be the one to tell you that. I will say she's a doctor's wife and well known in the community."

"That's not much to go on, lady."

"Can you trace calls?"

".No."

"Good. I'm calling from a phone booth just in case. Even making this call makes me nervous."

Travis was doodling a man in a top hat standing on what looked like the Golden Gate bridge. "This thing I'm calling about happened at a party very recently." The inspector guessed it was a party in the twin buildings by the French Broad. The next few words proved him wrong. "It was at a doctor's house way up on the ridge. I'll give you the names of three people who saw and heard the whole thing. But you mustn't tell them where you got the information."

Travis grimaced. "Lady, how could I tell them. I really don't know who you are."

"That's all very well, but I really don't want you to tell them about this telephone call."

"I promise," Travis smiled. "OK, I'll tell them I found the names on a cereal box."

"You really don't have to do anything elaborate. Just say nothing, that might be best."

"Of course." He wrote down the three names and the streets that went with the names, but no numbers. "I want to thank you for this. If you learn anything else, anything, please feel free to call. You will have complete anonymity." Then he hung up and asked Mae to find Schultz for him. Travis puttered with paperwork until Schultz called. He gave the sergeant the three names and streets and asked him to get right on it. It was good to know that he had two men who would work long hours tracking down leads. He bugged Mae again about getting a call through to the lawyer. He then attempted to call Garvy to ask about the Limey. There was no answer at her apartment. Someone did answer at the magazine, but she was not in. After shuffling a few more papers the inspector headed for home, picking up some Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way.

Before eating he kindled a small fire against the evening. Sandy was a miser when it came to starting the furnace in the great old house. Nursing a third beer, Travis had been thinking about laying his reading aside and turning in for the night when a small knock came at the door. He

raised his voice slightly to say, "Come in."

The door opened and Janet Price walked in. Her hair was brushed, as if burnished, and the flickering fire picked out the highlights. She was wearing an attractive long grey dress, also with a coarse, hand-woven look. The top plunged in a slit between her breasts, but it was caught up at the throat by a loosely tied, heavy cord that looked hand braided.

This is a surprise," Travis said. He found himself looking into calm green eyes that showed not a trace of nervousness. "Have a chair." He indicated the one across from him with his hand. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Are you drinking?"

"I'm having a beer."

"I'll take a glass of that."

He busied himself getting the can from the small refrigerator and locating the glass. "How did you find me?"

"I called your office. A woman named Mae told me all about you. Said you were a widower and lived alone in this B and B."

"Did she give you my phone number as well?" Mae usually acted out of instinct. She would tell one person his life story and not give the next the time of day. She must have liked something about Price's voice. There was a certain timbre of sincerity and trust there as well as something of the mountains, a quality not to be ignored by the initiated.

"She offered to, but she said you usually unplugged your telephone. I decided to drop by." She took a sip of beer.

"You have more information?"

"I thought I'd better explain the Limey. He's an Englishman who works at the magazine. Odd sort, possibly the proverbial British eccentric. Real name's Reggie Cant. Does music reviews. Very up on the classics."

"You call him the Limey. That's not very flattering."

"It was Sue that started it. Once at a party. I forget the remark. He often said, 'you Yanks,' to refer to Americans in general. So she called him a Limey and it caught on. In fact I think he likes it. He certainly has never complained as far as I know."

"But had it in for Sue?"

"Yes, indeed. He knew how she was, he saw beneath that pretty face and that pleasant small talk. He knew. He said he was thinking about killing her and doing the world a favor."

"I'll admit that's a little shocking. There was nothing personal?"

"That's strange you should say that. That's exactly what he said once. He's talked about this more than once. He said, 'It's nothing personal, but I know what a troublemaker that little trollop can be. She's the one I should go after.' Something like that."

"But why would he take it on himself to kill anyway?" Travis asked. "It's a dangerous business." The fire crackled and shot a small meteor of fire onto the hearth. Janet's face reflected shades of scarlet, even the green of her eyes were tinged with flame, her head framed in copper and bronze.

"Again, you've hit the reason. Reggie is a little bloodthirsty. He says he wants to experience everything in life to the fullest, even murder, taking a human life. I told you he was a little eccentric."

"Was he at the party last Thursday?"

"I remember seeing him at least part of the time."

"Do you know if anyone else heard these threats against Barker?"

"I'm sure they did."

"So, he had threatened to kill her. He probably had the opportunity. Do you know if he had a gun?"

"I honestly don't. But getting a gun around Asheville is no problem."

"I'm well aware of that. In fact, I've fought it most of my life . "

Janet smiled slightly, picked up a small stick of wood and tossed it onto the glowing embers. "You don't seem to think there's much danger about. The front door to this house is unlocked. Your room door is unlocked. Aren't you apprehensive?"

Travis witnessed a complete transformation in Miss Price from a few hours ago. Her face was relaxed, animated, attractive. Her well chiseled body alive under the coarse grey of her dress. She finished her-beer, got up and moved to the door.

Travis got to his feet. "I thank you for dropping by, Miss Price. Do you know where I could find this Reggie Cant?"

"Call me Janet. He lives in an apartment under Garvy's. He's usually around. Doesn't do anything but the magazine. He's on like a long-term tour of the world. I suppose he must have independent means."

"OK, Janet. You seem to be feeling a lot better than you did this afternoon. I'm sure the questioning was a shock, but if you're clean, you have nothing to fear."

"I know," she replied. Her hand moved to the door, but instead of opening it, she released the snap lock. The door locked with a sharp metallic sound. The red head turned to face him and Travis wondered what she would do next. "I like you, Inspector. After I talked with Mae, I thought it over. I've decided to have recreational sex with you. What do you think of that?" She was calm and serious, her green eyes held his.

"Are you talking about doing something to get even with Hank and Barker?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe that's part of it, I don't know. I like the round bed, though. And there is something solid about you."

"Possibly you're right. I'm solid enough not to have sex with a suspect involved with a crime I'm investigating. Now, I'm not saying you're guilty. But you do have a fairly strong motive, there was ample opportunity. So, thanks for the flattery. Now you'd better go."

"Do you think I'm an absolute moron that you can order around?" she asked, a trace of both humor and temper in her voice.

"Not at all. In fact since I've met you, I've gained increasing respect for your mind. Your body's OK, too. But it just isn't in the cards. I'm sure you're intelligent enough that you can see that."

"I'm sure with my intelligence I can think beyond that," she said defiantly. With that she undid the loose, heavy cord at her neck and let her dress fall to the floor. She wore nothing under the dress. She brushed by him and kicked off her shoes before climbing into the large, round bed. Once snuggled in, she purred, "Of course you can call the police and tell them I'm attempting to rape you. What kind of response do you suppose that would have?" He could hear her giggling under the fluffy quilt.

"And I could sleep on the floor," Travis said.

"May I call you Lang?"

"Why not?" he asked with resignation, looking around on the cluttered floor.

"If you do sleep on the floor, whoever makes up this bed is going to find a nude woman in it tomorrow morning. Is that appealing?"

"The thing I would like to do most in my life at this minute, is get into bed with you," Travis said, after considering his options, then added, "And that's exactly what I'm going to do. You win. Or maybe I win. But I can't believe that any good will come of it."

He was still muttering, mostly to himself, when he got into bed. Janet was tittering with her face buried in the pillow. At two A.M. he got up and mixed the two of them a drink after stoking up the fire. They sat quietly before the now glowing fire, swathed in blankets, and talked about their lives. Travis woke at six. Janet was gone

Despite his lack of sleep, Travis felt very much alive. He decided he might as well face Sandy immediately and get it over with. He found her in the kitchen, exchanged morning greetings, and sat down to enjoy a cup of coffee. Finally, she said, "You had a visitor last night."

"Police business," he replied.

"Very pretty police business," she said. Travis did not reply. Perhaps he should offer to pay for the morning paper so they could start getting it again. It would be nice to have a paper in the morning.

"I didn't hear her leave."

"Big house," he shot back.

"But I was reading near the foot of the stairs until quite late."'

"Two doors," Travis said.

"You suppose she went out the back door?" Sandy asked.

"How should I know?"

"Then there's the matter of the car." Sandy delivered -the clincher.

Of course there would be a car, Travis thought, and Sandy would have staked it out like ants on spilled honey.

"Big day today," he said. "I'd better get to work."

"Big night last night," Sandy said as he went through the door.

**Chapter 7**

In the office, Travis reminded Mae that he still wanted to talk with J. Frank Patterson, Barker's attorney.

"I've been trying," she insisted. "A lot of these boys won't return their calls unless they think there's a fee involved."

Travis punched up information and got a number for Reggie Cant, the Limey. A sleepy Cant answered on the seventh ring. "What time is it?"

"It's 8:15. This is Inspector Langley Travis of the Asheville police. I'd like to talk to you about the Barker murder."

"Jolly-O," Cant retorted. "So you want to pick up a few dribs and drabs on that lusty shrew. That's a champion idea. I've never been grilled by the authorities before, like a skinned kidney on a smoking hob. When shall we schedule the do?"

"How about two O'clock in my office, if that's convenient?"

"Rawther. Promptly at two. Ta." The phone went dead. Travis held the instrument and stared at the door. "The suspects in this case might have been selected by Central Casting," he said to himself. Then he hung up, went to the door and asked Mae for coffee.

He was in the middle of the cup when Schultz hurried in, a trifle flushed with excitement. "I've got another name to toss into the hat."

"The Barker case, of course."

"Sure, what else. That tip of yours. This one's a doozy. The doctor's wife."

"Jealous?"

"Damn right," Schultz shot back. "She caught them on her flowered sheets."

Flowered sheets, Travis thought, then the image of a round bed flashed through his mind, he and another suspect in the case the occupants. Only in Asheville. Perhaps there was a large crystal buried somewhere under the mountains. The day was certainly off to a spectacular start. "Flowered sheets, eh. I suppose there were witnesses."

"Twenty to forty. I haven't made an actual count yet. And then there was the death threat."

"Death?"

"You bet!" the sergeant beamed.

"We can't ask much more than that, unless she named the weapon and the place and time."

"Not the second two, but the first."

The inspector roused in his chair and looked straight at the sergeant. "She threatened to do Barker in with a gun?

"A roscoe," the sergeant exclaimed with delight.

A roscoe, the inspector mused, a term he hadn't heard n years. Why, he wondered, had the sergeant's speech taken a turn toward the colorful? "You'd better give me the details, including the names, time and place."

"Well it's a Doctor Brown, J.D. Brown to be exact. He and his wife have a big place up on the ridge. They entertain a lot. The place is worth two million if it's worth a cent. He's a woman doctor."

"A transvestite?"

"No, nothing like that. Nothing kinky. He just treats mostly women, for women's stuff. You know what I mean?"

"I think so. Go on."

"Well, this guy has quite a reputation as a man about town. I mean a woman's man. And I don't mean dressing up like a woman. I mean going after them. His theory is, and a friend of his told me this, if he's got a woman on his table in the office, and she's got most of her clothes off, why not climb on board?"

'"It seems to me there'd be complaints to the medical board. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Sure thing." The inspector picked up the phone and buzzed Mae. Travis busied himself with making a few notes of his own until the coffee was delivered, then he sat back and looked at the sergeant expectantly.

"There have been one or two complaints," Schultz continued, "but fairly mild and covered up. Or they just haven't gotten out. You see this Brown is a slick talker. Smooth as silk. He just doesn't start pawing and grappling, he talks. Asks permission, usually from across the room. He gets an OK first, then he moves in. He's good. After all, he managed to convince his wife that this flowered sheet thing was all Barker's doing."

"What about the flowered sheets? And what about his wife? What's her name?"

"Sylvia. The big event happened at a party. Mrs. Brown is one of those ladies who likes to put those useless little bars of soap in the bathroom in one of those bowls with a stand on it. Maybe even a top on the bowl."

"Like a compote on a pedestal?"

"Something like that. The damned things are always slipping out of your hands. Give me a big bar of good old Ivory any day. And a decent towel."

"She doesn't use decent towels either?" the inspector asked with amusement.

"That's exactly right. She likes these little dinky things. You need two or three of them to dry your hands. That's what led to all the trouble."

"The towels?" the inspector questioned.

"Exactly. This was a party. A big party up on the ridge. Someone had spilled a drink, or two and had gone into the bathroom and taken all of these little towels. Well, Mrs. Brown, Sylvia, was on patrol. She's one of these fussy people who empty an ashtray if they see a flake of ash in it."

The phone buzzed and Travis picked it up. It was Mae saying the mayor wanted to talk to him.

"Tell him I'll call him back in a few minutes. Tell him I'm in an important strategy meeting on the Barker case. That I may have something later on." He turned back to Schultz. "So, let me guess, Sylvia, if I may be so familiar, discovers the towels are missing."

"One hundred percent correct and what does she do?"

The inspector was getting into the game. "I suspect she has one of two courses of action. She can either track down the miscreant responsible for the loss of the towels and mete out some unspeakable punishment, or she can replace the towels."

"She picked the second, it being a party and all. She went to the hall linen closet," the sergeant said, a note of victory in his voice.

"And there found?"

"Throwing open the door, she found her husband and Ms. Barker on the third shelf in a compromising position."

"On the third shelf?"

"The witnesses I've talked to so far agree on that point. Also that they were on a stack of flowered sheets. These sheets were among Sylvia's treasures. Some sentimentality there, if you know what I mean."

"All the witnesses remembered the flowered sheets? the inspector questioned. "A rather odd detail to stick in one's mind in light of the main attraction."

"The attraction was not so big after Sylvia opened the door," the sergeant laughed. "And, anyway, Mrs. Brown shouted in a high screechy voice, according to witnesses, 'They're doing it on my flowered sheets."'

"Sounds like the highlight of the party."

"Yes, it drew a crowd. Out rushed those who could still walk into the hall, apparently jamming the hall and craning for a view. Everyone had been going after the sauce, of course. But this was a sobering event. You might say it cast a pall over the party. The two of them must have had some trouble getting into position and getting the door closed. They had some problem coming out of the closet. You might say it was an awkward moment."

"Indeed, and there was a threat?"

"Yes." Rather than trust his memory, the sergeant pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it. After a moment's study, he found the passage he was seeking. "And Mrs. Brown declared at the top of her lungs, 'You miserable, sleazy, vixen, I can make a roscoe and I will make one for you!"

The inspector shook his head slightly. "What a peculiar thing to say. She didn't go after her husband?"

"No. Apparently she's heard rumors in the past and confronted him. He has her convinced that he is an innocent charmer. That there is something about him that causes women to flip. And that he actually tries to resist. After another comment about her flowered sheets and after her husband got out of the closet and pulled himself together, she actually led him off to their bedroom, comforting him like he was an injured child."

"What do you suppose they did in the bedroom?" the inspector questioned.

"I don't know, but they didn't come out again. The guests lingered on and had a couple more drinks. There was an electric atmosphere, heightened conversation. Ms. Barker went about her business as if nothing had happened. I mean, after a minute or two you wouldn't have known anything had happened."

"Ah, to be so sophisticated. Or is it cool? But, the roscoe, Sergeant. What about the roscoe?"

"Good point. This almost floored me. It seems Mrs. Brown has what amounts to a small machine shop in part of the garage. She makes guns. I mean she can really make them from blocks of metal, stock you can buy from any metal wholesaler. And she is very good at it. She is meticulous. She could easily make a pistol."

"And if she could make one," the inspector mused, "she could destroy one."

"Damn right. She could turn it down to steel shavings on her lathe, or shaper. There would be no problem there." "But this seems an unlikely specter, a woman who makes guns. Why does she do it?"

"Just a hobby. Her father had a machine shop. A big one. She got interested in antique guns, muzzle loaders. She moved from there to miniatures. She can make a miniature of anything you can name. There's a big call for them. They have conventions where they display them. It's a regular association."

"But has she ever made a modern weapon. Say the type that was used in the Barker killing?"

"Not that I can find out. But she has the know-how."

"And she made the threat. Have you talked to her?"

"No. That's why I'm here. Should I bring her in?"

The inspector almost flinched. This is what his job was. To decide what to do about a wealthy doctor's wife who had threatened to shoot a young lady who had subsequently been shot. What if they questioned her? There would be a shyster making big bucks advising her to keep her mouth shut. She had the motive, but did she have the opportunity?

"We'll let this bird fly for now, Sergeant. See if you can find out where she was the night of the murder. Then, too, she can make the weapon and maybe even make the firing mechanism, but I don't think she could make the ammo. A sporting goods store, or a hardware store, probably the one closest to her house, or maybe one gun nuts use. She could create the gun, use the gun and destroy the gun, but she had to have bullets for the gun--if there was a gun."

"If there was a roscoe."

"Yes, if there was a roscoe."

When Schultz was gone, Travis pulled out his case paper and wrote: Sylvia Brown, wife of Dr. J.D. Brown. Jealous, threatened to make a "Roscoe" and use it on Sue Barker.

The inspector sat back in his chair and studied the list of suspects. So many possibilities, and building. But a motive for murder? Not a back alley slaying, but one that was certain to attract attention. Not a bum's body pulled from the French Broad, but a well-monied society chick. It seemed to him it would take a formidable motive. A desire for her death so intense, so extreme that the murderer might be blinded by the emotion. A hatred, or not a hatred, a need so acute that thoughts of personal danger and ultimate punishment would at least temporarily be put aside. A crime of passion? There was a party. Could the situation similar to the one at the Brown's have developed? Possibly, but maybe no. There was something premeditated, something coolly planned about a single bullet into the right temple. If this was a crime of passion in hot blood, Travis thought, the killer has been damned lucky up 'til now.

With a sigh, he was about to return the mayor's call, when Mae buzzed. She had gotten someone at the law firm.

"Inspector Travis here."

"Fred Tyner of Patterson & Patterson, Incorporated. I'm returning your call."

"Yes, Mr. Tyner, I'm calling about the murder of Sue Barker. Actually I wanted to speak with Mr. Patterson. I understand the dead woman was his client. Are there two Mr. Pattersons?"

"No, Sir. There was, but the father's been dead for some time. J. Frank Patterson heads the firm. But I'm the one you want to talk to. Mr. Patterson asked me to handled the details."

"You're a partner in the firm?"

"Oh, no Sir. I'm a law clerk in the firm. I've only been here a couple of months."

"You were a friend of Miss Barker?"

"Never met her, although she's here with me now."

"She's there with you now?" Travis questioned.

"Yes, I have her ashes in a can on my desk. A very nice container, I'll add."

Travis sat back in his chair and studied the ceiling. The firm's most junior clerk had been assigned to talk with authorities about the murder. "Are you certain she's inside?" he questioned.

"Don't know. Haven't looked."

"What if you did look? How would you be certain it was her?"

"Well, I don't know. The package came by messenger service. Her name was on it. But I really don't know what to do with it."

"There are laws about the disposal of human remains, Mr. Tyner. I'd be a little careful if I were you."

"I'm just a clerk."

"And I'm just a police inspector. As far as I'm concerned you have those remains in your possession and you're the responsible party. But tell me, did the victim, Miss Barker, have a will?"

"I'm not privy to that information, Inspector."

"I understand she was still receiving money from her dead father's estate. Do you have that will?"

"Certainly not. Your talking confidential stuff. I'm not even a lawyer."

"But you said you were handling details of the case. Just what details are you handling?"

"Taking phone calls. There have been several. Just reporters up until now."

"And what have you told them?"

"Nothing of course. This is a law firm. You know our stuff is secret. We wouldn't want people to know what we're doing. Besides, I don't know anything. I usually only do filing."

"You seem to be the ideal person for the job to which you've been assigned. However, I think I'd better talk directly to Mr. Patterson."

"I just don't think that's possible, Inspector. Maybe if you wrote a letter."

With patience running thin, Travis said, "I don't have to write a letter. This is a murder investigation."

"You don't understand how busy Mr. Patterson is. He just returned from Chicago. And in a day or two he plans to leave for Europe. He's an important man."

"Murder, too, is important. Why don't you trot over to Mr. Patterson's office and tell him I'd like to speak to him?" There was mounting anger in Travis' voice.

"You just don't walk into Mr. Patterson's office, Sir. Or, at least, I don't. To be frank, I've never met the man. This is a big operation. Honestly, I can't help you get to him. I don't know how you can get through."

"You could take a note to his office, couldn't you?"

"I suppose I could do that."

"And give it to his secretary?" "Yes, I could do that."

"OK, write this down. Detective Inspector Langley Travis would like to talk with you about the Sue Barker murder. She was a client of yours. If I don't hear from you very soon I will make my request through the city attorney's office and the courts. I believe you have evidence that could be vital to the successful conclusion of this case." Travis talked very slowly, pausing between each word. "Do you have that?"

"Yes, every word. I'll take it right away, Sir."

"Fine. You might mention to his secretary that your firm has already stalled me on this one, so I'm expecting a quick answer.".

"Yes, Sir."

Travis hung up and called the mayor. It was the same old story from the mayor's office. Would there be an arrest soon? If not, why? Travis did his best to soothe Cotton Jones' ruffled feathers, then tossed in that a lawyer named J. Frank Patterson seemed to be road blocking the case. "He was the girl's attorney and for all practical purposes served as her family. He has papers, background, the estate's money and up until now he seems to be obstructing justice."

"That's a serious charge, Lang," Jones fired back. "Patterson is big time. Corporate law, a national practice. He's not your typical court house hack: You'd better walk softly."

"He's stonewalling, Cotton. I'm going to the city prosecutor to get paper on this. I might even go public. Reporters do ask questions."

"That would be rash, Lang. Give me a few hours. I know Patterson. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. He probably doesn't even know Sue Barker was his client. You know how those big firms are. No one knows what's going on."

"If you say so, Cotton. But no action by tomorrow morning, I'm coming down on Patterson with everything I've got."

"He's got a flock of sharp lawyers on his side, Lang. He'd make our city prosecutor look sick."

"Cotton," Travis protested. "This is America, equal justice, a fair trial for all. Don't tell me that some folks are more equal than others?"

"Give me a few hours, Lang. Patterson will open up. He's got nothing to hide."

"Sunup, Cotton."

After hanging up, Travis thought the place he should go is up on the ridge to see Dr. J.D. Brown's wife, Sylvia. Perhaps if he talked with her informally. His informal talk with Garvy had cleared up a few points and it had broken the ice.

Schultz called to say he had gone directly to the largest gun and ammunition dealer in town and found that Sylvia Brown was a regular. "She buys all kinds of ammo there. She has an account."

"Any of the type we're looking for?"

"Yes, and she's been getting it for years. She's well known. Very knowledgeable, the owner says she's a technical whiz with a strong feeling for guns. She's his kind of gal."

"I was hoping for just a recent purchase of .38 ammunition."

"Yes. But still, she must have boxes of the stuff at her home and probably more than one .38. I'll start checking her alibi."

"Do what you can," Travis said. "But, I think I'll drop by for a talk with her. She might say more in an informal situation."

"The owner says she has part of her basement fixed up as a firing range," Schultz said, then changed the subject. "How about that Janet Price yesterday? Suppose she's a psycho?"

"No," Travis said quietly. "Just scared, maybe angry."

"I wouldn't want to make her mad at me. That red hair means a temper on her. Nice body though, eh? A little thin, built for speed, not comfort. But the next door neighbor. The only two apartments on that floor. What an opportunity. If we could find that gun!"

"She's high on the list," Travis said, then signed off. Janet Price, Travis pondered. What to do about her? A younger woman, too young. It meant nothing, he told himself. Better let Harley handle her from here on out. And that beefy stud boy friend. What's his name? Hank. Yes, Hank. He had sex with Sue Barker. Definitely, he should be talked to. Again, Harley seemed the best type to do the job. Janet and Hank, they would alibi one another. And they both had something against the dead woman. As Schultz had said: What an opportunity.

The inspector glanced at his watch. It was a little early for lunch, but he wanted to eat early. The Limey was coming at two. He reminded himself to quit calling him the Limey. He took out his notes. Reggie Cant, music critic. Other than that just a cultured drifter and world traveler. That's all he knew. He went to the door and found Mae at her desk admiring her freshly polished nails.

"Is that Chinese place still open for lunch?"

"I suppose so. I don't eat there. You like Chinese?"

"Sometimes. An egg roll, a little rice, hot mustard. "

"Doesn't stick with you."

"I've heard. Maybe I'll drive someplace."

"Did that Janet Price come to see you last night?" The question startled Travis, then he remembered Mae had given her his address. He hoped he didn't look shocked.

"Why, yes. She had some information. She dropped by."

"I talked to her for a long time," Mae said, then added, "I like her." She tossed him a sweet smile and he closed the door.

He drove out Biltmore Avenue, crossed the Swannanoa River and grabbed a sandwich at a shopping center. It was rare roast beef on some kind of wholesome looking wheat bread, slathered with dark mustard. He drank a boxed half pint of milk then ate a wedge of kosher dill that had come with the sandwich. It tasted odd after the milk.

In the parking lot he paused to admire the sky, often a multi-faceted spectacular in the mountains. Clear to the east, a few gentle cumulus clouds, floating like happy balloons to the south, and in the northwest portends of heavier weather moving in--a line of nimbus like an advancing army.

There had been no response from Patterson's office when he returned to the office, but he hadn't expected anything rapid. Probably tomorrow. But he did expect a call. No one wanted police trouble. He made a note of Sylvia Brown's address and jammed it in his side pants pocket. He would drop by late this afternoon, or in the morning. He wanted to see her alone. Morning would be best.

Even before Reggie Cant opened his mouth, Travis guessed who he was. Of course he was standing in the office door at the appointed time, but more than that, he was a stereotype of a certain real or imagined type of Englishman. His suit was a greenish-orange and had a fuzzy glow about it. It was of the cut and quality-of suits issued to prisoners when they are released after years on the inside. Or possibly he had mailed away to Hong Kong and let the tailor guess at his measurements. The lapels were broad and the coat was belted in back. Cant's face resembled that of a horse, the nose being the major feature. His complexion was ruddy, his hair reddish and thinning and combed straight back. He seemed to have a squint in his left eye. He wore a turtleneck pullover and his feet were shod in ancient tennis shoes which were enjoying the final stages of deterioration. Travis rose from behind his desk and stood silently examining his visitor.

"Well jolly-o," Cant bubbled, "you are the detective inspector and I am the cowering suspect, plucked untimely from among the lesser criminal element."

Travis smiled. There was something very likeable about Cant. "No need to cower, or at least hold it to a minimum. I'm Inspector Travis." He extended his hand

"Champion. Reggie Cant. Delighted to make your acquaintance. This is a slice of life I savor. The lengthy arm of the law grasping wretched brigands and placing their evil necks on the headsman's block. Whacko-the-derry-o. Justice is served."

"A little dramatic, but I guess we do something along those lines. Have a seat, Mr. Cant. And thanks for coming in."

"Cheerfully, I come. I didn't want to be pinched in my digs and led off in shackles, you know. Jolly-o, what would the nosy neighbor's say. That would set them gabbling, what."

"I'm sure. We try to be as sedate as possible. Tell me, Mr. Cant, are you employed?"

"Gainfully, I suppose you mean. The bit of music critiquing I pull off for the old mag hardly puts bread in the larder. I pick up a few bob helping out at a shop on Merrimon. Fresh Market to be precise."

"You work at the Fresh Market?"

"I'll say so. It's a jovial lot, that. I sack the victuals."

"You're a bag boy?"

"I believe that's the technical name for the task. I say, you aren't working hand in glove with immigration, are you? My goose might be cooked."

"Not to worry. This is strictly a murder investigation. We either hang you, or set you free. If you're picking up a buck or two by working illegally, I won't nail you. I don't think you're depriving a head of a household of a job."

"Hardly. I earn enough for the odd pint. I do have money from home."

Travis wondered if Cant's family might be paying him to take a permanent vacation abroad, although he was enjoying the meeting.

"But, to the point, Mr. Cant, the `Sue Barker murder. Can you shed any light on it?"

"Jolly-o, you want me to solve the confounded mystery, unknot the naughty knot, eh? Hmmmm. Would you consider chalking it up to self destruction? Suicide, don't you know."

"Under the circumstances, I'm not buying, although the rumor has been floated. You were in the crowd, you're a nearby resident, you worked with Barker, you were even at the final party. It seems to me you might know something."

Cant was pensive. "I did know her well. She did have enemies, you know. A bird like that--lovely and affluent--makes as many enemies as friends. But I've scoured my skull. I simply can't conceive of anyone pulling the trigger. Sorry to be a wet blanket."

"It's been suggested that you were among her enemies. True?"

"Jolly-o. I could be in a bit of a binder. Sue and I, you might call it love-hate. She was a toff, you know." Travis thought Cant might be overdoing the British role. The word "toff" was unfamiliar.

"Toff," he repeated, "is that short for 'toffee nose'?"

"Heavens no. She was actually a down-to-earth sort of soul. I've rung her up to chat more than once. In that respect we were the best of friends. We'd both traveled considerably, shared individually certain experiences, had common ground you might say. But she was a toff and it wasn't just the money and education. There was something downright regal about her, her carriage, the way she held her head, a nuance don't you know. That's all credit to her account. But the dark side. There was a sinister mean current slinking through her blood stream. Sue could be snake cruel without the bat of an eyelid." Cant seemed to pause for effect before adding the final sentence. "If she had power over you, you could expect no mercy."

"And did she have power over you?" the inspector asked.

"Bet your bloody bum she did not. If she had, I would have sound cause to do her in. Justifiable homicide. But as it stands, I'm an innocent new-born lamb."

"Did you ever threaten, or hint that you might kill

her?"

A look of distaste crossed Cant's face. "To my deep regret and eternal sorrow, I may have let certain tasteless words slip. I go strong a bit when I've got my nose in the third pint. I tend to talk eighteen to the dozen. No one listens to me. Why should you?"

"I'm afraid it's my job when a murder is involved. Just what did you let slip?"

"I daresay, you'll consider it childish and take it at face value. Barroom talk, cocktail chatter. I daresay there are witnesses, so no value in mucking about. Often, I've said I'd like to experience everything in the world. Every sensation, slake every thirst and appetite. I often get into that form of talk mode when I'm quenching my genuine thirst with malt beverages, or better. I said, now the booze talking, that murder, a slaying, would be a top drawer experience. Jolly-o, there must be enough small wars around the globe where a chap can get his rations of slaughter. But one does it, in a case like that, in dire peril. So, pint in hand, I suppose I said a less difficult route would be to kill someone close at hand who richly deserved the favor--Sue Barker, the deceased." Cant made a slight nodding bow.

"You have then at least suggested that it might be a sought-after experience for you to murder Miss barker?"

"Exactly. But strictly madcap talk in the context outlined."

"And you had reason to dislike the victim?

"Not personally, Inspector. For her treatment of others. Janet Price for example. A do with her gentleman friend."

"I understand she called you a Limey?"

"Rawther. But not a Limey, The Limey, a nickname you see. There's a shade of difference."

"You found the nickname offensive?"

"To the contrary, Mon Inspector, a nickname is an asset, particularly to a rover like myself in need of companionship. Sue did me a dithering good turn when she saddled me with a sobriquet. I am indebted."

"I see. Do you own a gun, Mr. Cant?"

"Never have. They're bloody frightening, but so are knives. Sue had her bosom companion though. I suppose you have that piece under lock and key."

Travis passed his hand over his forehead. He hated to ask what a bosom companion was, but he decided he better anyway. He did.

"A small weapon, a deadly pistol of some kind," Cant said. "She kept it in her cleavage and called it her bosom companion. She got to drinking those smashing greyhounds one night at the office, seemed to be a festive occasion. Seems she had a problem of sorts with one of the chaps from her hotel, a bloody workman. At any rate, she had somehow resolved the issue and was well pleased. The lot of us were up there. Work dissolved into drink, a dampish evening. She pulled this little piece and fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling. A crowd grabber, I must say."

"Was it a revolver?"

"I'm not a cognoscenti, Inspector, also I was dissipating with the rest. Stood there she did with her dazzling smile, then laughed and chucked the gun into the corner.

Said she didn't want anything interfering with her bustline, although she didn't use just those words."

"Then what?"

"What? Jolly-o. I suppose she lifted another glass. I know I did."

"But did she recover the weapon? Did you see what happened to it?"

"I suppose Garvy took it. She's the major domo, don't you know."

"You don't think Barker recovered it then?"

Cant thought a moment. "She discarded the gun as one might toss rubbish into a dust bin. There was finality. She had reason to carry it, the reason ended. I daresay, that's the skivvy. There was some talk to that end."

"No one thought that her action was unusual? Drawing a gun, blasting twice at the ceiling, throwing the weapon away?"

"Jolly-o. I get your point, but context is everything. That group in that setting. Everyone a dithering fool, letting down. Vintage stuff, that. Then Sue had this way about her."

"You said regal."

"Precisely. A crown would have set well on her pretty head. She could make the slightest act seem a noble gesture."

"And she could be cruel," Travis prompted.

"Afraid so. An exquisite flower floating in sewage."

"You sound as if you may have loved her very much?" Travis asked gently. He thought he caught the glint of a tear in the Brit's eye.

"Of course."

"Perhaps I'll have more questions later," Travis said.

"I'll be available." Cant got to his feet and left the office without looking back.

For a long time Travis sat staring at the wall. Then he drew the single sheet from his lap drawer, and puzzled over what to write next to Reggie Cant's name. Finally he wrote: Love/Hate--capable of murder." Then he called the manager of Fresh Market and asked that a copy of Cant's job application be sent to him in confidence.

**Chapter 8**

It was not nearly quitting time, but Travis was tired. The night before was beginning to tell. He drove home, took a long shower in his metal stall, pulled on his pajamas, climbed into bed and was asleep almost instantly. The sun had set when he woke, but he had a feeling it wasn't late. A tug at the lamp chain, his watch revealed eight forty-five.

He pulled on a pair of trousers and a pair of felt slippers and padded down the wide staircase. A dim lamp illuminated the hall. Pausing, he listened. No noises. The large door was open to the broad porch and a soft autumn breeze came through the screen. Perhaps Kip and Sandy were shopping, or out for dinner. Probably no guests were expected. He walked onto the porch. A light by the street lit a single small tree, dark branches stark, leaves like golden coins in a pool on the ground. He re-entered the house and turned on the lights in the common living room.

He sat on the couch in front of the huge field stone fireplace, his feet on the black, glossy pelt of a bearskin rug, its glass eyes gleaming amber, its teeth glistening ivory. There had been cheerful times in this room. Kip's fire in winter and Sandy offered cheap three-liter jugs, usually Chablis--when the divergent guests returned from the many nearby ski slopes in winter, or trooped in from color tours in the fall, or returned from hiking, golfing, or white-watering on the Nantahala or French Broad. Or at Christmas, after a visit to the lavishly decorated Biltmore Estate or Grove Park.

Sandy had not neglected the room's decor: A deer head , a hand-painted saw, primeval Victrola with hand crank, with a huge horn speaker, half a duck and two whole duck decoys, a china closet ceramic bells, an immense collection of pencil sharpeners in various shapes, a wooden model canoe and some early iron trucks.

There were two gold ceramic ducks, four hanging plants, a blue-patterned couch and love seat set, shelf fungus, a thimble collection in a shadow box, pictures of mules and snowy cabins, an ancient photo album (circa 1880), a small table supported by old farm implements, two lamps made from flat irons, a huge black iron cauldron, plus a smaller pot and tea kettle--these were some of the items. A phalanx of Smithsonian curators would be hard pressed to inventory all the items in the huge old house and adjacent carriage house.

The house remained quiet. A car paused at the intersection, turned and moved on. Somewhere down the block someone laughed. A car door banged. A throaty diesel horn sounded in the distance.

Travis was a little hungry. He was eating spaghetti cold from the can with a plastic fork when a soft tap sounded on his closed door.

"OK," he said.

Enter Janet Price carrying a super large handbag and dressed in yet another frock with the look of hand looming about it. On her feet were things that appeared to have been made by Eskimos. The soft leather and thongs rose above the ankle, exposing only an inch or so of bare flesh below her long-skirt.

"This place is like a barn. Is it haunted?" She smiled and put her bag down.

"I don't think so."

"I didn't see anyone else. The front door's open. Your room's unlocked. I hope you have your gun handy."

"I lock it up when I come home."

"That's the only thing that seems to be locked up. Are you going to light a fire?"

"I really haven't given it much thought. Are you cold?" He wondered why she had come back, although he wasn't displeased. There was a feeling of foreboding. This road he knew was fraught with pitfalls.

"I like a fire. I have a surprise. Two surprises, I think. If you do a fire, I'll do my first surprise." Travis wondered if the surprise involved removing her wearing apparel. He set about making a fire and she took things from the large bag and placed them on the table. Tendrils of flame enveloped the splintered kindling and lapped at the larger wood. "I've done my part," she said, taking a chair.

"Here," she proffered a long stemmed glass, glistening, it's clear liquid content icy. "Martini."

"Good God, I haven't had one in fifteen years. I didn't know people still tortured themselves."

"Don't you like them?" She faked a pout.

"Love 'em. But they're devastating. Really should drink one before you eat."

"I see you've already dined and elegantly." She jabbed a thumb toward the spaghetti can, the plastic fork handle protruding.

He took the martini from her hand and smiled. "Here's a smile," lifting his glass lightly. They both sipped, the firelight playing on the long-stemmed glasses and blending with her hair. "You have a way of making a person feel good," he observed.

"I want to make you feel good."

"You also have a boyfriend, Hank."

"Not so steady. Not anymore." She hesitated, then said, "I'm a free person. I can make my choices. You're mature."

"Like your father." He took a sip and it tasted even better, then gazed at the fire.

"I never slept with my father."

"I commend you for your forbearance."

"You like me?"

He didn't know if it was a question, or a statement. "Our brief affair should probably be just that. And there still might be cause for regret."

"You mean the investigation?"

"That could be an important factor. Could be."

"That's my second surprise. Incidentally, there's a quart canning jar full of martini. Anyway, the investigation's over. The killer is in jail."

"Don't I wish," Travis said.

"Truly. Mae said you lead a monkish life."

"I can't picture her using the word 'monkish."'

"She said hermit, but it's the same thing. No TV, no radio. Or at least you don't use one. Phone unplugged half the time."

"I sometimes watch TV downstairs. `Anyway, what's this about jail?"

"It was a special press conference tagged onto the six O'clock news. Mayor Jones personally announced the arrest of the killer of Sue Barker. How does that sit?"

"Bittersweet, I guess. I'm glad, of course, if it's true. But I had theories. Especially motive. The strings. You draw the strings together. There are a lot of strings here."

"Puppetmaster," she interjected.

"Ha," he said, then continued. "And time is a factor. Time, the enemy. But sometime, time, the friend. Twin edged." The martini was getting a grip on him. "Damn, the motive. This one, this case, is heavy with motive. Did the Mayor say why?"

Travis drained his glass and Janet hefted the jar in two cupped hands and gave him a refill. Then she leaned forward and tossed a piece of wood on the fire. "A man is in jail and he signed a confession witnessed by three top cops--including the Chief."

"There you go, a man. Anyone I know?" The glass went to his lips and half the liquid vanished. "Aren't we supposed to have an olive, or small onions in this debauchery?"

"Only if the heart is impure." She seemed to glow in the half light, from pleasant to radiant--no surly Appalachian miss, this. Two hearts joined in one martini jug.

Travis emptied his glass again and stopped just short of dashing it into the fireplace. There were better uses. He asked almost rhetorically: "What of the motive and what of the culprit?

Janet replied solemnly: "The Mayor, Cotton Jones, stated that the lawless one, the remorseless killer, asserted that God told him to do it. He was under marching orders from a higher authority." She replenished his glass and her own while Travis struggled to keep from laughing.

"Am I wrong?" he asked. "Is said killer a drifter with no fixed address?"

"Exactly! How perceptive."

He placed a hand on her knee. "I think the Almighty wants us to share this night for there is surely work tomorrow."

"As sure as sunshine follows the gloom," she agreed. "Mayor Jones has his moments."

"He looked impressive before the cameras. Like a wrathful angel of the Lord."

"Amen. I wouldn't be surprised if you told me he had the prisoner chained to a nearby post, or possibly pilloried. Say, what's in this drink?"

"Gin."

"A perfect martini." He held up his glass and admired it before the fire "And a magic night."

"Can you put the screen in front of the fire and drag me toward the bed?"

The two of them floundered across the floor and clamored aboard the large round bed. "I thought," Janet whispered, "if the case was solved our relationship might take a turn."

"In a round bed, I suspect you're right."

Again, Janet was gone when Travis stirred from the bed. Although modern blades make the feat almost impossible, he managed to cut himself while shaving. After patching a small piece of toilet paper over the wet crimson wound he vowed never to touch another martini. He began to worry about his budding relationship with Janet, then decided to put it out of his mind. There were other concerns.

An immediate one was Sandy waiting in the warm kitchen below to make some remark about how he occupied his time during the night. But possibly she would take another approach and say nothing. Deciding not to chance it, he left by the large front door, kept clear of the house by walking on the lawn and made good his escape.

When he turned from the driveway onto the street he saw Sandy in the open door, waving to him. He gave her the thumbs up sign and forced a jaunty smile having robbed her of her morning's diversion.

He breakfasted with the morning paper at Bojangles. Sure enough, there was the story on page one: Barker Murder Solved--Mayor. The story read: "The murder of society-playgirl Sue Barker was said solved last night after police arrested a 56-year-old street person who said, 'God told me to do it.'

"Mayor Cotton Jones announced the break in the murder of the New York heiress at a hastily called evening news conference.

"The man being held was identified as Charles T. Dorval, home-at-large. Dorval is a well known Asheville street character who earns a few dollars a week by salvaging cans and bottles which he stores in a grocery cart." From there the story went into details of Barker's background, then back to Dorval and finally a few self serving remarks by the mayor. But Travis quit reading and addressed himself to his food. He knew Dorval very well. In fact some years ago he had arrested the man.

Dorval was a trash picker who sometimes picked up things that weren't in the trash. He had a record of arrests, mostly petty thefts, but Travis was certain that Dorval was not a killer, nor was he getting, or carrying out orders sent from on high. He expected the man would be back on the street, pushing his cart through the city by mid morning.

He had planned to go directly to Sylvia Brown's home first and talk to her about the flowered sheets incident. First he called the office and asked Lieutenant Swafford to enlist Schultz's help in checking on Dorval. He was treated to a colorful summation of Swafford's opinion of the mayor, then informed that the two men had already started work on the project.

Doctor and Mrs. Brown's home was an architectural delight. It was dug partly into the slope and in complete harmony with the mountain. The back and garage area faced the road. A magnificent view of the valley below and the mountains beyond, plus the busy sky, was afforded by the huge windows in front. Below the windows, opening from a lower story burrowed into the mountain was a large patio, a sheer drop at its front balustrade.

The door was answered by a tall, slender woman wearing faded brown corduroy trousers and a plaid cotton shirt. She had a fine, strong chin and nose, her hair was dark,

streaked with grey. She wore it in a pair of heavy braids that reached just below the front of her shoulders.

"I'm Detective Inspector Travis," he said flatly.

"I'm Sylvia Brown." She thrust her hand forward in a mannish gesture. "It's a pleasure to meet you, and I mean that. I know you by reputation. I think I've been expecting your visit. I'm glad the top dog came." She smiled and motioned him into the house.

She led him into the kitchen which had a bright, sunny window, also overlooking the valley. He took a chair and she walked to the counter. "How about coffee?"

"I'd love it. I really didn't expect such a welcome. But I can't say I'm not pleased. Some people think we have a personal interest in our work. I don't mean that we don't work hard, but that we enjoy arresting people, or watching people suffer. I think the opposite is probably true."

"I'm not much on philosophy, but I'm a law and order kind of person. I'd fight for my country and I'd fight for my land and I'd fight for my man. But I didn't gun down that little bitch, if that's what you're thinking." She spoke the words cheerfully and set two steaming cups of coffee on the hard maple table. Then she took a seat.

"I suppose that's a confession of sorts--that you didn't do it. You said you know why I'm here, and I'm sure you do. You made certain threats. So, to the point, do you have an alibi for the night and early morning of the murder?"

She took a spoonful of sugar, then shook a little of it back in the bowl. "You care for cream? Of course we use milk."

"Sure."

She got the plastic jug from the refrigerator. "I was home. Did a little reading, watched a little TV, had a couple of drinks, maybe even fired off a few rounds. I have a range in the basement. I suppose you know that, too."

He nodded in the affirmative. "Your husband was here with you?"

"He's seldom home at night, Inspector. Or during the day for that matter. A doctor's life is not his own. I suppose you've heard that before."

"Yes, I have."

"Well, it's a pile of shit. I know about his women. But he does get tired and he does work hard. We have a certain accommodation. I have my guns and other toys and he has his work, which is all inclusive. But anyway, I won't burden you, he wasn't here."

"Did you make any phone calls or go out for a loaf of bread?"

"Nope, I'm sorry. Neither did I go out for a killing."

"And you own a .38 revolver?"

"Revolver. Automatic. What have you. I have guns." She threw up her hands and said the last word with gusto, her voice rising. "Guns!" Her talk was a bit mannish and so were some of her movements, but otherwise she was a very feminine woman, attractive. She had a country club look about her.

"I understand you told Miss Barker that you can make a weapon?"

"Yes, I did. We were all a little drunk. I hope you'll allow for that. That's the delicate balance of entertaining, to get a little drunk, but not shit faced. But aren't you whipping a dead animal? Hasn't the case been solved?"

"I read that in the paper this morning. Sometimes these confessions prove to be invalid."

"Huh," she threw her head back and laughed. "I thought as much. I do know Cotton Jones. The man is a social climber and a glory hound. I'm sure he'll be back on the tube proclaiming the release of an innocent man, like the angel of justice and fair play."

"That's not unlikely. Meanwhile the investigation continues, and."

"And I'm a major suspect," she interjected. "But, really, Inspector, my husband has frequent affairs. I can prove that in court. He can't even be true to his girl friends for more than a few hours. Why in the world would I expect him to be faithful to me?"

"But this blow up seemed major. You threatened the girl, then you led him off into the bedroom and didn't come out. The guests finally left."

"We made love."

The admission startled Travis. "What?" he asked.

"Sex. We had sex. Best night we've had in months, maybe years. I was thinking about inviting the girl back."

"I see," Travis said, not wanting to pursue the topic. "What about the blow up? A witness said you screamed something about them doing it on the flowered sheets."

"That's just it, Inspector. It was the flowered sheets. It wasn't what they were doing. It was the sheets. I grew up with those sheets. My mother passed them on to me. I was suddenly furious when I saw them on those sheets. It hit me like a thunderbolt. I can't explain it now."

Travis looked out the window at the distant mountains. Up here you could see an approaching storm when it was still miles off. The coffee was mellow and good. As screwy as it was, Mrs. Brown's story sounded logical to him. The witnesses were in agreement that she did freak out over the sheets. Then she led her husband off.

"Your story has the ring of truth to it, but many stories do."

"Good, I'm glad we got that out of the way." She became even cheerier.

"It's not laid to rest, Mrs. Brown. I merely said your story sounds OK. There are a lot of very sincere murderers in this world."

"OK. So the investigation goes forward. You have other suspects?"

"There is no shortage of suspects. The girl had a way of keeping things stirred up."

"She was beautiful,'' Mrs. Brown marveled. "You should have seen her there on the flowered sheets with J.D. mounted on top of her. Looked like an ad for Better Homes and Gardens. Did you ever see her when she was alive?"

"No, but for the life of me I can't understand how two people can squeeze onto a linen closet shelf."

"You've never seen my closet, Inspector. It's a walk-in and the shelves are like bunk beds. One thing I insist on in a house is adequate storage."

"I see. For the record, maybe I should have a look at your weapon collection. Would you mind?"

"Mind? Are you kidding? There's no one that I'd rather show them to. J.D. doesn't give a damn about guns. Come on." She led the way through a door and down a flight of stairs, then took a key from her pocket and unlocked a heavy door. There were firearms everywhere. A wooden rack along the wall held rifles and shotguns. A glass case housed handguns. Gun books filled a large set of shelves. Gun magazines were spread on a coffee table in front of a comfortable couch. There were boxes of shells, targets, a couple of shooting jackets and some cleaning apparatus.

She pointed out a gun case and said it was unlocked.

Travis opened the case. There were four .38 revolvers and two automatics. He wondered if he should have them checked. It would be a burden on the department's facilities. And if Brown had shot Barker, the gun wouldn't be here. It would be destroyed, buried, or drowned in some lake or river. "Nice collection. You have good taste. Why so many?"

"I'm an impulse buyer. We gun nuts. We like the feel of them, the heft. We clean them, mother them. Sometimes we trade. Do you need a gun? You can take your pick."

The offer surprised him. He knew it wasn't a bribe. She was a strange woman. "Wouldn't be right," he answered. "Anyway, I have a perfectly good .38. I clean it, but I don't mother it."

"Maybe someone should mother you."

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just thought you might want to squeeze off a few rounds in my range. It's next door." She led him into the next room. It was well lit and much bigger than he would have imagined. She read his thoughts. "It's dug deep into the mountain. I'm something of a survivalist, too. You can fire any weapon in here and it won't be heard from the road. You can do anything you want to in here. Anything. And no one will know."

"Thanks for the offer, but I never carry extra ammo. Anyway, I fire at the police range. I'm not in love with guns."

"You should carry a few extra rounds. You might need them." She led the way back into the next room and took a seat on the couch. He dropped into a nearby chair.

"Believe it or not, a policeman can spend an entire career and never fire a shot at a suspect. Just practice. It often happens."

She smiled and asked. "And has that happened to you?"

Travis almost scowled. "That's something I don't want to discuss."

"You don't have to be shy with me, Inspector. I told you I was pleased to meet you. I know about you. I've followed your career. I'm not much younger than you are. The gun people herein town know about you and we admire you."

"I'm pleased to hear that. But, I'm sure the admiration is not entirely justified. I'm just a cop doing his job."

She set her chin and said, "You've killed four men. Gunned down four men at different times in your career."

Travis stared at her hard for a long minute. What she said was true, but few people were bold enough to bring it up to his face. She had nerve, this one. "If I did," he replied softly, "it was in the line of duty. Unavoidable you might say."

"You might," she smiled. "How do you suppose it sounds. Four men killed at different times. Each time unavoidable."

"It's true though, but I really don't want to go into it. I've other matters on my mind."

"I just wanted you to know that I knew. And that I respect you for it. You're a killer. You've got the guts of a killer, the guts to use the guns that I only play with. Don't you see how different that is? How grand? What I wouldn't give if I could have stood beside you while you were just shooting one of those people."

Her words came quickly, machine gun like. Travis was embarrassed and sorry they were in this closed room in the basement. Perhaps he could get up and lead the way up the stairs. "Killing a human being isn't exactly a grand experience."

"Bullshit. Those men deserved to die. Everyone of them. I've read every word that was printed. Don't be so modest. You're a hero. You know that?"

He nodded, no. "Not a hero. Just a dumb cop who got in the wrong situation."

She moved from the couch to his chair. She was kneeling beside him with her hand on his leg. "I want to make love to you. I want to have an affair. You're the only kind of man I'm interested in. A bold killer. We can do it on the couch right here, right now."

He got to his feet and brushed her away. "Mrs. Brown I'm a police officer conducting an investigation. I'm not anything else but that. Even if I wanted to, it would be unseemly."

She stood back and lowered her head. "I didn't ask you to marry me. I guess I'm too ugly and old to interest you."

"Don't play hurt. You know damned well you're younger than me and very attractive. It's just that I could never, I mean I shouldn't ever do such a thing with a suspect. And you are a suspect and I am an investigating police officer." He hoped he sounded sincere. Thinking back over the night with Janet, it was difficult for him to find the right words. Finally, he blurted, "Anyway, you're married. That should be all the reason you need not to do something crazy."

"Married. Yes, I'm married to a two-timing son of a bitch who would like to see me have an affair. It would please him. Ease his conscience." She had walked so close that he could feel her warm body. She was looking up, almost imploringly, into his eyes. He wondered if she was promiscuous too.

"If he's a such a son of a bitch, you can punish him by being true. Load him with guilt, maybe he'll get an ulcer." He headed for the door.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know that, lady. Consider my position. Maybe I'll take a raincheck when everything's cleared away."

"I'll accept that," she said calmly. "In fact I'll hold you to it. Sure you don't want to squeeze off a few with me before you go."

"I'm expected at the office. They may file a missing report on me" In the car, driving back down from the ridge, Travis had ample time to consider and regret his "raincheck" remark. It had definitely been a major spur of the moment error. His life had been fairly routine, actually hum drum, since the death of his wife. The fact was he had few contacts. The office, his room, and restaurants, mostly fast food. The Barker case was turning everything upside down.

He continued to ponder the raincheck commitment. If he was a man of honor, could he honor his commitment and retain his honor. But if he violated his commitment and failed to violate she to whom he was committed, would he have violated his honor. Then again, if he violated she who theoretically held the raincheck, he would be violating her marriage, thus dishonoring the pair of them. There seemed little honor in any direction. Events were leading to a pretty pass.

Then the theoretical reared its unsightly head. What if in the interim he made a commitment to another person, for example Garvy, would he be violating that commitment by violating Mrs. Brown, thus honoring his initial commitment? It was akin to a tree falling in the forest. Then, this too, who ever heard of violating someone called Mrs. Brown. It seemed so stand offish, perhaps British. Finally, Travis ruled he didn't have to worry about that on this fine day. At any rate, a pragmatic approach was in order.

**Chapter 9**

At the office, there was a note on his desk. J. Frank Patterson had called. The mayor's office must have gotten to him.

While Mae was returning the call, Travis pulled the sheet of paper from his lap drawer and pondered the name of Sylvia Brown. Odd how the real thing could differ from reported impressions. He had thought of her as a fastidious, fussy housewife, jealous of her husband in the extreme. The flesh and blood model was in sharp contrast. He finally wrote: Capable of murder, handy with weapons, no alibi. Travis picked up his buzzing phone and identified himself.

"Inspector this is J. Frank Patterson. I've been trying to get through to you. I understand you want to talk with me."

"Yes, I do, Mr. Patterson. I'm investigating the murder of Sue Barker."

"It was devastating to hear of that death, Inspector. She was a beautiful child. I knew her well. We looked after her financial affairs here at the firm. I knew her father and her grandfather. How can I help you?" Patterson's voice was deep and sympathetic. Travis guessed this was one of the high powered law firms that would cost big bucks just to gain entry. He could imagine thick carpets and global connections. "Now that you've got the criminal under lock and key, I suppose the investigation will wind down."

"Let's say we're not certain we have the right man. As a lawyer you can understand that. Meanwhile the case goes on. Anything you might know that could shed light on the murder would be of help."

"I'm afraid I know little of her current lifestyle. I don't know who her friends were, or exactly what she was doing, even though we lived in the same town. You might know that although her family roots are here, even her grandfather left North Carolina as a young man. We continued to represent the family in personal matters, but the homebase and business interests were New York with extensive dealings in Europe. I actually hadn't seen Sue for months."

"Exactly when did you see her last?" Travis asked. He had a plastic pointed pen in hand and had doodled a chicken standing on an alligator. Now he sketched a cigaret in the chicken's mouth and gave the alligator a baseball cap. "Let me see, I believe it was after Christmas. Last January I suppose. She had come back from Europe and dropped by..."

"And seemed normal?"

"And seemed perfectly normal. Of course that was months ago. My secretary might know the exact date if it's important."

"No. Probably not. Have you corresponded, or been on the phone with her recently?"

"No. No personal contact. Any routine inquiry she might have. Any favor she might ask, she'd go through my secretary. If there was any problem she'd probably work through another member of the firm. Of course, I'm always available to handle any serious matter."

"Miss Barker was an orphan?"

"Yes. I believe her mother died in childbirth. Her father was killed in an explosion in a London department store. He never knew his daughter."

"What kind of explosion?"

"Terrorist bomb. Two or three organizations claimed credit for it."

"He was an innocent victim then?"

"Yes. Of course. He wasn't targeted, just shopping in the wrong place. Incidentally, is there any chance that the death might not be murder? Could it be suicide?"

"Mr. Patterson, have you talked with Miss Garvy?"

"Why yes, how did you know?"

"Because she seems to be the source of a couple of rumors, both unfounded. There was no weapon found. Suicide i s a little far fetched."

"She said she thought someone might have come across the body and picked up the gun."

"Why would anyone do that?"

There was a short silence on the line, then Patterson said, "Why would anyone want to kill Sue? One question is about as good as the other."

"Believe me, we're trying to get to the bottom of this thing. If it's suicide, maybe we'll be able to prove it. Who raised Miss Barker after her father died?"

"No one in particular. A series of private schools in various places. Vermont, Switzerland, Paris. She was a bright girl, a quick study. She had no problem staying, what you might say au courant."

"How did you get in touch with Miss Garvy?"

"She called me. She was in effect Sue's employer and felt she had an obligation to call someone. This law firm is the only family Sue had."

"That leads me to the real reason I called, Mr. Patterson. I need to know the financial provisions. Both her father's will and the disposition of Miss Barker's money. It could be important to the case."

"I'm afraid that material is confidential, Inspector. Much as I'd like to help."

Travis felt a spurt of anger, but kept it tightly under control. "This is a murder case, Mr. Patterson. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Sue is dead and no one can bring her back. And there is a man in jail."

"Baloney. You're a lawyer. You know you can't withhold evidence in a murder case. You can either help us voluntarily, or I'll see to it that you help us. Your choice."

"It will take some time to go through the courts, perhaps you'll settle for a letter outlining the general provisions of the wills. I do have an obligation to my clients."

"Your clients seem to be all dead. No deal. I want the authentic documents and I want them right away."

"You seem to be making demands, Inspector."

"Damn right I am. Now you tell me if you're refusing an official request from the Asheville Police Department?

Patterson's voice had been cutting. Now it sounded defensive "I offered a letter."

"You offered to throw a sop on your terms. No dice.

What do you say?"

"You know a lawyers obligation is to his clients. I really must act in their behalf. If you want to take this through the courts, I assure you, we'll be represented."

"I'm not going to the courts, Mr. Patterson, I'm going public."

"Public."

"Yes. Press conference. Miss Barker's murder has attracted nationwide attention. The press is clamoring for details. This department, Asheville P.D., is a servant of the people. We have an obligation to let them know what's going on in the case."

"I see. You're trying to embarrass me and to harm the reputation of this law firm. I, on the other hand, am merely trying to do a job for my clients. Financial matters are often sensitive."

"There's nothing wrong with being a good citizen, Mr. Patterson."

"I've always thought of myself as a good citizen. Also, some of the documents you request are in complicated financial and legal terms. I doubt you'd understand them."

"I can add two and two, and I can also read English, Mr. Patterson."

"Of course. Perhaps if you would come to my office we could go over them. How's that for a first step?"

It made sense to Travis. He was more interested in solving the murder than scoring some personal victory over Patterson. "I'll be there at two."

"I'll have to check my schedule."

"Check it, don't check it. I'll still be there at two. I can read the papers without your help. But I do want access to the entire file. And I'm serious."

"Always happy to cooperate with the law."

Travis replaced the phone and completed his doodle, a swordfish drinking a cup of coffee, or was it tea?

He was about to call Garvy when Perry Herman came bustling into his office. A yam shaped man in a pin striped double breasted suit, Herman squeezed out a living as an attorney pleading people guilty in municipal court. A persistent rumor had it that he hadn't won a case in five years, but the rumor was at least three years old. So it must be eight or nine years.

Travis had known the legal bungler for years. Herman was always a bit unkempt, his personal appearance in disarray. Dandruff covered his shoulders, stubble sprouting where he had missed part of his lower left jaw while shaving, his soiled tie was askew. He wagged a warning finger toward Travis. "You are about to make the greatest mistake of your life by freeing a heartless killer, a maniacal thug--loosing this wild beast to terrorize the honest citizens of our community."

"Christ, Perry. What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Charles T. Dorval is what I'm talking about!" The` lawyer was flushed with indignation.

The name didn't trip a lever at first, but then Travis remembered the morning paper. The mayor's big bust. "You're talking about that trash picker they locked up last night?"

"My client," Herman said almost proudly. "Believe me if you release him I will go before the bar of justice and deny the allegations and defy the alligators! There will be justice in Asheville." Herman held up a solemn finger.

"Let me get this straight. You've been hired by someone to keep this man in jail. This bum, Dorval, he doesn't have any money to pay your fee, does he?"

"He is not friendless in this cruel world, Lang. Even though a confessed murderer, there are those who stand by him. Naturally, I seek justice."

"I believe you're more interested in law than justice, but why do you want him in jail? He's been in and out many times in past years. It's certainly no knew experience. What's the story, Perry?" Travis motioned the lawyer to a chair.

Short of breath, he plumped his bulk into a chair and mopped his forehead with a soiled bandanna. "His cousin hired me, Lang. He's a neighbor. See, this Dorval is getting up in years. He doesn't want to go back in the county jail.

He's confessed. You put him away for life. The case is over. Nothing wrong with that."

"Except the real murderer remains free. Too many people are trying to solve this case the easy way. Anyway, Perry, state prison is no picnic. You realize a small federal crime could get your client into federal prison?" Travis grinned. "I hear they're like country clubs. And a truly fine class of people. No petty thieves. Big time tax evaders. Wall Street insiders. Former cabinet officers and presidential aides. And you don't have to fool around with a local cop like me. The F.B.I. will take a personal and serious interest in both of you."

"That's aright good thought, Lang." Herman rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. "By golly that's a gimcrack of an idea. Those places are like grand hotels. I believe there's one in Atlanta. What do you suppose is the smallest crime that would land a feller in a place like that?"

"I'm not here to give that sort of advice Perry. Blowing up mail boxes, or threatening the President isn't my line. I knew a counterfeiter once, used one of those copy machines. Anyway, I'm certain this Dorval will happily go back to trash picking now that he's about to be returned to society."

"I see," Herman said, struggling from the chair. He shook the inspector's hand. "It's been right nice talking with you again, Lang. I suppose Dorval is bound to be released. So I'll do my duty and drive him over to his cousin's. He can probably spend the week end there."

"Now don't do anything illegal."

"I'm a straight arrow, Lang." The attorney squared his shoulders and waddled out of the office.

Garvy answered the phone almost immediately and Travis asked her about the gun incident.

"I have the gun in a desk drawer," she said coolly. "I don't think it's the least bit important."

"I'd really like to be the judge of that," Travis said. "Is it a .38?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion. One gun looks about like another to me. It is a small gun compared to those in cowboy movies. Did you see Shane?"

Travis ignored the question. "You know you haven't cooperated very well in this case. What you've done now is almost like withholding evidence."

"Really, Inspector. Don't be childish. I've answered your questions. .You can have the gun if you like."

"You're right, I want the gun," he snapped back. "I'll send somebody after it."

"Why don't you come by at seven. Then we can have that dinner you talked about. See, I'm cooperating."

Travis felt he was being manipulated. But it would be nice to have a good dinner and a glass of wine, maybe half a carafe of wine, but absolutely, no martini. "OK, I'll pick you up at seven. Or would you rather meet somewhere?"

"No. We work a lot at night around here. Come to the top floor, the magazine office. I'll be there."

After hanging up, he confirmed that Dorval had been released, then tracked down the mayor at home to give him the news. He told Mayor Jones that the importance of a murder case can sometimes be judged by the number of lunatics who make a full confession.

Promptly at two, Travis entered the outer office of J. Frank Patterson. The law firm was housed in a converted mansion on the edge of Biltmore Forest, a posh suburb. The exterior was sedate with restrained landscaping. Inside the appointments were more opulent than he had imagined, including a signed Picasso print and an original Matisse, and this not even the great man's room. The walls were a mixture of well-rubbed paneled hardwoods, running to darker grains, and delicately patterned wallpaper. Three vases of fresh flowers were positioned around the room.

The secretary's desk was larger and more expensive looking than most Travis had seen. The woman seated behind it was dressed in a tailored hound's tooth business suit. She wore a shirt with button down collar and a loose fitting sea green tie. She rose, walked around the desk and extended her hand. "Hi, I'm Anne Leeds, Mr. Patterson's personal secretary. You're Inspector Travis, aren't you? We've been expecting you."

Her handshake was firm and warm and she looked him straight in the eye. She would be a hard woman to dislike. "Good to meet you," Travis said. His eye took in the room. There were no noises, even though a busy highway was nearby. The atmosphere was serene. The two of them could have been alone, isolated in a forest glade. "I was expecting some kind of a bustling office."

Miss Leeds smiled. "You've used his private office entrance. That door," she pointed across the room, "leads to the rest of the law firm. It is fairly large and it can bustle."

"It's very nice. I sometimes brush up against criminal lawyers, but nothing like this."

"I assure you, Inspector Travis, none of our lawyers are criminals, or at least none have been convicted. Western North Carolina handles lumber, cotton and tobacco. Furniture factories, paper milling, tobacco processing, fabric mills and so on makes work for corporate lawyers."

'Also the pollution they create."

"True. The battle of the Pigeon River seems to roll on forever."

Travis nodded. The fight over a mill's pollution of the Pigeon must have a thirty-year history. The two sides must have spent millions for judicial procedures. He guessed that Patterson represented the business interest. Some bearded, wild-eye with a dog-eared law book, living in a rusting VW bus, probably took the side of the environmentalists. No, probably not, after all, this is a fairly new century.

"Follow me," Miss Leeds said. She-picked up a pad and pen from her desk and lead the way to a large paneled door. She knocked, then without waiting for an answer opened the door. Preceding him into the office, she stood to one side to make the introductions. Patterson was all smiles as he rose and came from behind his desk. The two men shook hands and stood, almost awkward for a moment. The office was remarkable bare. The large expanse of desk was clear except for one or two letters. A small bookcase near the desk was only half filled. No flowers, only a lush green tropical plant with dark green glossy leaves. A rather primitive looking oil painting held the focus of an otherwise bare wall. Travis studied it, wondering if Patterson himself was an amateur painter.

"That's my treasure," the attorney said proudly. "It was done by General Eisenhower."

"I'll be darned," Travis said, impressed with the unexpected, "I've never seen one before."

Rather than return to his desk, Patterson walked to four comfortable chairs surrounding a coffee table near a marble fireplace. He motioned for Travis to take a seat, then took one himself. Miss Leeds sat down.

"So you're a police inspector," the attorney said. Travis detected a patronizing note in the statement and bristled slightly. He wondered how much the attorney had paid for his midnight blue suit. Nine hundred, a thousand dollars? It was the type that took at least three fittings, maybe four.

"Yes, I'm a policeman trying to clear up a troubling murder. It's my good fortune that you've decided to assist me."

"Of course, I'm here to answer your questions."

"I would like some time to go over the papers we discussed, Mr. Patterson."

"Inspector," Patterson began almost wearily, "the will of a wealthy man, a man like Miss Barker's father and that of her grandfather, such an instrument is pages long. It would take a competent attorney many hours to digest the details. I am very familiar with the Barker family situation. Simply ask me anything you wish and I'll answer." Patterson raised his hands in a gesture of openness and sat back in his chair.

"Frankly, it is a melancholy truth that I am reluctant to take second handed information," Travis said sternly. "I'm afraid I must insist on the documents. You can give them to me, or I can get a court order. And believe me, in this murder case, I expect to have that court order in a matter of hours. I don't care if ten of your lawyers descend on our courthouse. Justice will be served."

A flash of anger in the older man's eyes was quickly controlled. After a lengthy pause, Patterson said, "That's no way to approach this matter. I offered you my cooperation."

"I simply don't have time to screw around here. I'll get the information one way or another and I'll get it quickly. I do have lawyers at my disposal. I am a cop trying to do his job. How do I know what is beneath the spit and polish of this law firm? You might even be systematically plundering the very sizeable Barker estate. I'm sure the IRS would take a spirited interest in such activities."

Patterson looked grim. He turned to Miss Leeds. "You'd better leave us alone. Hold my calls." She raised her eyebrows and glanced at Travis, then silently left the room. When Patterson spoke again, he asked glumly, "Would you like a drink?"

"A little early for me."

"OK.-I've never tried to thwart justice and the statements you have made border on slander. You're accustomed to dealing with the criminal element, I suppose."

"That's what I'm paid for."

"Rather than get in a squabble with the local authorities, you may see the papers. There's never been anything to hide. My original offer was simply to clear up the legal language for you. Actually, I was offering you pro bono services. But, as you wish. Would you like to see them now?" "Yes, that would be fine. If you would call in Miss Leeds and tell her to let me have all the Barker files. To hold nothing back."

Patterson gave Travis a dark look. It wasn't his style to be ordered around. The lawyer put both hands behind his head and stared at his Eisenhower painting. He had .a fine honest face, the face of a patrician, and clear blue eyes. He was trim and well tanned, his features enhanced by the lines of age. Finally, he shrugged elaborately. "Alright, why not. But the files must stay in the office. You can work that out with Miss Leeds. I must commend you on being a bulldog of a policeman."

"Murder is something special, Counselor. The Bible tells us, 'The land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it.'"

"The Old Testament, I suppose?"

Travis nodded. "The Book of Numbers, I believe."

"A deeply religious policeman?"

"Not so. But this pertains to my line of work." Patterson buzzed for Miss Leeds and gave her the exact instructions Travis had requested. The detective stuck by her side as she collected the files. The two of them carried them to a small room off the firm's law library where Travis took off his coat and got down to business. It was almost three when he began to read, making occasional notes, with Miss Leeds looking in from time to time.

First he went through the financial reports. He was amazed at the diversity of holdings and the astounding amount of money. The will itself was of the most importance, not that of Miss Barker's father, but her grandfather. The father had died relatively young.

It was after five when Miss Leeds inquired how much longer he would be. Apparently everyone else had gone for the day and the week end.

Travis glanced at his watch. "I'd like to stay until six thirty if that's OK."

"I suppose," she replied. "What the hell. Why should I have fun on Friday night?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're off work, aren't you?"

"Mr. Patterson asked me to stay with you. Someone has to lock up. He didn't think you'd be long.

Travis motioned to the massive files. "He must think I'm a speed reader."

She smiled. "He thought you'd give up."

"Oh. Do you have a family?"

"No. I was married, but I lost my husband."

"I'm sorry. I know how that is. I lost my wife not too long ago. But yours must have been very young. Auto accident?"

"No, another woman lured him away. Do you mind if I sit with you? I'll get coffee."

"I hate to spoil your Friday night."

"It just means I'll have to wash my hair some other time. I'll get coffee."

At quarter after six it became obvious to Travis that he was not going to get through all the papers. But he was fascinated by them, particularly the provisions of the grandfather's will in providing for Sue Barker. They were unusual. Anne Leeds had been reading fashion magazines while Travis worked.

"I can't finish this tonight," he finally announced. "I made the mistake of making a seven O'clock appointment."

"Pleasure, or business?" she questioned.

"Both, I suppose, or hope. Business over dinner."

"Do you ever play?"

"Sure. Don't you?"

"I like to keep active. You want to come back on Monday?.,

"No. I want to come back tomorrow morning, the earlier the better."

"That's asking quite a lot."

"I really don't see why. These papers could be important to the case."

"But nobody's here on Saturday. Mr. Patterson is flying to Hilton Head tonight. He won't be back 'til late Sunday. I should ask him."

"He told you to make the papers available. You could call him."

"Well, he didn't tell me to make myself available." She glanced at her watch. "Anyway, he's already in the air. Oh,alright. I can meet you here at, uh, seven thirty. Do you have any idea how long it might take you?"

"I'd guess no more than two hours. You could bring a good book."

"And I could bring my shampoo. There's a shower off Mr. Patterson's office."

"Suit yourself."

**Chapter 10**

Garvy was at her desk in the office when he arrived. Janet price was seated at a desk nearby, pecking away at a word processor with two fingers. She was wearing a long butternut skirt and what looked like a Confederate officer's jacket. Travis wondered if she had a sword hidden away somewhere. Both women rose to their feet when he entered the room. It embarrassed him slightly that Janet was there.

"Good evening," he said to both ladies, "I've come for the gun." He looked at Garvy.

"And to take me to dinner," she said.

"Yes, are you ready?" He turned to Janet, "Nice to see you again."

"I'm sure," she said, her voice cold and brittle. Garvy handed him a brown envelope. It was lighter than he had expected, lighter than he had hoped.

"Shall we go?"

"Sure. See you again, Janet." She said nothing as they left the office. In the car, Travis opened the envelope. The pistol was a two-shot derringer, the type of weapon favored in films by river boat gamblers. He guessed it was a .25 caliber`. "No help," he said, shoving it into his coat pocket.

"You see, I didn't withhold evidence," she said. "It looks old. Is it an antique?"

"No. I'm sure it's not. Originally, derringers were made in the 1800s, but there's a lot of reproductions today. Actually, they can be handy for self protection. They're small and deadly at close range. But that's not the gun that killed Miss Barker. The murder weapon was a larger caliber." He drove to a Thai restaurant on Merrimon. They both had the fish special and split a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Travis enjoyed the evening thoroughly, although both of them avoided talking about the crime. He took her back to her building and said goodnight in the parking lot. He liked Garvy. She was a handsome woman with a stately bearing.

A small fire was crackling in his fireplace when he returned to his room, a light was on and Janet was seated in his chair. "Did you have a nice date?" she inquired. Why did he feel as if he was being scolded by his mother?

"It was police business," he replied. He took the derringer from his pocket, then unfastened his revolver and locked them both up in a small cubbyhole built into the bookshelf.

"You think those things are safe in there?" she asked almost scornfully.

"Well, naturally, a determined thief could break in." He took a seat next to her by the fire. "But I only use it when I'm in the room, you see."

"I see," she said coldly. "And is this the kind of trash you occupy your mind with?" She held up a book called, "Passion Ridge." There was lurid shot of the half naked woman scratching at an Alp. "This is a bed and breakfast. People come and go and leave books, take books. That's one of them. I read a few pages the other night. I didn't finish it, probably won't."

"I read the last chapter," she announced.

"You shouldn't do that," he chided.

"And why not might I ask? You're out squiring Garvy around town. We never go out. You're only interested in me on that bed. Why shouldn't I sit here by the fire and read any chapter of the book I want to?"

"Janet, we've known each other less than a week, even less. I've not made any demands on you. You've no call to be angry."

"I suppose I should have known an older woman might snatch you away," she said haughtily.

"Oh, come off it, Janet. How did the book end?"

"They, the three of them, were saved by a St. Bernard."

"One of those big dogs?"

"Yes."

"With a brandy cask?"

"It was out of brandy."

"It led them safety?"

"No. They ate it."

"They ate the dog?"

"Yes."

"That's a good twist. I wouldn't have imagined."

"It is a little different, isn't it?"

"To say the least. You want a drink?"

"You haven't had your fill yet?"

"No, just some wine with dinner."

"Did you go up to Garvy's apartment after dinner?"

'No. "

"That's good."

"I don't know why that's good, Janet. I'm a grown man."

"I want you pure tonight. It's special."

"Special? Why?"

"Cause I'm going to throw you over. Throw you under the bus. Kick you to the curb. I want to let you down softly."

"Throw me over?" Travis sensed a spark of hope in this seemingly hopeless mess the two of them had gotten into.

"Is there someone else?"

"Of course, Hank."

"How could I forget. Where is Hank, by the way? Waiting downstairs?"

"No silly. Sandy's downstairs, though. I had a long talk with her tonight. We agreed you should take better care of yourself."

"Lord, help me. You talked to Sandy?"

"I had plenty of time. You must have tarried over

dinner."

"Well, OK. Tell me about Hank."

"He called me this morning at the Mountain Trover. He

wants to wed. I agreed."

"Well, congratulations." Travis was sincerely happy for

her. "I've got a bottle of red wine around here somewhere. I'll find it."

He rummaged among his clothing in his dresser and finally produced it. It took a little longer to open it and get the glasses. "I am truly happy for you, Janet." They touched glasses.

"It wasn't an easy decision, Lang."

"Well, you love him. Does he have a job?"

"He sells earth moving equipment. I suppose I love him. I think he asked me to marry him because of you."

Travis was taken aback. "He knows about me? About us?"

"No, silly. But Hank travels a lot. I used to try to call him every day. Keep tabs on him, track him down. I haven't called him for three days. When he called I seemed indifferent. It made him damned mad. So he asked for my hand." She held her hand in the air and said, "Tra-la-la. "But I didn't want to just abandon you. This is such a, a," she looked around the room, " slovenly place. Anyway, I saw the answer tonight. I'm going to give you Garvy."

"Oh, you are, are you? You're going to give me to Garvy?"

"Why not? She's presentable. Maybe a little old, but unattached. Witty. Certainly, she's witty. Actually, quite charming. And obviously, you took her to dinner." She emphasized the, you took her to dinner.

"I hope, perhaps, you can just abandon me quietly and not make a formal presentation to Garvy. Did it occur to you that she may not know that we are even, uh, slightly, involved?"

"Hmmm. I suppose you're right. Garvy's a lady. If she had known, she wouldn't have taken you like that tonight. Right out of the room where I was sitting. More wine." She thrust an empty glass in his direction.

"Maybe you could abandon me in a field someplace and Garvy would find me."

"That's great, Lang. Like plucking a daisy. I like that."

"So let's not tell Garvy and I'm sure Hank won't find out either if we're discreet."

"Discreet?" she questioned. "I'm not going to sleep with you after we're married, if that's what you thought."

"Of course not, Janet. I'm talking about the past. Naturally, now that you're betrothed. Where is Hank, anyway?"

"He's over in Knoxville probably laying up with some floozy. I don't know if I can trust him, or not. I intend to find him a job close to home and keep the varmint on a short leash. But 'til then."

"Not the love story of the century," Travis said, refilling his glass.

"Hank's OK. He sells mostly to governments. Counties, cities, states. It's mostly bought business and he's slick at that."

"Bought business?" The term puzzled Travis.

"Yes. You put a thousand dollars in somebody's hand, then you go to somebody else and you get the contract. But I'm thinking he can manage a sporting goods store, or something."

"Well, that's wonderful, Janet. And I have enjoyed our relationship. But there comes that time to say goodbye, huh?" He was feeling a little tired.

"Yes." She smiled her most dazzling best and reached out and touched his arm. "And that time is about dawn tomorrow. You ready for bed. We can drink more wine later." She began undoing the brass buttons on her military jacket. Travis thought: If my relationship with this woman had continued for two weeks, I'd be a dead man He untied his shoes.

Dawn came too soon. On this Saturday morning, Travis was the first out, leaving Janet under a warm quilt on the great round bed. He was shaved, dressed and into his car like a shot, arriving in the lawyer's office exactly at 7:30, almost colliding with Anne Leeds as he wheeled into the small parking area.

"Top of the morning, I overslept," he called as he emerged from his car.

"I've been up for ten minutes," she yawned. "I live nearby."

"In the Forest?" he inquired, the local slang for Biltmore Forest, the posh residential community that bordered the office.

"I'm not rich. There's a condo across the tracks and up the hill."

"Oh," Travis replied. "The other side of the tracks, but there is no wrong side. Can we make coffee in the office?"

"That's part of my job description." Anne unlocked the door and Travis followed her inside.

She carried a small canvas athletic bag. "You going away for the night?"

"No. I'm actually going to take a shower and shampoo while you work. It's something I like to putter around doing. Mr. Patterson's bathroom is pretty lavish. I might as well get something out of this."

"I'd be up for a shower, too. I shaved, but that's about all, before I left home."

Anne deposited her bag on a large table in the law library, then opened the door to the small room where the files were just as they had left them. "Don't get any ideas. I make coffee, but I shower alone."

Travis instantly regretted the shower remark. He had meant nothing by it. He stammered an apology, then added, "I've heard how sensitive women are to sexual harassment. And rightly so. We've gone over it time and time again in the department. And here I go, someone who should know better, being insensitive."

"I'm sorry, Inspector. I didn't mean anything by my remark either. I'm sure you didn't have a chance to shower this morning and that you were just talking. After all, you are much older than I am. Who would think such a thing, I mean you and me. It's laughable."

"Of course." The morning was getting off to a rotten start. Travis picked up where he had left off and a few minutes later Anne brought coffee, sipped a cup herself, then was off to luxuriate in a slow shower.

Travis finished glancing over the papers by eight thirty, then began going over them more carefully, making detailed notes. Just before nine, Anne returned to the room, looking alert and well scrubbed.

"Did you know Sue Barker?" Travis asked.

"Very slightly. Over the years she would visit the office occasionally. And she always talked with Mr. Patterson. She would see no one else."

"What did you think of her?"

"Hard to say. Beautiful. Certainly, beautiful. Intelligent. Sometimes gracious, sometimes snobbish, sometimes childish. She was a young woman of many moods and parts."

"And she always saw the big boss?" Travis recalled that Patterson had said something to the contrary.

"Why yes, the family, represented by Sue Barker, was and is a very important client. She may be dead, but the investments remain extremely active. She had more power than she knew. Thousands of shares of stock. A working control of some corporations."

"But she did not control her estate directly?"

Anne fell silent. Travis had drawn her out on a subject that was taboo. "We really shouldn't discuss these things. You-have the papers."

"How long have you worked for the law firm, Miss Leeds?"

"Just twelve years." When he didn't reply immediately, she smiled. "I know what you're thinking. That I'm not as young as I pretended and maybe you're not all that old. Forgive me, it was a joke. You can take a shower now if you really want one."

"I'd much rather discuss Sue Barker."

"And I'd much rather continue working here. I'm supposed to be a confidential secretary. You read the files, I'll read a few fashion magazines. Do you think skirts are going up, or down?"

"Just one more question and not really prying. Over the years as you said, when Sue Barker dropped in here, where was she living. Did she have a residence in Asheville?"

"I can answer that. No. She would often call a day or two in advance to be met at the airport. And also I'd have to make a hotel reservation. I'd often have to arrange, or rearrange her flights out of here. Her permanent residence was an apartment in Manhattan, but there was a house somewhere Down East, a town house in London and an apartment in Paris. It's on the same island that Notre Dame's on.

Asheville was more of a refueling stop, moneywise."

"But she wasn't all that old. I mean she couldn't have been jet setting for long."

"She got an early start. Probably when she was sixteen."

"At that time the law firm. had tight controls on the purse strings."

Anne sighed. "Inspector, please save a few questions for Mr. Patterson."

"Just one more question, which is more of a statement. A few months ago Sue, Miss Barker, decided to settle down in Asheville. Any reason for that?"

"That's a question, Inspector. The answer is yes, she apparently decided to visit Asheville for a time, but she was staying in a hotel. So I don't know how long she would have been here. I'm not aware of her coming into this law office recently. I don't know why she came to Asheville, or how long she intended to stay. I suppose she got tired of traveling around the globe aimlessly, wouldn't you? I'm out of talk. Would you like more coffee?"

"Why not?"

Travis had one more tiff with Anne before the morning ended. He asked to photocopy a few of the papers and she objected. "Mr. Patterson said you could look at the files, not copy them."

"What he said was, that I couldn't take the original files out of the office. I agreed to that. What's the difference between looking and photocopying. I merely want to go over them again in the privacy of my home. I could copy them by hand, if you don't mind spending the rest of the weekend here. You haven't objected to notes."

"I don't think you understand the agreement."

"Your boss understands that I can get a court order post haste and haul all of these files off to police headquarters. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"OK. The machine's in the other room. But please be selective."

It was almost noon when Travis said goodbye to Anne Leeds in the parking lot. He had his precious bundle of photocopies in a brown envelope under his arm. His first stop was at a convenience store pay phone where he called a long-time friend, a retired probate judge, and asked for a meeting. The judge asked him to drop by his home early Sunday afternoon. "Feel free to stay for dinner, Lang. I think Maude's roasting a leg of lamb. If you like garlic..."

Then he checked in with Sergeant Schultz who had unearthed the fact that Sue Barker had a safe deposit box in a bank at Black Mountain. He would get a court order and have the contents in hand no later than Monday afternoon. Queries he had made to the New York Police Department had also been answered via fax. Things were moving right along.

Monday morning just after nine found Lang once again in the presence of J. Frank Patterson. The attorney wore a light weight wool worsted dark blue blazer, his heavy silk necktie was grey with a diagonal nautical design, signal flags. His button down cotton shirt was a shade of plum. Heavy turquoise and silver cuff links served as jewelry. No rings on his tanned fingers. Sharp, intelligent eyes looked from under the snowy thatch of hair.

After an exchange of pleasantries, Anne brought coffee. When she was gone, Patterson asked if there was anything new on the case. Nothing too important, Travis told him, but he did mention that a safe box belonging to Barker had been discovered at a Black Mountain bank. Papers were being processed to get it open in hopes that it might shed new light on the case.

The lawyer said that he certainly hoped that something in the box would offer a clue to the slaying. After a sip of coffee, he excused himself for a moment. He was gone almost ten minutes during which time Travis reviewed his notes which included comments from the retired judge.

When he returned he asked Travis why it had taken so long to locate the safe box.

"The fact is," the inspector replied, "there was no clue among her personal things that she had a box. No receipt, no key, maybe she lost it. It was a matter of going from bank to bank, in some cases branch to branch. Then, she did keep a box at the hotel, but that was mostly what you'd expect--passport, jewelry, checkbook, personal records and so forth. I knew there must be something else, although it could have been in New York. I've made some inquiries there. There may even be another box someplace. Do you know of one?"

"No. Her personal affairs were her own. She did not confide in me."

"Just as you haven't confided in me," Travis smiled. "Where do you want to start?"

Patterson returned the smile. "Where would you suggest?"

"Why not with her mother, and I'd suggest you be candid. It's obvious her mother did not die in childbirth, but you, or someone, has managed to scrub out the records. I suspect it's been done by a professional, so there's no need to continue the search. You'll just have to tell me."

"That's all you want to know?" Patterson asked.

"Of course not!" Travis shot back. "She extracted large amounts of money from you, from the estate. The will was rather specific on that count. She was to live on what she might have considered a tight budget--one hundred thousand dollars a year--until she came into the full inheritance at age thirty."

"But the will does give this law firm discretionary power to increase the amount. There are unforeseen events, including a continuing inflation, catastrophic illness and so forth. So that does cover any extras." Patterson spoke very slowly and placed stress on the word extras, as if to lay the matter to rest.

"Counselor, really," Travis chided. "The will specifically says one hundred thousand a year with some leeway, yet two years after her grandfather died you gave her more than half a million dollars, and slightly escalated that the following year."

Patterson shrugged. "I was empowered by the will. The money was there. She made a persuasive case."

"Almost any court in the land would disagree with you," Travis said sharply. "Certainly you've violated the spirit of the will, if not the letter. A suspicious judge might even think there've been kickbacks."

"Kickbacks?" Patterson questioned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean quid pro quo in lawyer language. You give her half a million, she gives you a hundred thousand for the favor. Stranger arrangements have been made. If that's so, there's the matter of taxes and the IRS. There have been some irregular procedures here, Mr. Patterson. I want some answers."

The attorney studied his fingernails. He thought of his standing in the community and for that matter, his national reputation. He was a member of several corporation boards and sat on a number of national committees. If this man went to a probate judge, the IRS, included the press, muddied the waters, all he had worked for could be destroyed. At his stage in life reputation was more important than money. Instinctively, he liked Travis, but he sensed a seasoned adversary, a dangerous foe.

Patterson nodded his head in a positive manner. "I think it is time to be frank. But, I will say, in the matter of her mother, I was strictly protecting my client, that is following her grandfather's wishes. Not wishes--demands! He was adamant on the topic. He wanted to wipe the woman completely out of Sue's life. And he very nearly succeeded. I'm sure you didn't overlook that provision in the will, Inspector."

"No, I didn't. Life payments to the mother as long as she remained unknown to her daughter. If she became known to her daughter, even by accident, the payments would cease."

"Exactly, and a damned ticklish situation it became. What I'm about to tell you is not a pleasant story. I'll talk man to man and trust you to protect whatever there is left to protect. I am an old man, but I do have a family. Three sons and five grandchildren. I've always tried to lead an exemplary life. As a policeman, you know the seamy side of life. As a lawyer, I've been exposed to a good many situations."

"But you-are not a courtroom lawyer?"

"True, I've seldom seen the inside of a court of law, thank God. Certainly not a criminal court. I see them on television, just like everyone else. But you'd be surprised at the savage, despicable things that happen among the rich folks of this country. The difference between the rich and the poor is that the rich can gloss things over." Patterson smiled wryly.

"But I can't put this off forever. I suppose the story begins with Sue's father. He was a brash young man, very much like the grandfather, with one big difference: The old man controlled the money."

"He was Bradley Barker, I believe," Travis said. He had taken a narrow notebook and pen from his inside coat pocket.

"Yes, the younger man was Bradley, the grandfather's name was Garrett, with two 'r's' and two 't's. The old man had made an immense amount of money in Canadian mining stock, then diversified his holdings. Smart move, though it didn't seem so at the time. Cunning devil, never knew just what he was thinking. And a sportsman--polo, golf, squash. Brad was more a bookish sort. His father would say, 'owlish.' Today you might call him a wonk. That's why his taking up with Sue's mother seemed so out of place. I suppose I should tell you who she is if you haven't guessed already: Hawthorn Garvy."

"Hawthorn Garvy," Travis said in surprise.

"Yes," Patterson said with some amusement. "You mean you didn't really know.

"Well, it had crossed my mind," the detective said. "But I had no idea her name was Hawthorn. It is a strange name, isn't it?"

"I suppose so. Brad always called her Garvy. So did the old man. I suppose she's never used Hawthorn. But the fact that she's Sue's mother didn't surprise you?"

"Not since I've learned there is a mother and not after reading the will. In fact, I'm surprised that someone in Asheville who knew them both didn't suspect."

"They didn't look too much alike."

"I'm sure there was a resemblance, though. Certainly in carriage," Travis observed.

"Possibly." Patterson eyed him carefully. "What did you think when you first made the connection?"

"Complicated," Travis said. "First, I see no reason why Garvy shouldn't inherit Sue's estate. Right?"

"You are very likely right."

"On that basis she becomes a stronger suspect. Then if she were exposed publicly, for any reason, she would lose the lifetime income. Possibly Sue threatened exposure. There was a dark side to her personality."

"You bet," Patterson agreed.

"Then Garvy becomes a stronger suspect. But, you already knew that Sue knew her mother's identity. It seemed to me that you should have ended the payments to Garvy. That's in the will."

Patterson seemed to sigh. "What if I told you that I'm the one who told Sue who her mother is?"

"In direct violation of the will?"

"Yes, of course."

"I wondered how the mother's identity could have been kept secret in the first place, what with the payments, and a will is usually an open book."

"A lawyer uses the law, Inspector Travis. A will can be filed in different places--different states, different countries even. Secrets can be kept from the heirs. The will refers to Garvy only as 'natural mother.' There was the hope that Sue would never even ask to see the original will, that she would trust the firm. But she was inquisitive and, above all, she wanted more money."

"And the only way she could learn the identity of her natural mother was through you?"

"There may have been another way, but I don't know how one would approach it. She knew how to approach me. She either knew, or guessed, that her real mother was still alive when she came to me in this office some years ago. I was old, but a widower. She was seventeen. You can't believe how beautiful and fresh she looked, like a rare tropical flower. We were standing together, in the middle of the room, facing one another. She was wearing a black dress with some sort of ruffle around the low-cut neck. She said she knew her mother was still alive and she asked me to tell her the who and where."

"She must have been a knock out for you to reveal a secret like that."

"But, I didn't tell her," Patterson said. He seemed to be having some difficulty speaking, but he continued. "She fell to her knees on the floor in front of me as if begging. There I was with this nubile girl at my feet. She leaned slightly forward and I could see that she was naked under the dress. Her breasts were completely exposed. Something like an electric shock passed through my body, pure lust, almost uncontrollable. She baited the trap and I fell for it. We were on the couch in seconds. She helped me off with my clothes. Of course she was almost nude to begin with. So there you have it."

"You're saying that a seventeen-year-old girl seduced you and you gave her the law firm's secrets?"

"No. Nothing that simple. What followed was an affair. I still. wouldn't tell her. But we met in hotels in Atlanta, in apartments and here in the office over the next few weeks. I should have known something was up because she stopped asking about her mother after a day or two. She had something bigger in mind, millions of dollars. For me, it was beautiful. Like a reprieve from the grim reaper, a final savor of the fullness of life, a reason for living. I even had the idea that she cared for me, although that didn't influence me greatly.

"Then one day, some weeks after the thing had commenced, she came into the office with a full report on our brief fling. Pictures, videos, times, places, hotel records. She had a very good detective agency do a very thorough job on me. She had led me around by my nose, the two of us almost posing for unsavory pictures." Patterson chuckled ironically.

"Blackmail?"

"Of course. And it worked. I gave her the particulars on Hawthorn Garvy. I also agreed to loosen the purse strings. You know what happened next. She scooped out money by the bucketful. But, I might add, the financial integrity of the estate was not harmed. There was and is, plenty of money there, enough to make Garvy rich ten times over."

"Sue, Miss Barker, then remained in Asheville and homed in on Garvy?"

"Lord, no. Sue really had little interest in her mother. She had met some Frenchman and the two of them went off to Spain and the south of France for a few months. I would hear from her by phone from time to time, only when she needed more money."

"You never renewed your affair?"

"No. No." Patterson shook his head grimly. "I made the mistake of mentioning it once and she laughed at me."

"Do you know when she first met Garvy?"

"I'm guessing it was when she turned up in Asheville several months ago. She had run through a lot of male friends, a lot of continents and a lot of money. She was probably bored and decided to give Asheville a whirl. She did stay here quite a long time for her, and didn't really spend much money. I suspect she used the mother love thing on me during our first encounter because it seemed more wholesome than begging for money. Once she had done a number on me she could ask for whatever."

Travis felt he had done a good morning's work. He had gotten more than he hoped for. "I do thank you for your cooperation and your time," he said, getting to his feet. "I know it's valuable."

Patterson shrugged. "Life is a series of trade offs. Be it a lawyer, storekeeper, or a peasant tilling the fields. Who knows the best way to spend what little time we have on this earth. But I must insist you join me for lunch. We'll take Anne. The three of us at the restaurant at Biltmore Estate."

"The stables?" Travis asked. He had once had a bite in the elaborate stables adjacent to the house. The box stalls and other areas had been converted to a restaurant of sorts, nothing too elaborate.

"No, not the stables," Patterson grinned. "The other one, it's several miles from the main house."

Travis remembered there was such a place, but he had never eaten there. Just to get onto the estate cost a handsome fee. "I really should be getting on with my job," he said.

"Nonsense. Give the killer a few more hours of freedom. Anne might turn murderess and kill you if she learns you've denied her a lunch at Biltmore."

Reluctantly, he agreed. Patterson asked Anne to phone ahead and Patterson himself drove the three of them through the large arch of a gatehouse, past a bamboo thicket,through oak wood lots and meadows, following the winding road to the restaurant. The food was the best and Patterson insisted on selecting the wine, a product of the estate itself, and then a second bottle. The three of them tarried over coffee and dessert.

**Chapter 11**

It was toward mid-afternoon when Travis finally returned to his office. He asked Mae to locate Schultz for him.

"He's been trying to get in touch with you. Something about a safe deposit box."

"That's exactly why I want to see him. Do you know if he found anything?"

"I'm in the dark. I know there was a problem."

"A problem, Travis said. "Well, try to track him down."

When Schultz did appear in the inspector's office, his news was not good. He had gotten the contents of a large safe deposit box, signed for them at the Black Mountain bank. When he returned to the office a pair of lawyers from Patterson & Patterson were waiting for him with a court order. They had already cleared it with the chief. They took possession of the contents and had been gone since late morning.

Travis new instantly he had been outfoxed by Patterson. The grand lunch at the Biltmore Estate, the second bottle of wine. Whatever was in the safe box, Patterson had had time to go through it with a fine tooth comb by this time and remove anything he pleased.

"How much stuff was there?" Travis questioned.

"It was a fairly good sized cardboard box, taped shut."

"Then you never saw the contents?"

"No I didn't. But it was substantial, fairly heavy. You don't think anything will become of it, do you? I mean these guys were from a big law firm."

"I don't know, Russ. This Patterson who heads the firm is involved in the case. The dead girl was his client and there are serious questions to be cleared up. If his hands are clean, he may have done us a favor by intercepting the stuff. There might be things in there that would be better left unseen. I don't know," Travis said wearily. "I just hate to be shit upon, or tricked, whatever. I suspect we'll have no problem getting the contents of that box now that Patterson has had a chance to do a little sanitizing. I'll call him."

Travis had no problem getting through to Patterson. He was waiting for the call. "You understand my position, Inspector. There could have been things in that box that were of extreme embarrassment to me, things that would have no bearing on the murder. I've told you my story."

"Were those items in the box?"

"I'd rather not say."

"That answers my question," Travis said. "I'll send a Detective Schultz out for the contents of the box, whatever's still in there. I'm sure you'll have no objections."

"Of course I want to cooperate with the police. Again, I'm very sorry to have pulled this trick. But I felt I had no option."

"Angry as I was, still am, I do understand, Mr. Patterson. Let's forget this one. But if I catch you off base again, you're a dead man. No mercy, no deals."

"I understand. The box will be here when this Schultz arrives."

A black mood settled over Travis after Schultz left on his errand. When Mae poked her head in the door and asked if he wanted coffee, he scowled and the head disappeared. He

sat brooding at his desk, likening himself to the classic case of a farm boy going to the big city. True, Patterson had told him an interesting story. But could he have done otherwise. If it was just a matter of tapes of Patterson and Sue in the sack together, he really wasn't interested. But what else might there have been?

A heavy cobalt blue vase sat on his scarred desk. Someone, he forgot who, had given it to him years ago. It was inscribed in gold script letters: Souvenir of Grandfather Mountain--Carolina's Top Scenic Attraction. Travis picked it up, hefted it in his hand, then hurled it against the wall where it smashed into hundreds of small pieces. Then he sat and waited for Mae to come in. She knew better. Instead she buzzed him on the intercom. "Anyone hurt in there?"

"No. Something fell off my desk. I'd like a cup of coffee."

"Coming right up."

Somehow he felt better. First coffee, then he would visit Hawthorn Garvy, a suspect who could not be overlooked.

Garvy was not at her desk at the magazine. The Limey was the only one in the office. He suggested that Travis try her apartment. "Ta," he chirped, as Travis left the office. Garvy was dressed in a denim jumper over a dark cotton turtleneck when she answered the door. A heavy ladle dangled from her right hand. Although it looked like it could be used as a weapon, she did not have the look of a killer.

"I can 't patch your ceiling, but can I come in?" Travis asked. He eyed the ladle.

"Making Chili," she explained. "Like a drink? It's almost cocktail time."

"Sure. Scotch with water. Ice doesn't matter." "You sound a little down."

"Tough day, tough week." He headed for the couch and she-went into the kitchen. She returned and put a drink down in front of him, then started back for the kitchen.

"Stir the chili," she called over her shoulder. When she returned she had a drink in her hand. "Well, what cheerful thing brings you here today?"

"I know Sue was your daughter," Travis said flatly.

"OK," she said, meeting his gaze.

"So, I'd like to know about your relationship. I am still investigating a murder and you do stand to inherit what would seem to be a vast amount of money. This is the stuff motives are made of."

"But she was my daughter. A mother killing her daughter, that's a no no."

"Possibly. Depending on the relationship. Were you a warm, sharing and loving family, or were there frequent spats?"

"Don't be sarcastic. We saw eye to eye."

Travis drained his glass and put it on the table. Garvy picked it up and gave him a quizzical look.

"Why not," he said, "getting smashed is at least something I do well."

"You are depressed." She headed for the kitchen. "And there's the matter of the possible loss of your allowance if the relationship went public."

"Oh, that," she laughed.

"But it's important," Travis said seriously. "It's a sizeable sum."

"Huh," she answered scornfully. "Money isn't all."

"But it can buy bread and wine and a roof against the rain."

"Aren't we poetic. I have to go up to the office for a couple of minutes. You can bring your drink. There's a bottle up there."

"The Limey's up there," Travis said. "I checked in."

"I know. It's his review I've got to check. He can be sloppy, or cross the line from fair comment and criticism to the dreaded mire of libel. You might say vicious. I'll turn off the chili."

The Limey, Reggie Cant, had departed when the two went upstairs, but his copy was on Garvy's desk. She read through it swiftly, penciled in a couple of changes, while Travis nursed his drink. He was beginning to feel better. "Reggie actually enjoyed the concert," Garvy said, "baroque string quartet. Do you like that sort of thing?"

"I'm more into Glenn Miller, or C and W. Maybe a loud brass band. You have an opening?"

"We could have a crime corner. Maybe a crime of the week. One thing I would like to know is what the gun that killed Sue looked like in case I ever run across one."

"Probably like mine," Travis said. He shifted his weight, drew his revolver and passed it to Garvy. Don't point it in my direction and don't mess with the trigger."

She examined it carefully, put it to her nose and sniffed. "Oil and metal. It does have a certain feel to it, certainly it's own smell and its own unique aura. But I don't believe I'd like to carry one." She handed the weapon back to Travis.

"Can we talk about you?" Travis asked.

"My favorite topic. I wrote poetry when I was sixteen. At seventeen I ran over a cat with the family car and cried all night."

"Nice, but not topical. Lacks focus."

"You fine tune and I'll try to find words."

"You and Sue's father, you and Sue, the last days of Sue."

"I see. Always the canny cop. You want another drink?"

"Charming offer, but this canny cop better stick to basics and hang onto the little wit he has for a few more minutes. Why not start with the romance?"

"Really a neat and compact love story with all the corners nicely tied up. The hero dies, the heroine lived on alone."

"But there was a child," Travis reminded.

"Of course, the child. Not really a major character in the drama. A bit part, a spear carrier."

"Walk on, walk off?"

"Something like that. Bradley Barker and I met at a Newport party. We were both just out of college and it was as close as you can get to love at first sight. I'm sure on the second day of our relationship we both knew that we would either get married, or live together. And Bradley wasn't the type for a casual relationship. This complicated things for both of us. I had just moved into an apartment in the Village with two other women and was about to launch a brilliant journalistic career. And, the week before we met, Bradley's father had introduced him to the girl--quote, unquote--at a house party."

"That would be Garrett Barker?"

"Yes, it certainly was Garrett Barker, the stern tyrannical monied man with a mind as wide as a toothpick. He had just found the girl for his boy, some kind of debutante. A fluffy little number surrounded by Daddy's millions. Garrett was a prize horse's ass."

"I take it he objected to Bradley's courtship of you?"

"Putting it mild. He blew a gasket. Stomped around threatening to disinherit Bradley, keel haul him, the iron maiden, anything to nip this romance. I'm happy to say Bradley laughed at him. Brad and I saw eye to eye on money. It's nice to have, but it isn't everything in life."

"The old man cut you off?"

"No he didn't. The old man saw that he would lose his only child if he carried through, that Bradley didn't actually care. I mean, he wasn't pretending. He didn't care about the money and neither did I."

"You didn't?" Travis questioned. He thought it odd that she later more or less sold her only child if she didn't care.

"Of course not. Are you a slave to money?"

"I hope not, but I've never been dirt poor."

"Neither were we, nor did we have to be. We were just out of college, highly employable. The world was ours. We ignored the old man.

"You met him, I suppose?"

"Just once," Garvy said. "I think I'll put on the coffee water. Do you want a cup?" Travis nodded yes.

She moved to the hot plate, shook the pot, then added water.

They would drink instant. "Bradley arranged a dinner at a hotel. It was a disaster. The old man had an image of me as a young opportunist, your classic gold digger sinking her hooks into a likely target of opportunity. Garrett couldn't shake that. He never really even talked to me. It was sad--for him, not me. He could have tried to be a father-in-law. I mean, it's not that difficult."

Despite her protests to the contrary, Travis sensed a trace of bitterness even after all these years. He attempted to speed up the story. "Were you and Bradley happy?"

"You bet we were! We were a loving and caring couple to the end. Of course it didn't last long, just a couple of years. I think we could have sustained it, though, if Bradley had lived." Garvy got cups and gave one to Travis. They fixed their own.

"His death must have been..." Travis struggled to find a word, then settled on "shocking."

"I'll say. It was so meaningless. I still don't know whether the bomb was planted by the Irish, or the Arabs, or just some nut. If there had been a reason, even an accidental explosion. But a faceless brute setting off a bomb in a department store. When I think of it I still shudder and feel anger, intense anger. Of course that's better than the rage I once felt."

Travis felt a need to express sympathy. He said, "I see." It seemed inadequate, but the bombing had happened more than twenty years ago. "Where did the baby fit in here?"

"Oh, big mistake, accident. I still don't know how it happened. I got pregnant, someway. To my chagrin, Brad was overjoyed. Nothing could have pleased him more, or me less."

"You're saying you didn't want the baby?"

"In spades. To me babies are nasty customers. I have always made it clear that I want no part of them. But not Bradley."

"Nasty customers?" Travis questioned. Although he and his wife had been childless, he thought all women liked babies. And if they didn't like them, he thought they all at least pretended to like them. He had always wondered what the big attraction was, but that was because he was a man.

'Yes, indeed. Take Sue, for instance. For starters, she was totally boring. She burped, she ate, she cried, she was like a total blob. I took care of her. As a reward for me, she did the vilest sort of things in her diapers. Frankly, disgusting. Nasty customers."

"You had an option. Abortion."

"Yes, our one big disagreement, settled amicably. When I realized the depth of Brad's feelings. I gave in. I totally accepted the idea. After all, we could pay to have it taken care of, which we did. We had a sitter. After Sue was born, Brad took care of her as much as I did. Maybe more. He seemed to like to poke at that boring little bundle of joy."

"But then Bradley was killed."

"Right. Fade to black. You get the picture. It's me and Sue swingin' down the lane, although someone's taken the sunshine and flowers away. The Barker's had a family plot and Garrett got in touch with me, through a lawyer, of course, and I let them bury Brad there. I said my goodbyes privately, before the funeral."

Travis tried to imagine how a young mother with a baby would feel when the husband was taken from her. Fear? Despair? Grief, of course. But facing life with an infant?

"And you had the baby, his grandchild."

"Yes. I want to make clear that I didn't hate the baby. I was just indifferent to it. I'm sure its true that my feelings of affections toward it were greater than Garrett's. He knew it was his heir, his bloodline, his only bloodline. Even this might not have mattered to him, except that he hated me. He still had the idea that I had married Bradley for the family fortune. So, a couple of weeks after the funeral I got a call from Patterson's law firm. They wanted me to come in to look over some sort of agreement."

"Had you met Patterson before?" Travis asked.

"Frank Patterson?"

"Yes, the old lawyer."

"No, I hadn't met him and I refused to go to his office. At that time I had just returned to New York. Patterson wanted to fly me to Asheville for the meeting. I guess that's when I became interested in Asheville. I wondered why in the world a person who did business in New York would have an office in Asheville."

"You mean you've never met Patterson?"

"I met him and I've seen him since. Asheville's a small city. You bump into people on the street or at a shopping mall. But lawyers have a thing about doing business on their own turf. A power office, that sort of stuff. I asked him to mail me the agreement. The damn fool said I wouldn't understand it because I'm not a lawyer." Garvy laughed out loud and Travis smiled. "I told him to rewrite it in English and mail me a copy. He did."

"What was the gist of it?"

"The basic thing was I was to give up the child in exchange for a lifetime allowance. I was also to renounce the name, Barker. Brad had no money in his own name. The old man had set up a substantial trust for him, but that went back to the old man when Brad died. There was not even an insurance policy."

"So you signed?"

"Not immediately. I had no love for the old man. But I hated to see Sue as a pawn in a battle. I didn't really want the responsibility of a child. If I had kept her, it would have only been to spite Garrett. But I did sit on the papers for a while. I hoped the suspense might give Garrett apoplexy, or at least a few sleepless nights. I guessed that he would take good care of Sue. That is, pay to see she was taken care of. So the lawyers kept calling and I told them to either back off, or they could put the papers where the sun don't shine."

"But you did sign eventually?"

"Yes, the old man thought he had foxed me. Actually, he had foxed himself. You see, from the start I had no designs on the Barker money. I had plenty of money, but that stupid old man didn't even bother to learn about my family. The Garvy family has had a successful party favor business in Baltimore since the middle of the last century. We are old money. The Barker money comes from some sort of stock swindle north of the border--newly rich. And the old man pretended to be some sort of sportsman."

"Your family has wealth based on party favors?" Travis asked in disbelief.

"Yes. Paper hats, tablecloths, noisemakers, party poppers, that sort of thing. A lot of it's paper, cheap to produce and biodegradable. The Barkers had more money, but we have enough. I have a brother and a sister in Baltimore. It supports all of us."

"I'll be damned. I never suspected. You see much of your family?"

"Usually ever summer. They spend a couple of weeks in a seaside family compound on the Eastern Shore--Delaware. I join them for at least a week."

"Sounds like fun."

"Maybe you could join me next summer."

"You'll probably have the Barker millions by that time. You'll probably vacation on Mars."

"Watch me. See if my lifestyle changes."

"Back to the subject. You did sign?"

"I had a lawyer go over the papers. We made a minor change or two. I didn't want the money, neither did I want the baby. I was, of course, assured that she would have the best of care, the best education. It wasn't like leaving her on a doorstep. In the end, I accepted the package, and I'll tell you the reason. If the old man ever found out that I didn't want the baby he would have made me keep it. He was as mean as a snake, and I'm sorry to says that Sue, for all her good qualities, inherited some of that meanness. She came by it honestly, although it had skipped Bradley's generation, thank God."

"You gave the baby to a lawyer?

"That's funny, isn't it, the mechanics of it. How do you give a baby away? There was a time and a date set." Garvy breathed heavily, remembering the experience. "Three of them came: The attorney, a secretary and a governess dressed in a uniform. It's not an experience I care to look back on. In the final analysis, I don't think any mother likes to give up her child. If nothing else in the world, you can say, that child is mine. Flesh of my flesh, fruit of my womb." Garvy stared into her coffee cup and spoke with intensity. "It's mine, dammit!" Then her voice softened. "Maybe I was kidding myself. I had a bad couple of weeks. I even thought about buying a pet. I didn't. I went to the Greek Islands for six weeks instead."

Travis finished his coffee. The conversation had reached an awkward point, but of course he went on. "And you forgot."

"Not really. The Greek Islands, Aegean Sea, can be a crashing bore if you're alone. Better take a couple of shopping bags of books. There's only so much beaching, bicycling and eating a person can do. I will say some Greeks are cheerful."

"So was Millard Fillmore."

Garvy raised her eyebrows. "Millard Fillmore?" she questioned. "He was cheerful?"

"I think so. He didn't have much else going for him. Did you keep tabs on Sue when she was growing up?"

"Never. I hope I didn't overdo the sentimentality. I really have no use for children."

"When she popped up here, that's the first time you had seen her since they took her as a baby?"

"True. No communication. She showed up at my apartment about ten one Sunday morning wearing a gold lame jacket, black leather trousers and a tam-o'shanter. I recognized her immediately. That is, I recognized myself when I was that age. I almost burst out laughing. I greatly enjoyed the meeting. And for all her poise and polish, and believe me, she-had plenty of both, she was almost shy. I embraced her and she gave me a little hug, which for her was demonstrative beyond belief."

"You talk almost as if you were the child and she was the mother," Travis mused.

"Sage observation. I have, or had, more of an ingenuous bent than she. You must also remember that she was no longer a child. I welcomed her into the family with enthusiasm, a fact that I am not ashamed of. I don't like children, but I like adults, particularly adult daughters."

"She accepted that. No problems?"

"Not at first. I could only be myself. I couldn't pry into her affairs, didn't even ask her what possessed her to come to our mountains. I was friendly and kind, made her coffee, showed her around the magazine office, offered to let her sleep on the couch. Completely open." Garvy drained the dregs from her cup.

"She lived with you?"

"No. She had already gotten accommodations at the Grove Park. I'm guessing when she got off the plane she asked someone for the most expensive place in town. It suited her well. But we did get on. I offered to let her work at the magazine. The mention of work at first seemed to astonish her, then a certain fascination set in. She picked up the gauntlet and didn't do a bad job, I'm happy to say. She was a credit to the family."

Travis seriously pondered how to pose his next question. There seemed to be no good way to do it. "Sue, your daughter, had worked a type of blackmail on Patterson in order to get your name and address and in order to pry more money from the estate. Were you aware of that?"

"I guessed it. I had gone over all the legal papers. The law firm was under strict orders not to reveal my name, or even that I was still alive. I was supposed to have died gallantly in childbirth, doubtless with last words in praise of motherhood and surviving infant. Alas. She told me Patterson had told her. I didn't press it. Our relationship was strictly grownup. No mush."

"You said she had a-mean streak somewhere, mean as a snake like her grandfather."

"Vindictive, vengeful, without remorse."

"That much," Travis said thoughtfully. "So the abandoned child returneth, maybe with a little spite rattling around somewhere in her brain."

"Not a little, quite a good lot. But there was also quite a sense of humor there. She was absolutely a wonderful human being, with all the kinks, curves, ups and downs that define that creature. I could see myself, Bradley, and, unfortunately, the mean old man. I think she thought coming in that I was living in obscurity in some sort of grisly fear of being discovered, exposed, and goodbye paltry allowance."

"Did it ever come up?" Travis asked bluntly.

"I waited her out. Yes, it did come up. She brought it up, but not as a threat. She became happier here, I think, happier than she had been in a long time. She had something to do and the people at the magazine are something of an extended family. Naturally, there are family spats from time to time, but that proves the family.

"She had been here several weeks when the two of us were alone one night. We had a few drinks. I had scotch and water, and she had one of her damned greyhounds. She said, not in these words, that she could blow the whistle and tear my playhouse down. If I had been dependent on that allowance, I know she was capable of just that. God, I enjoyed telling her the story. I told her just exactly what I told you here tonight, that I dislike infants and children, nothing personal I assured her, and would have given Garrett an allowance to take her off my hands. I told her about the Baltimore branch of the family."

"How did she react?"

"Fabulously. She laughed her head off. The two of us got rip roaring drunk. She had to sleep on the couch. I could hardly make it to the bed. She said she felt the same way about children and had had two abortions. It was a night to remember."

"Christ," Travis observed, "What a touching mother daughter relationship."

"I thought so. In the few months she was with me I felt I had every pleasure of motherhood, and," she paused for a time, "every heartache. I lost her, Lang. Just like I lost Bradley."

"I'm sorry, Garvy."

She sucked in her breath and said, "Damn, I think I'm ready for a drink."

**Chapter 12**

Travis was back in Patterson's office by mid morning the following day.

"What do you want to see my boss about today? Going to put him on the grill again?" The secretary was only half joking.

"Private. What's keeping him? I did make an appointment."

"Lawyer business. A woman whose husband passed away. An estate problem."

Travis buried his nose in a magazine. Five minutes later he was in Patterson's office. "I'm still not happy about that Black Mountain safe box caper," Travis began.

"I'm sorry, Inspector. But it was a jurisdictional matter. We have a right to review a deceased clients papers if we are handling the estate.

"And the right to destroy documents and photographs?"

"Blackmail material, Inspector. Surely you haven't come here to talk about that?"

"No I haven't. It occurred to me that Garvy is in line to inherit her daughter's estate. But what if she dies? What happens then?"

"Naturally, there would be a search for surviving heirs. Sue was young, and like many young people, refused to even talk about a will. She said the thought depressed her. Now see where she is."

Travis thought about that for half a second. "She's dead. And she'd be just as dead with a will, or without one. Incidentally, where is she. I mean the ashes?"

Patterson shrugged. "We didn't want them lying around the office. So we chartered a helicopter and scattered them over the French Broad. I thought it was appropriate. They're probably in Tennessee by this time."

"Or beyond," Travis added. "What about the box, or urn, whatever you call it."

"A law clerk did the actual scattering, young Tyner. He smokes a pipe. I think it's an affectation. But he wanted it. So."

"For tobacco?"

"Why yes. It was quite decorative, rather expensive. Would have been a shame to chuck it in the river. So, he has a humidor with a story. I understand he almost fell out of the chopper. But back to the estate, there is another heir, Stuffy Brook. I should say Stuffy C.Q. Brook. You know him?"

"No I don't," Travis said. "But I'd like to meet him. Is he local? The name is vaguely familiar."

"Local boy. His father was a ne'r do well newspaperman. Heavy drinker, heavy smoker, died of lung cancer. On the wrong end of the family, of course, for money. His father-in-law, that is Stuffy's grandfather, was Garrett's older brother, but they never got on well. The mother, the Barker member of the family, passed on not-to-long ago."

"They were broke?"

"No, never broke. There was a small inheritance. They have a rambling old house in the Montford area. Stuffy still lives there. He's a librarian, a Thomas Wolfe buff, drives an ancient sports car, middle-aged, never married. I haven't done a complete search, but as far as I know, he's the sole heir to the Barker fortune in the absence of Garvy."

"You've talked with him about it?"

"No I haven't. Things have been moving rather swiftly. And Garvy is still alive, or I hope she is. I will have to talk with her. Where is she, anyway?"

"At her office as far as I know. Or her apartment, it's almost one and the same. Is there any chance this Brook would get anything if Garvy inherits?"

"I don't think so. He would be a fairly remote cousin. With a surviving mother, no, I don't believe so. But there could be a court challenge, or a settlement. There's plenty of money to go round." "What's his real name?"

"That's it. Stuffy C.Q. Brook. As I said, the father was a newspaperman. He named him Stuffy as an odd joke, however the name fits perfectly. The C.Q. is some sort of newspaper symbolism which means the name's correct."

"That it's correct?"

"Yes, that Stuffy is the real name. Apparently if there's an odd name in newspaper copy they stick a CQ in which means even though it's odd, it's OK."

"You'd think they'd just use OK," Travis observed.

"I think that's a telegrapher's symbol. Newspapers predate the telegraph."

Travis nodded in agreement. He had heard that news gathering and distribution was the second oldest profession. "Where can I find this Brook?"

"Probably at the main library. He does reference work and sometimes handles the Thomas Wolfe collection. Although I don't think that's his regular job."

Travis returned to the office, deciding to call Brook, rather than bursting in on him at his workplace. He dialed the main library and in less than a minute Brook was on the line.

"I have a few questions, Mr. Brook," Travis began. "It's about the death of Sue Barker. You seem to be one of two surviving relatives."

"Yes, she was a cousin, Inspector. I'll be happy to answer any questions, but I really didn't know Sue well. I only met her in the last few months."

"You did know her then?"

"Definitely. We knew about one another before we met. Our grandfathers were brothers, but not on the best of terms. But they've been dead for some time and so is everyone else in the family for that matter."

"Except Hawthorn Garvy," Travis said, then waited for an answer. A prolonged silence and finally Brook's voice.

"I'm not up on every member of the Barker family."

"But you do know Ms. Garvy?"

"I know Garvy, Inspector. Most members of a certain Asheville crowd know Garvy. It's not a big town and you keep bumping into the same people at different functions. Everyone knows Garvy."

"You also knew her relationship to your cousin?"

"I seem to have heard something in recent days, yes."

"I'd like to meet with you, Mr. Brook. How about this evening after work. I can come to your home, you can come here, or we can meet for a drink, or cup of coffee."

"At my home would be more private. I don't want people to think I'm involved in a criminal investigation. But, just a minute. Do you wear a uniform, or drive one of those flashy cars?"

"No. I look like a regular person in an older model car. No lights, no sirens, no whistles."

"Why don't you come at six. You know I live in Montford?"

"Yes, I have the address from the phone book."

"The family's always lived there, even grandfather. I'm one of the few original people left in Montford. My grandfather knew the Wolfe family and Thomas Wolfe himself. Big Tom, they called him. He was a very large man."

"I'll see you at six."

Travis grabbed a two piece chicken dinner at the Bojangles on Merrimon Avenue, then drove into the Montford section, a broken area of large Victorian homes, run-down frame and brick homes, cottages and gentrified slums.

Many of the larger gingerbread models had been restored, but the area had not snapped back as quickly as the yuppy invaders had planned. Many doors were double locked. The area was too hilly, too wooded, too chopped, too many shadowy areas for easy police patrol.

The Brook home was Victorian even to its shingled turret and beveled glass windows. Travis turned a bell handle on the great front door and heard the clatter resound through the large entry hall and up a curved staircase. The metallic click of two locks, the rattle of a safety chain and the door opened a crack, then swung back on its hinges to reveal a balding, pudgy man wearing brown corduroy trousers and a blue and red argyle sweater pulled over a denim work shirt. Stuffy blinked from behind thick glasses.

"I'm Inspector Travis."

"Come in. I wish you police would do something about this parking and crime situation."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Brook. We police specialize these days. I'm investigating a murder."

"Well, I would think you'd all be concerned."

"We are," Travis countered."Concerned` just as you are."

"Come on in. We can sit in the living room." Travis followed Brook into a large room that had retained its original dark woodwork through the years. A great slab of oak hung horizontally over a fireplace that punctuated one wall. The mantelpiece was forested with what appeared to be family pictures, some in silver, some in porcelain, others in wooden frames. Brook motioned Travis into a comfortable Morris chair and he dropped into its twin, just a few feet away. Two Tiffany lamps, which looked original, and a third with a fringed silk shade provided dim illumination.

"I was interested to know how you learned Ms. Garvy was Sue's mother?" Travis asked.

"To be honest, I don't really know. You see, even though Sue and I were cousins, distant cousins, we meant nothing to each other. We were both aware of our status as family, but that's all. So, I'm no different from the other casual acquaintances of both parties--Sue and Garvy. I knew Garvy better than I knew Sue because she's been around longer."

"But you did know Garvy was Sue's mother. Can you tell me when you first found out. You may not know this, but it was supposed to be a secret."

"Those two were close, you might say like mother and daughter, but that wouldn't be quite accurate. But they were close and Garvy doesn't take to newcomers very quickly."

"But Sue was rich. That sometimes paves the way to social acceptance."

"Not for Garvy. I don't know her well, but I do know money means little to her. It's obvious she has always had a supply of it, which could diminish its perceived value. But someone, somewhere along the line put six and six together and came up with a dozen. The difference in ages, physical similarities, past histories. Maybe it was just a guess, speculation, but it came as no surprise."

Brook's answer did not sit well with Travis. This man definitely knew the pair as mother and daughter and he was trying to fudge it over. Perhaps Sue herself had told him. They were family, despite his protests to the contrary.

"This is proving to be a tough case, Mr. Brook. I'm asking almost everyone I talk with similar questions. My first one is, were you at the party down by the French Broad the night, or morning that Miss Barker was killed?"

"I definitely was not, Inspector. For openers, I'm not a member of that crowd. In fact Sue often viewed me as an object of ridicule. She had a mean sense of humor. I'm something of a doddering middle aged man with no romantic interests, going to seed and fat, bookish, dull." He brightened when he said, "You might say, Stuffy."

"And that is your name."

"Yes, Stuffy C.Q. Brook. Dear old Dad hung it on me, drunken newshound that he was. He ended up on the copy desk, writing headlines through a haze of bad whiskey. But he had his moments. He could be brilliant. Flashes of excellence drowned in a sea of mediocrity."

"Where were you on the night of the party?"

"Ah, yes. Back to that famous party. I have heard about it from more than one source. In fact I've heard of a lot of goings on at those buildings. Well, I was on the Outer Banks. I took a week's vacation, rented a cottage right on the ocean. Had a wonderful restful time. I believe I returned the Sunday after."

"You drove?"

"I'm sorry to say I did. Do you know how wide this state is? I was behind that wheel for nine hours just getting to Nags Head. The place I rented was just south of there."

"You were alone?"

"Yes. Took along a .stack of books. Walked on the beach, read, had a few drinks. Did a little cooking, dined out. Terrific time. I enjoy my own company. I'll give you the rental agency if you like. Also the name of the cottages."

"Yes, we do like to check alibis. You know the thing police do, motive, opportunity, means and so forth. Nothing personal, but you would seem to have a motive, but your vacation on Cape Hatteras would seem to completely take away the opportunity, thus exoneration."

"But, Inspector, what motive would I have for killing my own cousin?"

"A very large amount of money, Mr. Brook. An immense amount of money."

Brook stared at him for a moment, then said, "I really wasn't aware I was even mentioned in the will. Can you give me more details? I certainly won't refuse any scrap that Sue wanted to toss my way."

The mention of having a large sum of money dropped in his lap didn't seem to excite Stuffy. Travis guessed that he was aware of everything and just making chatter to put him off, but he would see the game through and try for some reaction. "There actually isn't any will, Mr. Brook. Did you know that?"

Stuffy stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds. "I had guessed it. Young people often don't make wills. In fact usually. I'm a reference librarian and I run across all sorts of odd facts."

"Then you would also guess that in the absence of a will, blood relatives would be in line for an inheritance?"

"That does follow."

"Like night follows day. Could you give me a list of Sue Barker's blood relatives?"

"We really weren't that close. I mean, I'm not into genealogy."

"Well, the ones you know about?"

"Garvy, I suppose."

"And?"

"You want me to say myself, and that's true. I am a blood relative. But Garvy, the mother, I think she'd take it all. Who'd bother with a distant cousin?"

Travis shrugged. "Garvy has a brother and sister. Did you know that?"

"I really didn't."

"They would stand to inherit from Garvy. She probably does have a will, and this is all speculation, mind you. But she would have to inherit from her daughter first. If Garvy was out of the way before the will is executed, Miss Barker's surviving blood relative would be in an extremely advantageous position, moneywise, under state law. Don't you agree?"

"I'm not a lawyer."

"But you wouldn't decline the inheritance?"

"No, I wouldn't, but who would? On the other hand, I'm not living in poverty. I have a home, a car and an adequate income. I've never asked for much, never really wanted much. I like my work, books. Most nights and weekends I just cocoon with a few books. You'd think I'd get tired of them, working in a library. But I don't. Anyway, I was at Hatteras the week of the party. As far as I know, no one's tried to kill Garvy. Does that answer all your questions?"

"Yes." Travis rose to his feet. "Asking questions in a murder investigation is not a pleasant way to make a living. We are all of us sensitive human beings clinging to this planet Earth. Questions can sound like accusations, regardless of how they're meant. Truth is an artful dodger."

"I understand, Inspector." Stuffy walked him to the large front door. The home must have been magnificent in its early days, also the neighborhood. Traces of grandeur remained and the area itself, despite untended shrubs here and there, weeds pushing through cracked cement, the area was coming back.

Driving the few blocks to his room, also in a great old wooden house, Travis could not imagine a man like Stuffy Brook planning and executing a capital crime. The man's final statement had sounded like a heartfelt plea--that he didn't want much, didn't need much, just wanted to be left alone with his books.

Swafford was waiting in the office when Travis got into work the next day. "I almost called you at home, Chief. You've been comin' to work real regular these days."

"Real regular," Travis agreed, "but I hope this Barker mess gets cleaned up soon and I can take it easy again. I'm getting behind on my reading."

"You and books," Swafford observed. "I'm not much for readin', but I learn a lot on TV. There was a man who shut hisself up in a cave for two years on last night. His fingernails was three inches long and all his skin flaked off. It was right disgustin'."

"I can believe it. You have something new on the Barker case, or do you just want a cup of coffee?"

"Both, Chief. I've got a mighty strong hunch. I talked to Cora about it last night and even she thinks there may be something to it. That's unusual."

"Hunches are an important part of police work, particularly educated hunches. What's yours?"

Harley pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and read a name. "Reggie Cant. He's a suspect. We talked about him once, remember."

"Sure. I talked to Cant. He has a nickname, the Limey. He had made some statements that seemed threatening to Miss Barker. You have something else on him?"

"He's a foreigner. I talked to him yesterday. He jest don't talk like you and me." Swafford moved his head knowingly.

"Well, what is it about Cant?"

"That's it, Chief. Isn't that enough? He just don't talk right."

Travis scratched his head. Swafford was good, darned good, at dealing with a certain criminal element. But he had always been suspicious of people from Florida. Each summer Asheville was inundated with them, usually retirees who fled to the mountains to escape the heat. Now comes a suspect from the far off United Kingdom who talks like one of the Queen's Own. "Just being a foreigner isn't enough to indict."

"I don't know, Chief. A local grand jury might go for it if they heard him talk. Now if his lawyer was to make him keep his mouth shut, that would be a different matter."

Sometimes, Travis believed Swafford was putting him on. "You want coffee, Harley?"

"Sure do."

Travis buzzed Mae for coffee, then gave Swafford the name of the rental company and the dates Stuffy Brook said he was vacationing at Hatteras. "This man Brook has a legitimate motive. The Barker estate. Ms. Garvy seems to be the leading heir, but if she is taken out of the picture, Brook would have a claim on those millions. Greed is a terrible thing."

When Swafford was gone, Travis called Garvy. "Talked to a man named Stuffy Brook last night, Sue's cousin."

"A cousin, I suppose," Garvy allowed. "Grandfathers were brothers."

"He stands to benefit by your death," Travis joked. "You'd better watch your backside."

The remark caught Garvy off guard, but she quickly recovered. "Stuffy as an agile, stalking killer. Nerves of steel, eye like an eagle. I'm terrified. Maybe I should offer to share the estate. Buy him off"

"A good thought. Then if he is behind Sue's death, you become an accessory to Sue's murder by splitting the loot with the assassin."

"You are a wonder, Lang. Double domed theories, plots and counter plots. I was joking. Does Stuffy have an alibi?"

"If it holds up he has a good one. Then you wonder if it's too good."

"Why? What is it?"

"He was at the seashore, a cottage on Hatteras."

"A little late in the season for that," Garvy reasoned.

"Yes and no. He's not the athletic type, not a beach person, or a wind surfer. So, the rates are down, the crowds are gone. A good time to walk along the endless surf, stare philosophically at the blue-grey restless and eternal sea, curl up with a book, broil a little seafood, uncork a good bottle, burrow in and sleep like a sand flea."

"Sounds delicious. Do you want to meet me there?"

"I wish. But do tell me anything you can think of about Stuffy. How did he and Sue get on?"

"They met, they talked. She made fun of him at times, considered him a nitwit. She joked about their grandfather brothers--how they both had their beginnings in the same gene pool, threatened euthanasia. I don't think they ever went anyplace together intentionally. That is the two of them probably never went out to dinner as a pair. But they bumped into one another here and there. Stuffy's well read and he does have a small sense of humor. I think he would rather be poked fun at than ignored."

"They had mutual friends?"

"Oh, yes. I suppose we all do. That is everyone knows everyone else if ever so slightly.

Like that woman who works for Patterson, the lawyer. Anne something."

"Anne Leeds," Travis said.

"Yes. I saw her having a drink with Sue once in that downtown Irish pub. It seemed so out of place, Sue drinking a pint of beer. I'm sure they weren't close, although, now that I've mentioned it, suppose they knew each other from the law firm. Then I believe I spotted Anne and Stuffy together once at a dive out on Merrimon. So, that's what I mean, there's a lot of cross pollination going on."

"I see," Travis said, then added, "and that should either simplify things, or complicate them beyond belief."

"So there you have it," Garvy laughed.

**Chapter 13**

Stuffy Brook didn't sleep well the night after the interview with Travis. He drank several sherries before bedtime, then got up after forty-five minutes and had a stiff scotch and water. He stood in the cavernous living room of his family home and gazed out the window at the empty street, ghostly lit by a single street light, the winter dead trees, bare arms aloft.

Moving from window to window, listening intently for night sounds, fearful, yet familiar, this house, the joy of his childhood, this neighborhood, long gone friends and bittersweet memories. Sometimes on nights like this he would talk to his father. A few drinks, a conversation with dear old dad, then off to bed. Dad never answered, so old Stuffy held the floor. But not tonight. Other demons walked on this night.

Morning found him tired and slightly hung over. He didn't bother making breakfast, his normal routine, instead opting to stand in the gushing hot shower for an extra ten minutes, letting the cleansing water wash over him, the purifying water, the same water that flowed on Earth when Christ was born, the identical water that dinosaurs drank. He ate a sausage biscuit and drank coffee in a fast food restaurant, sat among truck drivers and workmen, dressed in rough clothing, ready for a hard day's work.

He ate his sausage biscuit and could think of nothing but cholesterol. Who was it and by virtue of what authority had he been brainwashed so as to be unable to enjoy a simple thing like a sausage biscuit. Sure he was pudgy, certainly he sat at a desk most of the day, but one sausage biscuit? He struggled through the day, ate lunch at a nearby book store, a quaint shop frequented by people who looked intellectual and ran to whole grain bread and brown rice. A hot buttered scone with jam and steaming herbal tea. On the way out he tarried at the bulletin board. "Driving VW bus to San Francisco on the 14th. Need help with driving and gas." Or, "Deep massage, twenty dollars." There was a phone number. One scrap of paper was neatly lettered: "Sally, call Derek. Mobile didn't work out." Then a scrawled note: "It's hell to be a cripple."

Stuffy gave thanks that he had both legs and arms in working order. At six he left the library and drove to the shopping mall off Tunnel Road, then he walked for half an hour, finally, going to a pay phone, and nervously dialing a number. When someone answered on the other end he half whispered, "I've got to talk with you."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, but someone visited me last night."

"A man?"

"Yes, a man." He glanced around him. No one near. "Could your phone be tapped?"

"I don't know why it would be. There are laws about those things. After all, we're lovers aren't we? There's nothing wrong with that."

"Of course. I'm not saying there's anything wrong. Stuffy settled down. Yes, they were lovers. And lovers often got together. "I haven't seen you for a while. We have to get together. Can you come over?"

"I suppose so. How would nine be?"

"Fine. I haven't had dinner. I'll grab a bite, or do you want to eat?"

"I'm eating now. I thawed a pizza, Just a small one. We can have a drink."

Stuffy tried to think of something loving to say, endearing, but nothing popped into his head. But this was a love affair. She really cared for him, he was certain of that. And now to announce to the world that they were lovers was also a step in the right direction. They could be together, something Stuffy passionately desired. Those lonely nights with only his father to talk to. "OK, nine O'clock." Then he added, "I'm looking forward to it."

He was sipping sherry when the car pulled into the driveway. She cut the lights, got out and walked around to the front porch. How nice it would be, he-thought, if they were married, living here just as his family had lived here before him. The two of them. Truth to tell, he had the house and they had enough money, plenty of money. Both had jobs, getting a bit old for children. Money for a nice car, money for vacations, they really didn't need any more money.

Rather than turn the noisy bell, she tapped on the window. Stuffy was waiting just inside and opened the door instantly. "Anne, it's so good to see you." She gave him a peck on the cheek and continued into the living room. "You've been drinking."

"Just sherry. Just to settle my nerves."

"Were the police here?"

"Inspector Travis. He asked a lot of questions. He knows about the money, knows I'm in line after Garvy. He knows."

"Of course he does, silly." She had come in brusquely, but now her mood sweetened. She came near and put her arm around his shoulder. "I said I'd keep you completely out of it, didn't I?"

"Yes, you told me that, Anne. Shall I mix you a scotch?"

"Yes. Make it strong. I think I'll spend the night if you don't mind."

"Mind. That would be wonderful, Anne. I know we've had to be careful up until now. But I was thinking after I called. You said lovers. Why not be lovers? Why not proclaim it?"

"But we are lovers, darling. Now how about that drink?"

Stuffy-went to the kitchen and returned with scotch, water and ice cubes in a double highball glass. "We don't really need a lot of money. We could live here together, the two of us. What would we need with more than our salaries? I have some savings."

Anne took a long drink, then flashed a smile. She had known she would have to spend the night after he called. His instability repulsed her. Certainly she would have to invest a few more nights to get the job done. And such a simple job. "But we have such plans, Stuffy, darling. A world tour. The two of us together in Singapore, Bangkok, Rome, Naples. We don't need money worries. We're very close now."

"But I have my books and you have hobbies, or could begin hobbies. Just taking care of this house would be an interesting job."

She looked around at the darkened corners, dust balls under the furniture and she almost shuddered. "I think this house might need professional help," she said brightly. She pushed her body against his. "I love you Stuffy and I'm doing this for you. We'll be together and the world will be ours! There are plans." Her plans for him, once Garvy was out of the way, was instant marriage, a few days in Hawaii, she would grant him that, then a flight to Sydney. Two days in Sydney and they would fly up to Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef. At that point Stuffy would be shark bait.

"This whole thing might be pointless," Stuffy complained. "Travis mentioned that once the will is executed Garvy has the estate and she has a brother and sister who would inherit. So, I may be out of it now. We'd better quit while we're ahead."

"Ahead," Anne exclaimed, then moved to a more soothing tone. "The game's just begun, Stuffy. Isn't it exciting? Don't you think I know the law after all these years with Patterson? And, don't you think I've been over all the estate papers with a microscope? It's going to take weeks for a legal search for heirs. Of course there won't be any except you." She stopped short of naming herself.

"But what about Garvy?" Stuffy protested.

"Yes, what about Garvy," Anne repeated. She downed the last of her drink and handed Stuffy the glass. He marched off to the kitchen. When he returned he carried a drink for each of them. She took the drink, then announced, "I'll take care of Garvy."

"But the will. The legal system is ticking away," Stuffy protested.

"True. There's a deadline here. If Garvy inherits, that's it. We could just drop this whole thing. But according to North Carolina law, if Garvy dies before the case reaches probate, then the next in line takes over. That, Stuffy, is you know who."

Stuffy heaved an audible sigh. "I can't be a part of murder. That's what it is. Even just you talking about it, then this detective coming here, mentioning a motive. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Be brave, Stuffy." Anne drained half her glass. This wimp was getting on her nerves. "I have friends, people in Chicago. They'll take care of Garvy far us. I've talked with them, it's a done deal."

"Murder for hire, Anne. Can we base a relationship on this? And why would they help you?"

"Well, they did a job for Sue Barker through me. They never met Sue, but someone was bothering her. So she asked me and I handled it. They were well paid up front in cash. So, they're willing to do the Garvy job. The only problem is the cash. Sue had plenty, I don't. I've offered them twice as much if they'll give me credit."

Stuffy shuddered. "Murder on a finance plan, murder by installment. What a country we live in."

"Just, don't worry about it, Stuffy. Go to work, come home. We'll see each other. When the job's done, a quick trip to a judge and we're married. You want that, don't you?"

"More than anything. You've no idea how lonely it gets around here. But Chicago and the mob. It is the mob. And I've read about them. They won't let you alone, they'll be after us next."

"Not to worry." She handed him her empty glass. She felt a little wobbly, but that was good. She had trouble picturing herself as Stuffy's dead sober lover. Her worst nightmare was being alone with Stuffy night after night in this gloomy barn of a house, the doors triple locked, the windows nailed shut. A stifling feeling.

But she too was lonely and the years were passing and a sudden torrent of desperation had caused her to seize this thin reed of an opportunity. How she had envied Sue Barker with her good looks, her polish and her millions!

Inspector Travis was about to leave for Patterson's office when Lt. Harley Swafford came into his office and confirmed that Stuffy had indeed been at the beach. He thought of asking Harley to make discreet inquiries around the library-about Stuffy's recent habits, but then changed his mind.

For discreet questions he needed a discreet cop, maybe Schultz. Instead he asked Harley to go into Stuffy's Montford neighborhood and question neighbors about his activities. "Tell them that Mr. Brook isn't suspected of anything, but its a hush hush police inquiry. Let them think what they will."

At Patterson's office, he once again encountered Anne Leeds. She was tastefully dressed in tweeds and had her hair done up in a severe bun. She could have been a librarian, or governess. For a second he thought she seemed startled to see him. "You're getting to be a regular. But you should call ahead. Mr. Patterson's usually has a full schedule."

"I did call. I called him at home, before he left for work. He said it was OK."

"I see," she said coldly, not keen on being left out of the loop. She buzzed her boss, then told Travis to go on in. Patterson offered coffee, but Travis declined. "I've a couple of topics today. First I'll ask if your office has ever had any dealings with organized crime."

"That question is not very flattering," Patterson huffed.

"I know it's not, but I didn't mean it to be offensive. There are federal offices that try to keep tabs on these things through phone records and so forth. I really didn't want to go through that process. It's better for both of us if we keep it between you and me and the lamp post."

"I see," Patterson said. "And I understand your position. But I don't understand your surprising interest in organized crime. Do you think a crime figure killed Sue?"

"No. Although it could be. I mean she could have welshed on a debt, but it seems unlikely. Some time ago an ex bartender at the Grove Park made a nuisance of himself with Sue, even threatened violence. Later, he disappeared and the account I have might indicate that Sue hired some out of town muscle to take care of him."

"An amazing story, but knowing Sue, believable. She was keenly aware of the things that money could buy, even a human life. But, I can assure you this office has never had any truck with any member of organized crime. There are several criminal lawyers in this city who might be of help to you."

"Of course, I've thought of that," Travis responded. "But organized crime has invaded the board rooms in recent years. Some of its activities could be tagged legitimate. There's a lot of money drifting around out there."

Patterson was thoughtful. He put his left elbow on his desk and leaned his head in his hand. "Yes," he said slowly, "We must be watchful. There was a time, not so far back, when this office was approached. I strongly suspect it was a money laundering scheme. Possibly I should have reported it to federal authorities, but I didn't. A legitimate law firm doesn't like to get mixed up with something like that in anyway."

"What did you do?"

"I washed my hands of it," the old layer retorted, rubbing his hands together.

"Who was the contact? Who did you talk to?"

"Actually, nobody. The proposal was made to Anne, Miss Leeds, my secretary. And I told her to reject it out of hand."

"Which she did."

"I heard no more about it. She is an exceptionally efficient secretary."

"There might come a time when I will want to discuss that situation with her, but for the moment I'd appreciate your silence."

"I understand. We lawyers spend our lives striving for confidentiality. We learn early on not even to discuss certain matters with our wives."

"Could you tell me a little about Miss Leeds. I do know that she's divorced. Does she have any romantic interests that you know of?"

Patterson smiled. "Is this a personal inquiry?"

"No. It's professional. She's a member of that thirty something group, the circle that Sue Barker moved in. I need all the information-I can get. You'd be surprised at my list of suspects."

"Including myself?"

"You're not on the short list. But you did and do have an opportunity to mishandle estate funds. I don't want to neglect you."

"That's professional. I can tell you that Miss Leeds has been divorced for many years. She came to this firm seeking work during the course of the divorce."

"You handled the divorce?" Travis questioned.

"No. We don't do divorce work, thank heavens. A sure way to make enemies and get involved with rebounding women. Usually no one's satisfied with the outcome and otherwise rational couples are reduced to snapping at one another like wild beasts."

"Miss Leeds is an attractive woman and she must have been more attractive at that time. You're a widower. Did you ever have a romantic interest in her?"

Patterson stared at his favorite oil painting, the one by Eisenhower, then looked back to Travis. "Now, I'm concentrating on being a grandfather. But back then, I did go out with Miss Leeds a few times. It was no secret. My wife had died, Anne was divorced. We went out quite openly, even spent a few days in the islands. But it just wasn't meant to be. I can't tell you exactly why. It reached that point where we either had to contemplate marriage to get her out of the office, or we had to call it off. Cold turkey. I called it off."

"There was no bitterness?"

"I don't think so. Anne's a big girl. She was dating soon after that, maybe a couple of guys."

"That was before this thing with Sue Barker?"

"When she played the little sexpot game on the office floor? Yes, it was. But there was something similar about it. Anne was in her late twenties and I was not really convinced that she was sincerely interested in me as a man. First Anne, then Sue. Why in the world would I flatter myself in believing that young women would have a romantic interest in me? They say there's no fool like an old fool."

Travis chuckled. "Ever think of going after an older woman?"

Patterson's eyes went to the ceiling, as if in thought. "Hmmm. Hawthorn Garvy might be a target of opportunity. If I could pull it off my money worries would be over."

"As if you had any."

"I've made mine, more than I'll ever be able to spend. But there's the grandchildren."

Travis asked in half jest, "Do you think that sweet thing Garvy would go for you?"

"I've gotten pretty good at being a grandfather. I think I'll stick to it. My secret to success is simply give the kids anything they want and nothing they need. Are you out of questions?"

**Chapter 14**

Travis slept in and didn't get to the office until nearly ten the following day. It was Saturday and the department was almost deserted, except for the duty people. There was a note on his desk from Lieutenant Swafford. It read:

"Stuffy Brook has been seeing a woman named Anne Leeds. Her car has been parked outside his house all night more than once. A suspicious neighbor wrote down the license

number. She is an attractive woman in her thirties and works for the law firm of Patterson and Patterson. Other than that, there's nothing unusual to report about Brook. The neighbors say that they've been unaware of him dating anybody before this Leeds thing. He is a quiet man, has lived in the same house all his life, and keeps to himself. He does a little yard work, but not much. At one time he had a pet cat, but it died.

Travis had talked to Schultz yesterday and found little of interest about Stuffy's recent activities at the library. No one talked much in the library. But, there had been a mention of Anne Leeds. Stuffy had been seen with her at a lobster restaurant and at some sort of festival on Pack Square.

So Anne and Stuffy had definitely been linked. Travis remembered that Garvy had seen Anne and Sue together. He decided to pose a few questions to Anne. He found her number, punched it in, and a machine answered. He decided not to leave a message and hung up. He toyed with the idea of driving out to see her. A lot of people used their machines around the clock.

On impulse, he called again and this time left a message and his office phone number. He was in no great rush to talk with Anne. Certainly she had been evasive on not coming clean on a personal relationship with Sue Barker.

The case was a riddle, like a thousand piece puzzle with a handful of pieces missing, but Travis would be patient. He would wait until the mud settled in hopes of a clear view--at least that's what he told himself. Swafford hove into his office like a bull moose on a mission. Travis could tell there was something more than coffee on the big man's mind. Another hunch? Had he run the Limey to ground?

That girl I was telling you about, that fat Pat," Swafford began.

"The prostitute?"

"Whore. She was hangin' around outside the building when I came in this morning. Scared shitless. Them two guys who took her boyfriend out of the hospital, she saw them last night. They wuz checkin' into the Radisson. She was lookin' to turn a trick and almost smashed into them."

"Did they see her?" Travis remembered they had given her two hundred dollars and told her to get lost. Another meeting might jar their memories and lead to the termination of one Asheville street walker. Lord knows, there would still be enough without her.

"She don't think so. But you can bet she made tracks. Holed up at a friend's apartment all night."

"You got a description of them?"

"Damn right I did, Chief. You want me to deliver them to the jail house?

"Cautiously. Very cautiously. These men are dangerous. Yet they won't cross the law if they can avoid it. Take at least three men with you, have backup patrol cars standing by. Cautiously and courteously, bring them in for questioning."

"What about Pat? She's laid this out for us."

"I know," Travis said. He was now in the position of having to arrest someone who had given the department great assistance. A hooker, yes, but one who had served as a community helper. "Send a policewoman out for her. Again, use kindness., Later on, explain to her that we need her testimony and that we owe her a big one. And that we will pay our debts."

''That's right fair, Chief. I'll get things started." When Swafford was gone, Travis went over and opened his door, intending to ask Mae for coffee, but she was not at her desk. There was an excellent bakery four blocks away that had a few tables and a couple of coffee urns. He decided to walk over and fill a cup and see what the oven had produced on this day.

As he walked he passed a young policewoman in heated conversation with Pat, the hefty streetwalker who wore a tight leather mini skirt, grey stockings, pump heels and a Tar Heels sports jacket. The lady in question seemed to have a small tattoo on her left cheek, but Travis couldn't make out whether it was a butterfly, or a rose.

As he passed them, he heard the policewoman says over Pat's vigorous protests, "You'll be like a guest of the city."

Travis tarried over something sweet, flaky and Danish at the bakery, drank good brewed coffee, raven-black, a blissful aroma rising from the jet surface. Slowly, he returned to headquarters, stopping to chat with a fireman loitering in front of the station.

Once more in his office, he punched in the jail extension and asked if Lieutenant Swafford had delivered a couple of sojourners.

"Madder than wet hens," the sergeant said. "They've been in places like this before and they know their rights. Shouting their heads off for an attorney, their attorney, want to call Chicago, they do."

"Did you let them?" Travis asked.

"No, Sir. We haven't even booked them. By the way, what are the charges?"

"Nothing specific right now. Make sure they're in separate cells far enough apart so they can't communicate. Have somebody send over their envelopes. Swafford if he's still around. And just leave them alone for a time." Swafford showed up in minutes with a pair of large brown envelopes and placed them on the desk. Travis nodded in satisfaction. "No problems?"

"They're raisin' cane about their rights, but they didn't put up no physical fuss." "What about their room?"

"I left a patrolman on the door."

"Just right. I'd like to go over and look through their things. Any weapons?"

"Not on them. We didn't look through anything in the room."

"Good. I'll get a warrant. Get a run down on them, prints if you have to, and contact the Chicago PD. Also put a call through to the FBI. If these men are who we think they are, they're trampling the hell out of the law across state lines. I'll meet you back here in an hour and we'll toss their room together."

Travis was pleased, the rabbits were in the snare. They were, if Pat could be believed. The case had boiled down to the word of a street hooker. There was time enough for a line up later in the day, what with Pat safely salted away." He called the women's section of the jail to make certain she was locked up and then asked the matron to give her every consideration. "She's very special to the department. Not really a prisoner, but in temporary protective custody."

''She's been askin' for food," the matron responded. "Give it to her. Anything you can. Ice cream, apple pie."

The matron laughed. "I'll see what I can do, Lang. But it might be outside of the budget."

"I'll pay. Take care."

Getting a "just cause" warrant was a simple matter. Lang had found nothing unusual in the personal papers taken from the two men at the jail. In fact they had only pocket change, a key to a rented car, plane tickets to Chicago, but not from Asheville. They were to depart from Knoxville which meant they had planned to leave the city quickly and make the two hour drive through the mountains to catch their plane. Both had Illinois driver's licenses, one issued to Daniel Loyd, the other to Dominic Sharpusky.

"How long can we hold them, Chief?" Swafford asked as they drove to the hotel.

"Long enough," Travis said. He knew he was on the thinnest of ice, but even if the arrest had been illegal there was scant chance that the two would sue anybody. That is, unless Pat had been dead wrong about them.

Travis sought out the hotel manager and showed him the warrant, then the three of them went to the room together where they found the officer on guard chatting with a cute Latino housekeeper in the hall.

"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," Swafford said to the patrolman.

"I get by. Just checking things out. Nobody's been in the room." He grinned at the housekeeper and she winked and pushed her cart on down the hall.

The guns were in a bag together. A pair of .38 revolvers, both clean and unloaded. A box of shells was also in the bag. "Looks like they meant business," Swafford said. Travis made a point of showing the weapons to the hotel manager.

"A couple of tough cookies."

"They looked respectable and paid in cash. What've they done?"

"Nothing yet," Travis said. "It looks like we've finally caught a couple of people before the crime was committed. At least I hope so." He wondered. This tied right into the Barker case. Were they after Garvy and if so, had they gotten her during the night. Well, if she was dead, she was dead. He continued searching the luggage, then went over the room itself, checking everything, by the book.

"Is it legal to arrest people who are just planning a crime?" the manager asked.

"Good question. If these men are criminals, and I'm not saying they are, they may have committed crimes in the past. And we have reasonable cause to believe they came to Asheville with evil intent. If we're wrong, they'll go free."

"I see," the manager said. "If you're wrong, they might be able to sue you, but I don't think they could sue the hotel. Successfully, that is."

Travis scowled. He was sick to death of hearing about a law suit lurking around every corner. That's one reason he had attempted to retire, one reason, one of many. "We're on firm legal ground."

What he was looking for was nestled among the pages of the Gideon Bible. Just a slip of paper with a telephone number scrawled on it. He recognized the number immediately. He had called it not long ago.

Later in the day there was more good news. The two men they had arrested were well known to Chicago police. Danny Loyd and his partner, Two-toed Dom Sharpusky. And even though there was nothing illegal about transporting handguns, it seems these two had been stolen from a Milwaukee sporting goods store two years back.

Swafford gleefully booked the two for possession of stolen property, then arranged for a line-up. Pat would view the two and four others through one-way glass.

Travis called Garvy immediately upon returning to the office and found her safe and chipper. "You're calling just to see if I'm feeling OK, how sweet. You are sentimental."

There was a silence on the phone while Travis searched for words. "It's a police matter, Garvy. You're in line for a sizeable inheritance, maybe. But that maybe is enough to make you a target in this world we live in." He didn't want to name names, but there was only one person who might profit by her untimely death.

"You mean you think I'm a target." She paused briefly, then said quickly. "It's Stuffy again, isn't it? You think Stuffy might harm me. Well, I'm not much of a judge of character, but I wouldn't be too worried if I were you. Do you want me to call him?"

"Call who?" Travis asked.

"Stuffy. We'll have a face off."

"I'm serious, Garvy. Just don't say anything to anyone for a day or two and be careful. Just a precaution. And remember, I didn't say anything about Stuffy. You did."

"Thank you Mr. Officer, stop by for a drink some time. The bar's always open."

"I'll do that."

By late afternoon, the scrap of paper that held the phone number had been dusted for prints and the technician had come up with a partial. Travis was hoping it had been made by either Loyd, or his two-toed friend. Actually, Sharpusky had seven toes, but only two on his right foot. He had removed the other three with an accidental blast from a shot gun in an attempted robbery of a convenience store years before.

Travis pondered long and hard how to approach the next phase of the case. The telephone number definitely belonged to Anne Leeds. It must have been she who arranged the hit for Sue Barker and Travis guessed she had contacted the same men to blow Garvy away. But had she done Sue Barker in and how deep was Stuffy involved in all this.

Travis decided to go for the weak link in the chain. He had records get him the make and model of Stuffy's car, then drove to the parking garage adjacent to the library. He guessed most downtown library employees used the structure and he was right about Stuffy. He found the car, parked nearby and intercepted his quarry when he got off work.

He was standing just behind Stuffy watching him unlock his car. "I'd like you to go for a ride with me." Startled, Stuffy whirled around, dropping his car key.

"You almost scared me to death." He was wide eyed. "These parking garages, they aren't safe. You should know that."

"I do. But I'd still like to talk with you. We can go for a drink, or just a drive around the area."

"I usually go home after work. Change clothes. I suppose I have a routine. I used to feed my cat, but she died. A person can get attached to a cat."

"I won't take much of your time." Travis wondered what was going through Stuffy's head. Was he deliberately stalling. If so, why?

"Couldn't it wait until tomorrow. I don't like spur of the moment things." Obviously, he was nervous.

"Police work is often spontaneous. Cause and effect. A crime is committed, a criminal is arrested. A criminal is arrested, he is taken to court and then trundled off to prison. In prison a man has a surfeit of time."

"I don't know what you're getting at." Stuffy glanced back and forth, not meeting the policeman's steady gaze. "I need to talk to you about Anne Leeds."

"Anne Leeds." Stuffy repeated the name, then fell silent. Anne had been the first woman he had really slept with as a lover. There had been others, other sordid little incidents. Twice before he had consorted with street prostitutes, once when his mother was still alive. He had been ashamed. Then once after she had died.

There was also a woman at the library, but they had never been to bed. She was his age and they had gone to a movie, a Walt Disney action film. Afterwards they had had hamburgers and he had dropped her off at her apartment. Grace was her name and some people at the library said she was an old maid, a typical librarian. He had enjoyed the evening, but for some reason had never gotten around to inviting her out again. There was his routine.

Then Anne came along. Attractive, youthful. And she saw something in him. Grace was bookish. But so was he. How did he ever get involved in this mess?

Travis waited quietly as Stuffy's mind raced. The man's face mirrored a variety of emotional baggage. At last Stuffy spoke. "I know Anne Leeds."

"I had that one figured out. Now if we could go somewhere and talk."

"I'd like a drink. A good drink."

"Fine. Come get in my car."

The two were silent as Travis wheeled out of the garage and headed for Tunnel Road and its strip of franchised restaurants and bars. They found an out of the way booth at a steak house and both ordered scotch and water. When the waitress brought the drinks, Stuffy asked her to bring him another.

The librarian jiggled the ice in his glass with a pudgy finger, then took three quick sips and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "My Dad almost drowned himself in this stuff."

He took a larger swallow and seemed to relax. "I have a taste for it, but try to stick to sherry. A sherry bibber, that's me. A fuddy-duddy sherry bibber. How do you like that?"

"Not a bad lifestyle." Travis took a good drink. "I spend a lot of my time holed up with books. Maybe we're two of a kind."

"You're more worldly, you fit in better with society, go with the flow. I'm off somewhere in a backwater."

"Tell me about Anne."

The waitress brought the second drink and Stuffy gulped the first and handed her the glass. "She and I," he began. "I was thinking about it last night. I suppose she sought me out for a reason. We had a thing going, have a thing going."

"Dating."

"I suppose," Stuffy said. "I never thought of it as dating. We never really went much of anyplace. Maybe a time or two at first. Then she would usually come to my house. "We'd have a drink, usually more than one. Then we'd go to bed."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Not long," Stuffy said. "Not long at all. These things can develop quickly. I should have asked why you're prying like this. This type of affair is not uncommon, consenting adults, heterosexuals. They don't jail people for fornication anymore, do they?"

"Not even a scarlet letter as far as I know," Travis said. "But high stakes games that involve murder, that's a different story." Travis fixed his eyes on Stuffy. "Murder is the most serious of crimes. Taking the life of another human, depriving them of a measure of the few days they have on this earth. It is a grave and grievous act."

"I understand that," Stuffy said. He was well along on his second drink and cast a frightened eye around for the waitress. Suddenly he was calm. "Tell me what you're getting at."

Travis considered his next words for a split second then said, "The murder of Hawthorn Garvy."

Stuffy paled. "She's dead?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," he stammered. "How should I know?"

"If there is a plot, there are plotters."

"You think I'm a plotter?"

"If you're in on a plan, a murderous plan..."

"Maybe I need a lawyer."

Travis switched courses. "She's not dead, not yet, anyway. But the plan has been uncovered. I think you might have one last chance to extricate yourself from a sorry situation."

The waitress came by and asked Travis if he was ready for another drink. She shot Stuffy a curious glance. He was obviously upset and beginning to show the signs of drink. "You have any snacks?" Travis asked.

"Antipasto."

"Sounds good."

"Large or small?"

"Large. And bring me another. Get one for him, too." He waved a hand toward Stuffy who looked relieved.

When she had gone, Travis asked Stuffy to tell him about Anne Leeds.

"She's not a demon." He was defensive. "She's a sensitive human being like you and me."

"We're all of us human and mostly sensitive. But sometimes we do bad things."

"Yes, a bad thing," Stuffy said. "And there was no reason. I mean between the two of us we have plenty of money. We could of had a life. But it wasn't me, was it, Inspector. It was the money. She saw it all clear, she knew the law and she knew about me and she knew about Sue not having a will. She saw it all clear." He paused and finished his drink. "I saw it too. I mean, after it had begun. I saw it, but I didn't want to believe it. You know, you've heard this before, I thought she would change. That's an old line, isn't it?"

"Maybe it's true, sometime."

"Sometime," Stuffy agreed. "But not this time. Garvy's really not dead, is she?

"No, she's not."

"And you do know about Anne, don't you?"

Travis nodded yes. "I know that two men arrived in town last night on a mission. You can guess what that mission is?"

"They were thugs?"

"I'd say so."

"To kill Garvy. Is that it? To kill Garvy?"

"I think so. Don't you?"

"Yes, I think so. I want to get it off my mind. I really don't care what happens." The waitress brought the drinks and a large antipasto plate. Stuffy's hand darted out and snatched a black olive. Travis picked up a hot pepper and paired it with an anchovy. Everything glistened with olive oil.

"I'd like to hear your story," Travis said. He had his eye on a piece of hard salami, but Stuffy got it first. The antipasto was gone and the glasses drained when Stuffy finished his rambling account of what had happened. Travis mopped oil from his hands with a large napkin, then asked the crucial question, the subject Stuffy hadn't touched. "Did Anne kill Sue Barker?"

Stuffy, who had seemed to fade into a deep alcohol induced lethargy as his tale ended, was startled awake by the question. "Of course not! What do you think she is?"

"Well." Travis was on the verge of a smile, but pressed it into a frown. "She did arrange to have that ex bartender taken care of and she was planning to have Garvy put out of the way. It seems she might have been capable..."

"But she wasn't, I mean isn't. Anne isn't that cold blooded. To start a thing, to do a thing, I mean from the beginning. It was when Sue was killed that the idea came to her. I think maybe when she learned there was no will. That was when this whole thing developed. So it was just a chance. Murder Sue? No. Never."

"Then who did?" Travis asked.

"I don't know. It wasn't on my account. I had long ago forgotten any thought of the Barker millions. And I think I am the only survivor, other than Garvy, of course, and she's not a Barker, or not now anyway."

Travis believed him. He had hoped it was Anne, not because of Anne, but because this case had become a real drag. The mayor was calling him daily and he was running short of excuses and red herrings. If it was Anne, Travis believed she had done it without Stuffy's knowledge. A possibility,but not likely.

He drove Stuffy home and saw him to his door. He would have liked to have gotten a statement from the librarian, but the man was obviously the worse for alcohol and Travis himself had picked up the tab. A statement from a drunken man wouldn't mean much.

Once away from the house, Travis called the dispatcher and asked her to contact Schultz and have him meet him at the station. His plan was to give Schultz a fill-in and then send him with a policewoman to take Anne into custody. Then with half of the antipasto and two drinks under his belt he would go home and sleep like a sated bloodhound.

**Chapter 15**

Anne Leeds was not a model prisoner. Schultz had told her nothing except her rights and that she was being taken into custody for suspicion of murder.

"Who are my accusers?" Anne demanded. "Let's see your evidence!"

"I'm just a police officer, not the judiciary. You're entitled to a speedy trial, but it may take a day or two. Inspector Travis said he'd talk with you first thing in-the morning."

"Travis. Lang Travis, that, that traitor," she sputtered. "Who does he think he is having-you arrest me at night and then planning to talk to me the next day." She contorted her mouth and rolled her head to and fro as she said "talk to me" in an odd voice.

Schultz knew exactly what Travis had in mind. Let the prisoner spend the night in a cell with her own thoughts in a whirlwind of doubt and fear. Let her break herself down. "I'm sorry, Ms. Leeds, but I have my orders. Once certain evidence has been gathered it's the job of a law enforcement officer to act on that evidence."

"And what is that evidence?" With arched eyebrows and a haughty voice.

"Whatever it is, Inspector Travis believes its sufficient to take you into custody. I'm certain you'll find out very soon."

"But not tonight."

"No Ma'am, not tonight."

Anne fell silent. Faced with the inevitable, she had to do some straight thinking.

At 4 a.m. Stuffy Brook's phone jangled him from a deep troubled sleep. He pawed for the receiver from under a heavy quilt and put the instrument to his head. The voice on the other end was familiar.

"Anne, where are you?" he asked, not really wanting to know.

"Where do you think I am, you meat head. I'm in jail. Did you talk to Travis?"

"We had a drink together."

Anne fumed. Drinks. The two of them. Man to man. What a moral peanut, what flimsy stuff, what short fall of stern fiber went into that jelly bean brain of his. "And you told him something?" She couldn't be certain that this police phone was not tapped. Perhaps that was the great Travis plan.

"We talked and I felt it best to be honest. I think it's the best thing for the two of us."

"One of us, two of us, all of us, whatever, Stuffy. I'm in here and you're out. If you say anything else, one more word, you're going to be in here with me. I'm talking prison and I'm talking bad time and hard time. They don't bib sherry in slam. Keep your mouth shut. If you can't do that, get a lawyer, but clam up." Anne slammed down the phone and a shudder racked her body. Why in the name of the queen of spades had she gotten herself involved with this nitwit.

Just after five, Travis was up and in the shower. There were so many loose ends to this case that it looked like a shag rug. On this day, he hoped for a few answers.

There was no one stirring in the B&B. Three guest doors were closed which probably meant six people. So, Sandy was making expenses anyway.

It wasn't six yet when he pulled out of the drive and headed for his office. Too early for even the fast food joints to open. At the station he bought coffee from a machine and went straight to the jail, turned in his weapon at the cage and went back to the matron's office.

"How's Ms. Leeds doing?" he asked.

The sleepy eyed matron asked a question in reply. "How's anyone doing in here? It's a cage. You put a mammal in a cage and they scramble around like crazy for a few minutes, then settle down, only they're not really settled down, they're waiting and they're watchful."

"I guess you've seen a few."

"I guess I have. You think you could get me transferred out of here, Lang?"

"If I did, and I can't, it would be to something you'd like even less."

"Very likely. It's tough to retire when you're thirty two."

Travis smiled. "She make any phone calls?

"Not at first, then only one. About four o'clock." "Got somebody out of bed, huh. Could you bring her to an interrogation room and then stay there while I talk with her?"

"Certainly. Give me a minute. As far as I know she hasn't even tried to sleep."

When he saw Anne, Travis guessed the matron was right. She looked exhausted, her face careworn and pinched with no makeup. "You gave me a bad night, Inspector." Her voice was calm, in control.

They sat across from each other at a small wooden table, the matron in a folding chair in the corner of the small room.

"We have the two men from Chicago in custody.

"Two men." She said the two words without emotion.

"Yes, two criminals. Evidence in their possession led directly to you."

"What evidence?"

"It's confidential until I turn it over to the prosecutor's office. But you might know that these men had weapons, guns."

"Are they soldiers, or law officers." Anne's calm endured.

"I know and you know," Travis said deliberately, "that we can put together a case linking you and them to a killing that happened some time ago, a former hotel bartender."

"Someone I know?" Anne asked.

"I don't think so. A friend of Sue Barker."

"She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes she is." The game continued.

"The body of this, dead man, where was it found?"

"I'm sure the two men from Chicago know where it is."

"Whoever they are," Anne chided. "You can also be sure they'll talk their heads off."

"They came to Asheville for a reason, these two men. That reason is now a matter of record." Travis had little to hang his hat on. He had guessed that it was Stuffy that Anne had called. If she had managed to shut him up, there would be little left. But Stuffy could be made to talk again, but what of it? There had been no attempt on Garvy's life.

"They needed a vacation?"

"No. They're murderers. They came to kill." Travis had almost said, they came to kill Hawthorn Garvy and then relate the remainder of the scenario, but he caught himself just in time, remembering the matron in the corner. She would carry the story out of this room and it would be all over the station by nine and have reached every corner of the court house and beyond by noon.

"I think you should be given some sort of award for bringing in a couple of murderers. By the way, why did you have me locked up? Just going through the phone book at random?"

"We both know the answer to that. You could have called a lawyer last night. Why didn't you?"

"Why should an innocent person call a lawyer, unless, of course, they wanted to sue for false arrest."

"Do you want me to contact your boss? Maybe we can get you out of here, own recognizance."

"You arrest me, then you O.R. me. What sort of game is this, Inspector? It looks like you're fishing for a law suit."

"I'm giving you a chance to keep this thing quiet for the moment. I'll tell my story to the prosecutor and then you and Mr. Patterson can tell your story to the prosecutor. It's the best deal you're going to get."

"You mean you won't file charges?"

"That's right. I'll leave that up to the prosecutor."

"You do know you're leaving yourself wide open for a law suit."

"Come off it. You know I've got a solid prima facie case against you and we can build the circumstantial evidence until hell won't have it. And you can't control Stuffy."

Anne blanched. She was a tough cookie, but the sleepless night had worn her thin and she knew what Travis said was true. Maybe he didn't have a solid case but there was enough to indict, set in motion an ordeal and mud-spattering, enough to convince a majority that she is a vicious, conniving creature even if she was set free. And he was right, Stuffy would crumple like a house of cards.

Anne smiled. "Inspector, you've really given me a wonderful experience here, the chance to see the inside of a real honest-to-goodness lockup, the authentic slam."

Travis nodded solemnly. "We'll have to tell the entire story to Mr. Patterson." He started to reach for the phone.

"He'll probably fire me."

Travis paused. "Probably. That's what he should do and I believe he tries to do the right thing. But he also may stand by you during the legal proceedings."

"Yes, he will likely do that. I guess I'll be lucky to beat this rap, that's what they call it, isn't it, beating a rap?"

Travis forgot the phone for a minute and leaned back in his chair. "There's still the matter of Sue Barker's murder."

"I had nothing to do with that," Anne protested. "I wish it had never happened. That's what started all this mess. I wish I knew who did it."

"So do I." Travis picked up the phone and called Patterson.

**Chapter 16**

Garvy called an hour before quitting time and asked Travis to drop by for pizza. "I have a clue."

"Good. I could use one. And I have a story for you. Can I bring anything?"

"How 'bout a twelve pack of beer."

"Light?"

"Definitely not. I hate light beer and I hate dieting. I'd like to run off to France and eat myself to death. Escargot dripping with butter and garlic, lamb shanks smothered in calories. Regular beer will do. Make sure it's cold."

At Garvy's apartment, Travis put the beer on the coffee table and popped open a couple of cans: "I don't smell pizza. I thought the place would be redolent with it."

"That's a ten dollar word," Garvy said. "I haven't called yet. You like pepperoni."

"You mean I'm not getting home made? After I brought the beer?"

"Did you brew the beer?"

"No, I didn't brew the beer. But I picked it out. But I was invited. I didn't say come to the pizza parlor with me."

"Maybe next time I'll go to the pizza parlor with you. Or maybe you can take me to the Outback for a bloody rare steak and a bloomin' onion. Let me call." She went into the kitchen to the phone. Travis was enjoying the beginning of the evening. He could learn to be a social creature.

"Thirty minutes max." She took her beer and sank into a chair. "You want to tell me your story?"

"Give me your clue first."

"OK. One of the people at the party did see someone leaving the building next door. Out the front door."

"A stranger?"

"Yes, an older woman."

"What's older?"

"Late fifties, early sixties. Short steel-grey hair, gold rimmed glasses, carrying a fair sized purse and they think she has a mole on her forehead."

"Which side?"

"Her right, your left."

"Did she have the look of a desperado."

"No. She smiled and nodded, then walked off slowly toward the parking lot. No doubt to a getaway car with a wheel man waiting."

Travis scribbled notes on a small pad. "Well, it's certainly a piece of the puzzle."

"Your turn."

He finished his beer and opened another. "The first one always goes down fast." As quickly as he could he told her the story of Anne Leeds and Stuffy Brook.

When he was done, Garvy asked, "Are they both in jail?"

"No, they're both out of jail."

"But they were plotting murder."

"Definitely. And yours, which makes it pretty personal. If they would both confess, there could be conspiracy and attempted murder charges. We do have the two boys from Chicago in lockup. We will have them at least for harboring stolen property and one is a parole violator. Leaving Illinois, consorting with a known criminal. There may be other charges."

"It sounds hideous, almost obscene. I can see why people scoff at the justice system. The four of them should be at least flogged, or tossed into a pit of snakes. Where is swift, sweet justice?"

"It's tough to think about," Travis said. "You've probably said yourself that there's a little good in everyone."

"I have, but now I've lived to regret it." The doorbell rang and she got money from the table and went to get the pizza. Returning, she put the box on the coffee table and tore it open. "Is that redolent enough for you?"

"Plenty."

"Watch it, it's hot. I burned the roof of my mouth a few weeks ago. It took forever to go away. Tell me more about crime and punishment."

Travis tugged at a slice and the cheese stretched like a flimsy rubber band. He looked up at Garvy and said, "I've done my job."

"What do you mean?"

"I, my department really, we've identified four suspects and I spent much of the day going over the evidence with the prosecutor's office. Two of them are in lockup. The other two are- readily accessible. I did put the fear of the Almighty into Anne by locking her up overnight. That's what police do, collar criminals. Consider them collared. And, as far as I know, you're no longer being stalked and the Barker millions are just around the corner."

"My protector." Garvy shoved half a slice of pizza in her mouth. When she could talk again, she asked, "What about Sue's killer?"

''I don't think Anne had anything to do with it. So it's back to square one. Of course I did have deep suspicions about Stuffy for two reasons. First, the money. And second, he had a priceless alibi. Sometimes you look for the person with the best alibi."

"Like Daniel Smythe-Keye," Garvy said.

"Yes, like Smythe-Keye. His was so explicit, so detailed that, that ... I'll be damned." Travis suddenly cast a puzzled look out the window, but there was nothing but sky and a passing cloud.

"What is it?"

"Well, I'm embarrassed. I was about to say that Smythe-Keye's alibi was so detailed that I don't think anybody ever bothered to check it out. It could be a complete fraud."

"It could be, but Dan loves to run off to meetings, or do anything to pretend he's working. He's not very assertive and about the last person I'd suspect of being capable of murder. That crime, particularly premeditated, takes a little grit, a trace of steel in the blood. Dan probably has problems deciding on which socks to wear." She picked up the next to the last piece of pizza and told Travis that he could have the rest.

"But you took the one with the most pepperoni on it."

"You think I'm some sort of lady?"

"Next time I'll be quicker. Tomorrow I'll check out the Smythe-Keye alibi and try to fit a few more pieces together. Tonight, I'm sacking out early. I got up at five this morning."

"You'll have to invite me over. I'd like to see where you live and how."

Travis chuckled. He was certain Sandy would enjoy seeing yet another visitor.

"I've got a landlady who would love to chat with you, maybe ask your intentions."

"You live in some kind of rooming house?"

"A B and B. Young couple runs it, but the wife really does. It's a pleasant place."

"I love charming old houses."

"I've gotta go. Thanks for everything."

"Take the beer."

"No, you keep it. I may be back. The pizza's not bad."

Travis had told Schultz that he wanted a complete verification of the Daniel Smythe-Keye alibi. In his heart, he thought it a make-work assignment as well as a few scraps to throw the mayor when he demanded results. The arrest of the two hoodlums from Chicago had quieted him down for a couple of days.

The very fact that they were in town placed Asheville in the big leagues in the mayor's eyes. Big city, big time crime, notorious mobsters, big time mayor.

It didn't take Schultz long to find a gaping hole in Smythe-Keye's alibi. It was worse than a hole, the entire alibi was obviously a deliberate concoction. The man had pretended to be at an out of state convention when in fact he had slipped back into Asheville at the time the murder was committed, then back to the convention where he had engaged the services of a prostitute to help substantiate his alibi.

"I'll be damned," Travis said when Schultz had completed his report. "Damming, damned damming."

"Should I bring him in?"

"I don't know. I've got to think. I'm not easily shocked, but he put on a real performance for us. And his lawyer."

"He might try to run," Schultz cautioned.

"The only evidence we have so far is this lack of an alibi. We don't even know the relationship between him and Sue. I mean, I've heard there was no relationship."

"Or it was one sided," Schultz said.

"Or it was one sided," Travis repeated. "A lot of men flipped over Sue Barker. From what I've heard she didn't even have to flirt."

"I've heard she was a put down artist. Sharp tongue."

"Witty, but sharp, leaning a trifle toward the caustic. But bright."

"A master of sarcasm."

"Whatever. Maybe I'd better talk with Garvy again. She started this crazy rumor about Smythe-Keye, the one that actually had the effect of throwing us off. So, she may know something else."

"In the meantime, what shall we do about Smythe-Keye?"

"I don't think we have enough to hold him. We don't want a premature arrest. And then, there may be some other explanation for his activity. It's no crime to omit facts, or even distort them. If lying was a crime the world would be a prison."

"In a way it is," Schultz said.

"This is no time for philosophy, Russ. Follow your nose. See what you can turn up on Smythe-Keye and I'll drop out and call on Garvy."

When Travis reached the twin buildings on the banks of the French Broad, he found Garvy in offices above her apartment. She was in deep conversation with none other than Daniel Smythe-Keye.

Travis noted that the advertising man's brown shoes were not shined, he wore blue pin stripe trousers and a mismatched coat. His hair was unkempt and he had a couple of splotches on his face that looked like pimples. The inspector wondered if Smythe-Keye also had halitosis, but he didn't want to get close enough to find out.

The two looked up in surprise when Travis entered. There were three other people in the room, two women looking over dummy sheets near a window and a man pecking away at a word processor.

Travis nodded to Garvy and Smythe-Keye. "Just passing by. Thought I'd drop in to say hello."

Smythe-Keye looked on the verge of speech, but Garvy talked first. "We were discussing Sue's death, the night it happened. Dan was telling me about the convention."

"What about the convention?" Travis asked. He wondered if he should arrest the man on the spot.

"Really, nothing," Smythe-Keye said. "You know how those things are. Drinking, a few speeches, a little grab ass."

"You were there for the whole thing?"

"Of course. We talked about that in your office."

"We did that," Travis said. "But we're just getting around to checking your alibi."

"Why me?" he demanded.

"Routine. So many suspects. So many alibis. So many stories."

"Well." Smythe-Keye began, then stopped, thinking out his response. "Have you found anything, anywhere?"

"Yes we have."

"And what's that?"

"Police business. You'll be one of the first to know when the time comes."

"Why should I be one of the first?" Smythe-Keye seemed to be losing his composure.

"All the principles in the case will know."

Smythe-Keye stared glumly out the window. "I suppose I'm a principle,"

Garvy said. "For all` our sakes, I hope this ordeal ends soon." She turned to Smythe-Keye. "What about you, Dan. Any theories?"

He rubbed a hand over his forehead and finally uttered one word, "Suicide."

"Oh, come on. You know we all talked about that in the beginning. But Sue wasn't the type. A girl who looks like a million dollars and actually has several million, and I will add, a lust for life."

"I've gotta be going," the advertising man said.

When he was gone, Garvy wheeled on Travis. "Well, did his alibi hold up?"

Travis sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you, but I will because you are Sue's mother. No it didn't. As far as we can tell it was a carefully planned alibi. He left town, returned to town at the time of the killing, then slunk off again."

Well, damn, Lang, arrest him!" Her voice rose to the point that the three other people in the large room glanced around.

"No real charges. No gun, no motive, maybe no opportunity. I mean the larger opportunity is there. As far as we know, he was in Asheville at the time of the shooting, but no one can place him near the scene. I've got a man working on it, working his tail off."

"I think Dan would break if you brought him in, grilled him."

"Maybe, but we can't be certain of that. I just put a bug in his ear. Conscience can be a brutal weapon. I've heard he lives with his mother and I may give her a visit. In the meantime, we'll dig away."

**Chapter 17**

A day later, Travis was driving Interstate 240 off Merrimon Avenue and headed through Beaucatcher cut. There had been a heavy pre-dawn fog and now mist hung on the shoulder of Beaucatcher like smoke on the mountain.

Before the highway cut that drilled and blasted its way through the rock mountain, there had been a tunnel which was still in use. Before the tunnel there had been a crazy zigzag road over the mountain and before that there had been trails. This a reminder of the wilderness that still exists within sight of downtown Asheville.

The radio came to life and Schultz furnished the information that Smythe-Keye's car had been found abandoned on the Blue Ridge Parkway, a routine report from the Blue Ridge rangers. Smythe-Keye's car was found this morning in the parking lot at Mount Pisgah. "You know there's a special lot there for hikers."

Travis knew it well. It was a favorite climb, up Mount Pisgah. There was also a lodge and restaurant nearby, but they would be closed for the season. "I suppose he left it there last night?"

"Yes. I've checked with his Mother. He didn't come home. Definitely his car, 1998 two-door green Chevvy with the vanity plate "ADMAN" and a bumper sticker that says, "I Brake for Snow Bunnies."

"Cute. How cold did it getup there last night?"

"Into the thirties." It wasn't full winter yet, but temperatures in the higher elevations could easily drop into the thirties and twenties.

The terrain all through the mountains surrounding Asheville is rugged and hikers often stray from marked trails and are lost for days. Deaths are not uncommon. Slipping, falling while exploring high waterfalls, leaving a trail at night, plummeting over a cliff. Those who take the mountains lightly sometimes pay a price.

"Why in the world would he go into the mountains?" Travis said half to himself. "He probably wouldn't, would he?"

"I don't think so," Schultz said.

"Then he's somewhere else while we're combing the mountains. I assume there's a search?"

"Yes. Rangers, sheriff's deputies, a few volunteer firemen, Army reservists. Quite a crew. They've reopened part of the lodge for food service, sleeping and so forth."

"And dogs?"

"I believe so. At least a couple of dogs."

"So, if he isn't in the mountains, he has a confederate."

"True. No way to walk off the Blue Ridge in the Pisgah area. But it could be a suicide."

"And that's true," Travis agreed. "I better talk to his mother. She's the only link we have, except his office. You'd better check there."

"I will, but I've already talked to people in that building, also his friends. This guy is you're standard misfit. I haven't found a close friend yet. But I'll keep at it."

.

"I'll send Harley up to Pisgah. We need to be represented."

"Better him than me. He loves those mountains. I'm a city boy."

Rather than call ahead, Travis looked up Smythe-Keye's address in the phone book and drove to his home. It was in West Asheville, a spotty area of down at the heels houses with an occasional sprightly neighborhood.

The house he sought was in a three block neighborhood of nice, well-kept older homes, their back yards falling off sharply toward the French Broad. It was close to the river and there was a bridge not far away--easy access to the twin buildings where Sue was slain.

Travis rang the bell and an older woman with a solemn look answered. "I'm Police Inspector Lang Travis." He flipped open the folder that held his shield. "I'd like to talk to you about your son, Daniel."

"Yes, I know," the woman said. "Come in Inspector." She led him into a cozy living room and motioned for him to sit on an overstuffed couch with an afghan draped over the back. There were plants on a window shelf and photos dotted the mantelpiece. The room smelled slightly of wood smoke and there were ashes in the fireplace and a wooden box with the ends of short oak logs protruding.

The woman took a seat and gazed at him silently through gold rimmed glasses. There was something familiar here, a definite feeling of deja vu, he held her gaze for a moment, then looked around him. The solution was on the mantel, a photograph of a somber man in the uniform of a police sergeant.

"You're Millie Smythe," Travis said. He started to rise from the couch, but then settled back. "Jerry Smythe's wife. I'll be darned. It's been years, Millie."

She smiled. "I thought you'd remember, Lang. Jerry thought the world of you."

"Well, I thought the world of him. You can't imagine the sorrow I felt when he died. I was right here in this house after his death."

"You brought flowers. You carried them in yourself. And you were the chief pall bearer."

"It's been a long time, Millie. I had forgotten that you used the name Smythe-Keye. Quite a combination."

"When we were married that sort of thing was popular. Of course Jerry always stuck to Smythe. That was bad enough. They called him a fancy Smith."

"Or a lace curtain Smith," Travis tossed in. "He did get some kidding about it. But not by anyone as young as me. We all looked up to him and I considered him something of a father figure. My mentor."

"Lang, do you think you could be loyal to something you didn't believe in." It was an odd question, but Millie was deadly serious.

"I don't know. Even like minded people agree to disagree. Take Christians, for instance. There's probably a lot of regular church goers who don't believe in God. They do it more out of convention than conviction."

"What I'm getting at is Jerry had serious doubts about the department. There were things going on that he didn't approve of. Things that had to be overlooked if you wanted to keep your job and advance."

"I know that Millie. At that time there was a lot of corruption in the department. I could give you a list and tell you who was doing what. We've managed to sweep most of that away and value professionalism. It couldn't be done overnight."

"Jerry had problems with that. I think that's what killed him. It was his heart, of course. But he wasn't that old. Not even forty."

"He was a good man and he died in his prime. You probably had a tough time."

"Not so bad, really. I was a teacher and there was a pension. Dan was a toddler. Maybe not having a man around was what went wrong with Dan. I always had to do for him. There were things he couldn't take care of himself. To be honest, I'd guess you'd just call it wishy washy."

"A woman raising a boy by herself and you working. It must not have been easy."

"I tried a lot of things. They say give a boy a dog."

Millie pointed to a corner of the room. Pleased with the attention a large, graying Labrador slapped his tail on the floor. Travis had not noticed him before against the dark background. "That's Cooper. He's old now, but he's a great companion to me."

"You bought him for Daniel?" Travis was puzzled. Even an old old dog would not still be alive if he had been presented to a boy now Daniel's age.

"Yes, I thought he might take an interest in it. But no. I never knew what he wanted."

"How old was Daniel when you gave him Cooper?"

"Well, let's see. He was in his twenties, but not yet twenty five. I always had to do for that boy. Not that he wasn't a good boy. But boys do make mistakes. Who knows that better than you?"

"Do you know where he might be now, Millie?"

"Not really." She brushed the question off and kept on talking. "You know he was in the advertising business. You might be interested to know how he got into that particular trade."

"Of course." Travis felt he was about to be subjected to family small talk, but he was a patient man.

"Dan thought it was a glamorous thing, to be an adman. You know he has a vanity plate with that word on it." Travis nodded. "So I've got a friend, Dorothy Gibson, we were in college together. She's a widow now and the sole proprietor of Gibson's Furniture and Appliances."

"Big company," Travis said. The firm was well known through western North Carolina by its continuous raucous ads blasting out over the radio and television, plus splashy newspaper pages vaunting unparalleled bargains--absolute steals if the ads were to be believed.

"Well, she writes the ads and she used to buy the space. But I talked to her and she said, 'Why not let Dan be the advertiser?' So that was almost his sole account and it brought him in an income and gave him some status in the community. That's what Dan always wanted, acceptance. But he didn't seem to know how to go about it."

Millie's words only served to reinforce Travis' view of Daniel Smythe-Keye. Now he began on the hard questions. "Was he involved at all with Sue Barker?"

"The murdered girl?"

"Yes."

"He knew her and he admired her. But involvement. I don't think so. I don't think you could say involvement."

Travis wondered what you could say. "We're all concerned about your son. I know Sergeant Schultz has talked with you. He said you have no idea where Dan might be."

"Yes. Dan is lost. That's a fact."

"Lost in the woods? In the mountains?" Travis asked.

"I don't think so. Do you?"

"Not really. He's a native. He knows what his chances of survival might be in the mountains. It would be a very painful way to commit suicide."

"That's true, Lang. You and I know there are much better ways to commit suicide, but let's not be morbid. It's best to be optimistic. And it's good to see you again after all these years. I do hope you'll drop by again."

She rose from her chair and Travis knew the interview was over. Here was a strong woman. "Next time I'll make coffee and we'll have a longer chat."

Travis didn't go immediately back to the office. His talk with Millie troubled him. Somehow he didn't feel he had gotten the whole story. She had controlled the conversation and out of deference to her late husband, who would certainly rank near the top of his early heroes, he hadn't pressed in.

He dropped by Radio Shack and bought a TV clicker, then popped into Burger King for a $2.99 combo.

The search for Daniel Smythe Keye went on for four days. On the second day, Travis made a statement that the man was wanted for questioning in the murder of Sue Barker. He told the mayor unofficially that Smythe-Keye was the main suspect, which did take the heat off of his back.

On the fourth day, just as the Blue Ridge rangers were calling off the search, Garvy dropped by his office in late morning.

"You owe me at least a lunch," she said.

Travis agreed. They drove out Merrimon to a pleasant Thai restaurant . Neither mentioned the murder until after the entre dishes had been cleared and they were enjoying coffee.

"Where do you think Dan is?" Garvy asked.

"I haven't a clue." Travis smiled and asked, "Do you have a clue?"

"I gave you my last clue. About the older woman seen the night of the murder."

Travis said nothing, but pulled his small notebook from an inside pocket. "I must be the dumbest cop on the force. I think I know who that woman is."

"Who?" Garvy asked.

"I can't tell you. Because if it's who I think it is she would definitely be a suspect. And maybe it's not who I think it is. Then I would be maligning a fine citizen."

"I see. How long must the rest of us citizens wait for the next installment. You're talking about the person who may have murdered my daughter."

"I'm sorry, Garvy. But I'll drop you back at your car and get right on it."

**Chapter 18**

It was almost as if Millie had been waiting for him. He was not unexpected.

"Remember I said we'd have coffee the next time you dropped in, Lang. I've got some Decadent chocolate chip cookies. Dan used to love them."

Travis forced a crooked smile and nodded. This was Jerry Smythe's widow and she was in control of her own household. "Where should we sit?"

"Kitchen table, of course. Old friends and old memories."

"Fine." Travis followed her into the kitchen and she got cold water from the tap and put a kettle on the gas range. He took a chair. The kitchen was cheery. A lot of windows looking out into the back and side yards, the stubble of flower beds and the remains of a vegetable garden. Two sparrows pecked at seed in a bird feeder.

"You like that feeder?" Millie asked. She had watched him watch the sparrows.

"I like birds."

"The squirrels used to get into the seed. A neighbor made that cone for me out of an old sheet of flashing. Now they can't get up there. Before I even tried greasing the pole. They'd climb up almost to the feeder, then slowly slide down. Then after a couple of days the grease was gone and those little tree rats were right back up there eating me out of house and home."

"I think there's more to Dan's involvement with Sue Barker than you told me, Millie. I think maybe you better tell me the entire story."

Millie was undaunted. "I know, Lang. But you know how a mother is with her son. I told you I always had to do for Dan. Any unsettling situation, any minor distress or vexation and that boy would fold. I'm not saying I didn't love him. I did and I do." Travis had noticed before that she seemed to talk of Dan in the past tense and had showed no concern over the search.

"I am his mother," she continued. "And he my only child and a good child to me. He stuck with me, did chores around the house, was a companion, long after most children would have left the nest. Now here I am with Cooper and that's not all bad, either."

At the mention of his name, Travis heard the slap of the old dog's tail on the hard kitchen floor. He glanced into the corner and there was the graying lab on an old patterned blanket near his food bowl and water dish.

"Where is Dan?" Travis asked.

"Well, we'll get to that." She set out the cups and asked Travis if he wanted decaf or the straight stuff. Then she spooned in coffee and put the cookies, sugar and a small pitcher of milk on the table. Lastly, she poured steaming water into the cups and gave each a quick stir.

When they were seated, Millie got up and excused herself. In a few minutes she returned carrying a .38 caliber revolver and a box of shells. These she placed on the table by the inspector's cup.

"Jerry's service revolver. He always kept it in top shape. And he prided himself that during all his years as a policeman he never once drew that gun while on duty."

"I know," Travis said. "He was a good cop. He commanded respect."

"He was a good man with a flaw," Millie said. "His flaw was a bad heart. Dan was a good man with a flaw. His flaw was one of character. Something was missing. I don't know what it was, but he was a sensitive boy too."

"And something happened between him and Sue Barker."

"Yes, Lang, it did. But she probably didn't think it was important. What it was over a period of time she encouraged him, then she made fun of him, actually ridiculed him a time or two." She paused, staring into her coffee cup, then continued. "Dan could have had a girl friend. There were girls. Why he thought Sue, I don't know. But there was that convention..." For a moment she stopped speaking again.

"At the time Sue was shot?"

"Yes. Dan thought he was so clever. There's no if's or an's about it, he planned to shoot her. That's what Dan wanted. It would please him to shoot her. He considered her some sort of a mortal enemy. He built this all up in his head."

"And he confided in you?"

"Dan always confided in me. I didn't really know what to do. You know that thinking of killing someone isn't a crime. A lot of people do it everyday while they're driving home from work. But he came home from that convention and he got out Jerry's revolver..."

"This was before the convention was over?"

"Lord yes. He had this elaborate plan. He was at the convention. That was his alibi. Then he came home, but left his car parked at the airport, because he would go back. You know what I mean."

"Yes. You're telling me he had the gun, then what did he do?" Travis wanted her to fill in every detail. He tried not to jump to conclusions.

"He sat here and almost went into hysterics. Crying, really bawling like a baby. I tried to comfort him. I told you I always had to do for him. I did everything I could to comfort him. You know, told him the world was not coming to an end. He said his world was." She drank some coffee and ate part of a cookie, but fell silent.

"Well, then what happened, Millie?" He was almost dead certain that she had gone to the apartment where Sue was killed that night. But had Daniel gone too? Her steel grey short hair, gold rim glasses and most damming, the mole on her forehead, matched feature for feature with what Garvy had told him.

"I don't really want to go into the rest of it, Lang. You can piece it together later. But I'do have more to say. I was going to call you if you hadn't come out today. I needed to get this off my chest, tie up loose ends. You understand the close relationship between a mother and a son like Dan."

"I try to be sensitive to such things."

"It was as if I spent a lot of my life shielding him from the real world. Not that he wasn't a good boy. We enjoyed sitting here at breakfast eating hot oats in the winter, different cereals in the summer, watching the bird feeder, looking at the garden. Dan had hopes and fears. Both hope and fear are phantoms, don't you think."

"I've never given that much thought, but I suppose you're right."

"He thought his alibi had backfired because Garvy, you know that woman, Garvy?" Travis nodded yes. "Well, Garvy had made some kind of joke about Sue and Dan being together. I mean even after Sue was dead it was as if she was still making fun of Dan. It was a joke, but it worried Dan. And then the police talked with him."

"I talked to him," Travis said. "He brought his lawyer along."

"I know. He told me all about it. So it seemed as if his alibi had been accepted for a few days. He began to get back to normal. Then, what, four or five days ago, he learned the police were going over his alibi with a fine tooth comb." She looked Travis squarely in the face. "Which

meant he was finished."

Travis held her gaze and replied "If he was guilty."

He was essentially certain now that it had been Millie who gunned down Sue. This woman would not lose courage in a clutch. He wondered how she and Jerry had such a son.

"Such a contrived plan as his ... why else would he cook up such a story. At least that's how it seemed to him. So he got another plan, run off into the mountains. Now who would believe that?"

Despite the grim topic, Travis almost smiled. "Well I didn't. He wasn't the type."

"You're right there. When he was a boy he tried to sleep in a tent in the back yard once. That lasted two hours."

"So how did the mountain thing work?"

"He took the car up there and I picked him up and brought him home. Once again he flaked out. Hysterical, raving, bawling at times. He said his world had come to an end and I tended to agree with him. You see, Dan could never have endured prison, the way it is today. All those rough criminals. Then to be arrested, jailed, go to trial - a disgrace to himself, to me and to the memory of his father. A memory I treasure."

"Then there was never a thought of surrender?" Travis asked.

"No. Never such a thought. He was like a trapped animal. He knew it. He could also never make it on the run. He would have been caught within a week, a month at the outside. No means of support, no nothing. So, one choice remained." Again she stopped talking and stared dolefully out the window.

"And that choice?" Travis supposed it was self termination.

"Suicide."

Travis pointed to the revolver. "The gun."

"Yes. Certainly. Swift and sure."

"And that's what happened?"

"It was a mess, Lang. The gun was on the table and the two of us were sitting here just as you and I are. But Dan was talking crazy, crying like a baby sometimes. It became pretty obvious that he might not be able to even kill himself."

Travis was captivated by Millie's story. Where she was leading. The fascinating part was that this woman was sitting here eating Decadent cookies and drinking coffee and almost telling him that she had first shot Sue and then shot her cowardly son, who could not do the job himself.

He found himself almost admiring the woman, a murderer, yes, but a trustworthy mother who had looked out for her son from womb to tomb with a steady hand on the helm. A jury of twelve mothers would let this woman walk in a breeze.

"But he is dead?"

"Yes, he's dead enough, dead for good."

"And where might the body be?"

"In his bedroom, on his bed, wrapped in a plastic drop cloth. There's a window air conditioner in there. I've kept it on super cool."

"Good idea," Travis said-solemnly. "I'd better call the coroner." He got up and used the wall phone, then took his seat. His cup was almost empty.

"Can I get you more coffee?"

"I suppose." Travis sighed. Now comes the hard part. Taking Millie to the station, interrogating her with a stenographer present, breaking her story if she chooses not to come clean. So late in the day to be arresting Sergeant Smythe's wife.

She gave the pot an extra shot. of :heat, then fixed them both another cup.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each with their thoughts. When Millie spoke, she said, "I won't have to come to the station, will I, Lang?

Travis frowned. He wondered how she could expect not to. "I'm afraid you will Millie. There are a lot of things to sort out."

"But that's all taken care of in the note."

"What note."

"Dan left a note, Lang."

"In his own hand writing?"

"Of course."

"And I suppose he confessed to the murder of Sue Barker and then stated his intention of committing suicide? And I suppose the note is dated'?"

"Of course."

Travis looked blankly out the window. Then he said, "There's really no reason for you to come to the station. This whole thing must have been a terrible strain on you."

She looked into his eyes. "It was, Lang."

"But you kept busy. You wrapped the body, turned on the air, then cleaned the weapon. Did you use the wire brush to do the barrel?''

"Yes. Jerry always looked after his revolver. He would want me to do the same. I know you probably want to take it with you, but I would like it back."

Travis wondered if he should laugh, or cry. She wanted the gun returned. His first words came out slowly. "The revolver is evidence of a sort. But after a reasonable time, I see no reason why you shouldn't have it. It was Jerry's and it belongs with you."

"Thanks, Lang. It's a great comfort to me, a woman alone."

"You're a very strong woman, Millie."

"As I told you, I always had to do for Dan. But that's what motherhood is all about." She pondered a moment, then said, "It's very romantic, isn't it. Almost magical. Two star crossed lovers. Murder and suicide. It's the story of Romeo and Juliette all over. When you look at it from that angle, it just makes the heart catch." Millie sighed.

- THE END -

