From the back cover:
After her marriage to a high-powered CEO ends after 28 years, Wimsey Reade moves to the Old England Retirement Village on Lake LBJ in Texas’ beautiful Hill Country. All she wants is some peace and quiet—but her first day in the village, a woman she meets by chance is inexplicably murdered. Because of what Wimsey may have witnessed, the detective in charge of the case asks for her help.
At that time the news hits that Wimsey’s ex-husband, head of an international communications company, is indicted on felony charges of mail fraud and money laundering, and she stumbles upon evidence that may convict him.
Soon Wimsey is being stalked. Is it because of her ex-husband or the woman’s murder? To find out, Wimsey throws a Halloween party which succeeds a little too well when a mannequin comes to life.


CHAPTER ONE

Wimsey Reade stood on the shore of Lake LBJ looking over the rolling green water. The mild sunlight of early October washed over the Texas Hill Country like a golden benediction. A Chinese pistache to her left shimmered in the afternoon; the hundred-year-old pecan tree behind her littered the ground with its bounty. An unleashed dog, a blond cocker mix, investigated the water’s edge while keeping an ear cocked back to its owner.

Wimsey basked in the peaceful setting a moment longer, then began walking toward the house sixty feet away. Glancing over her shoulder, she called, “Cootie!” The dog lifted its ponderous ears and began loping up the shore toward her. Heading for the steps to the deck, Wimsey glanced aside with a wry smile at the boat lift. The house was nice, not too big for one person, but she really had no use for a slip, much less a lift.

When she had first brought her daughter Tara to see this vacancy in The Old England Retirement Village, Tara also questioned the need for a slip—or a house, for that matter. The village condominiums and apartments, not being on the water, were much cheaper. But pets were permitted only in the houses, and Wimsey could not bear to part with this dog, a bitch.

Her ex-husband despised the animal—“a pound dog,” he called it—which probably endeared her to Wimsey even more. She would have paid extra for the house without regret, if she had to. But the previous resident had committed suicide here in such a violent, messy manner that the Village found themselves with a lakeside home no one would go near, much less lease. A friend told Wimsey about it, and she, being neither squeamish nor afraid of ghosts, agreed to take it at a vastly reduced price. Glancing in satisfaction at the arrangement of nandina, mountain laurel, and yuccas around the deck, she mounted the steps with the dog at her heels.

Opening the French doors into the back living area, she heard her cell phone ring. Actually, the noise it made was more of a bleat. It was irritating, but since it was a new phone, Wimsey hadn’t learned how to change the ring tone yet.

Unhurried, she sat on the couch and reached over to pick up the phone from the glass-topped coffee table. Beside the phone lay that morning’s newspaper with the lower-front headline: “ShaftCom CEO Indicted.” Wimsey noted the Caller ID display on her phone before answering, “Hello.” Cootie jumped onto the couch to nestle against her leg.

“Mom! Where have you been?” said an exasperated female voice.

“Just walking along the lake, Tara,” Wimsey replied, stroking the dog.

“Well—did you get everything moved in okay? I wish you would have stayed with us longer.”

“Thank you, Tara. I appreciate your putting up with me for as long as you did. But you need your space,” and I need mine, she added silently.
“Well—Randy didn’t mean what he said about Cootie being a ‘flea bag.’ We know she doesn’t have fleas.”

“I understand his concern, Tara. Randy’s been allergic to fleas ever since your camping honeymoon,” Wimsey said.

“Yeah,” Tara exhaled. A toddler’s voice rose in the back-ground. The young mother hushed her, then came back to say, “Mom, have you seen today’s paper?”

“I was just about to look at it,” Wimsey replied, detached.

“Some news crew got hold of our unlisted number and called asking about Daddy. I was glad to be able to tell them that I hadn’t heard from him since your divorce. Mom . . . are you okay?” “Yes, Tara, I’m fine,” she said truthfully.

“Well—I worry about you not having a car,” Tara fretted.

“Why do I need a car?” Wimsey asked with a laugh. “Every-thing is within walking distance. And if I need to get anywhere faster, I have a lovely bike with a basket.”

Tara chuckled in return. “I’m glad you like your bike. Maybe you’ll meet a nice old man.”

Wimsey repressed a wry smile. “Darling, I don’t even want to meet a young man, much less somebody old that I’d have to take care of.” At 56, Wimsey’s priorities had altered from those she cherished at 30. After coloring her hair for years, she suddenly stopped upon her divorce. It was a surprise, then, to see how completely gray she had become; she was now the silver-haired grandmother in the stories she had read as a child. When the reality of this had sunk in, she began to let go of other vanities: makeup became too much of a bother; clothes were chosen for functionality alone.

Tara replied, “All right, well—Randy’ll be home soon. Will you call me if you need anything? I mean anything. We’re only forty minutes away.”

“Certainly. Don’t worry about a thing. Cootie and I are enjoying the peace and quiet.” “Okay. I’ll call tonight to check on you. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, dear. Bye.” Wimsey closed the phone, then reached for the reading glasses that lay atop the paper. Donning the glasses, she focused on the front-page article below the fold that was headlined, “ShaftCom CEO Indicted.”

“DALLAS, TX: Greg M. Corrister, CEO of international communications giant ShaftCom, Inc., was indicted yesterday on multiple felony charges of mail fraud and money laundering stemming from alleged efforts to hide the company’s expenses and inflate profits. . . .”

Wimsey skimmed the financial details to move on to the second paragraph, which detailed Corrister’s ascent to ShaftCom from the presidency of an insurance brokerage in Dallas that went bankrupt shortly after his departure. Wincing, Wimsey skipped that paragraph, too. The bankruptcy had not been Greg’s fault. She was sure of that.

“Following the announcement of indictments against Corrister and CFO Drew Larson-Pettimore, ShaftCom stock plummeted to $7.62 a share from the previous day’s high of $36.80. How much stock Corrister retained after secret sell-offs was unknown, but a substantial portion of his holdings in the company went to his wife Whimsy Corrister at the time of their divorce three years ago. Previously, the former Mrs. Corrister, who has resumed her maiden name Reade, had been the head supervisor at a competitor’s customer service call center.”

Wimsey reflected on that. It was a job she’d held long before Greg was hired at ShaftCom, and no one could believe that she enjoyed it. But she did. A far-sighted vice president had given her wide latitude in handling complaints, with the result that her department consistently won awards for customer retention.

But a month after Greg took the helm of the new communications company, she was laid off. Wimsey was neither surprised nor entirely heartbroken. Covered by her husband’s salary and benefits, she considered herself relieved of the necessity of earning a paycheck herself. So she filled her time with volunteer work and a stream of pet projects.

Upon the dissolution of her marriage, however, she was forced back into the job market, and shocked when she was unable to find anything above minimum-wage level. She told herself it was because of her age and not because of anything Greg had done. Also, she discovered that she could not get health insurance for any amount of money—until she found this retirement center.

She returned her attention to the article: “Whimsy Reade has been unavailable to comment on how the drastic devaluation affected her personal holdings, or if she expected indictments for her participation in the fraud. The Dallas County district attorney’s office refused to comment further. . . .”

“If I had talked to the reporters, they might have spelled my name right,” she mused. It was derived not from a personality trait but from her mother’s deep appreciation of Dorothy L. Sayers. At any rate, Wimsey had sold all of her stock in ShaftCom shortly after the divorce (which, contrary to the information in the article, was not quite two years ago).

While she did not know of her husband’s shenanigans with the company—and no one could prove otherwise—she knew of his shenanigans elsewhere, which prompted her to divest herself of anything having to do with him as soon as possible. At the time she sold her stock, it was selling at $58.10 a share.

This led everyone to believe that she had more money than she did. In fact, Greg had managed to hide millions from discovery, so what he offered her at the time of their divorce was a fraction of what was rightfully hers. But since Wimsey was as anxious for him to be free to marry his girlfriend as he was, she accepted the offer.

Laying down the paper, she took off her glasses and murmured, “Let’s go for a walk, Cootie.” The dog was agreeable.

With her companion properly leashed, Wimsey stuffed her house key, her village identification card, and a few bills into one drawstring-pants pocket. She would continue to lock doors even here, and she carried a little money with her wherever she went. The other pocket contained a constant supply of poop bags.

Thus they embarked down a pleasant, birch-lined street. The developers of The Old England Retirement Village, striving to attract active, independent (i.e., moneyed) retirees, built it in imitation of an English country village as interpreted by Disney. The curving streets were flush with shaded walks, scrolled iron benches, and old-fashioned lamp posts. While cars were permitted, residents were strongly encouraged to park them in a reserved lot near the business office and instead drive the village golf carts wherever they needed to go within the community. Since fender-benders were common, the carts created much less damage to all concerned. But for the residents like Wimsey who preferred to combine exercise with errands, bike racks and trails were everywhere.

Cootie trotted nose down, tail sweeping from side to side, tugging to go just a little bit faster, though Wimsey was walking briskly as it was. Her street, St. Mary Mead Lane, was the main street of the development, curving its way through the whole village before circling back to exit to the outside world. She nodded pleasantly at passersby as she passed them by, for Cootie’s pace made it difficult to stop and talk to anyone. It made for a good excuse, anyway.

St. Mary Mead Lane twice intersected Shrewsbury Circle, the social hub of the village. All the shops and meeting places were here, centrally located between the office to the west (where visitors were received for tours), the pond to the north, the lakeshore houses to the northeast, the apartments and condominiums to the east, and the golf course to the south.

Bypassing the circle for now, Wimsey came to a paved bike/walking trail leading to the large pond set in an expanse of silky green grass, and Cootie expressed the desire to go down that way. A whimsical signpost informed travelers, in large letters, that this was Whitehaven Path. (The village developers did not want their old folks getting lost.)

Letting Cootie lead down the trail, Wimsey admired the fountain jetting streams in the center of the pond. The dog stopped to hunch up and drop a pile; Wimsey also stopped to extract a poop bag with which to pick up the droppings, as dog-walkers were sternly admonished to do. She tied the bag shut and tossed it in a lined trash barrel, then looked ahead at a fork in the path where it branched off to encircle the pond. Just past the fork on the right-hand branch a man and woman had stopped to talk. Not wishing to intrude, Wimsey headed for the left-hand branch. But approaching the fork brought her a little closer to the couple, and she couldn’t help but observe several things.

First, they were arguing. Their voices were not raised—much less was there physical violence—but they were clearly disagreeing about something important. The disparity in their ages, and the familiar manner in which they talked, led Wimsey to assume they were mother and son. Mother was probably a resident here. She also had taken her dog out for a walk, and now indifferently held the leash of a mustard Dandie Dinmont terrier.

The two dogs spotted each other. Cootie jerked at the leash with an excited bark, but Wimsey pulled her back, ordering, “Stay!” The Dandie Dinmont, however, caught his mistress unawares. He pulled from her tentative grip and charged the interloper with furious barking. Wimsey watched his approach with mild amusement: he was a fine guard dog, zealous to protect his owner, but too small and too old to do much damage.

The antagonists met with a mutual show of teeth at Wimsey’s feet. Hauling up on Cootie’s leash with one hand, she bent to grab the smaller dog’s trailing leash and separate the two. Cootie was content to sit and pant—it was all in fun, you know—but the Dandie spun in circles on the end of his leash, enraged.

Wimsey held the dogs as far apart as she could and glanced at the Dandie’s owner and son, about forty feet away. The pair were so engrossed in their argument that neither appeared to notice anything missing. Unwilling to trespass on private matters, Wimsey continued to hold both dogs. She stood there for about three minutes, waiting for one or the other to look around for the dog, but neither did. “Hello?” Wimsey finally called. “I believe this is your dog?” The son shifted so that his back was to her; the mother, being smaller than he, was then obscured from her view. At last the Dandie expressed his frustration by nipping at Wimsey’s ankle, which reinvigorated Cootie to the fray. “Ow! Enough of this!” Wimsey muttered. Leading the dogs on either side of her, she advanced down the path toward the negligent owner.

“You’re not thinking of us, or your grandson. You don’t even—”

“Excuse me,” Wimsey interrupted, and the son turned to her angrily. She coolly surveyed him—self-absorbed, thoughtless, a little cruel, she judged. Then, extending the leash, she addressed the woman. “I’m afraid your dog got away from you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said, taking the leash. “Bad Reggie,” she scolded ineffectively.

“No trouble at all.” Wimsey paused to regard her tear-stained face. Though not very old—probably mid-sixties—the woman had the frail appearance of someone in delicate health. Nonetheless, her silver-white hair was perfectly coiffed, and Wimsey detected traces of powder and rouge on her cheeks.

Wimsey looked up at the son again, who was staring hard at her in an invitation to leave. He was in his early thirties, with styled hair and expensive leisure clothes—a late-in-life, spoiled baby, Wimsey deduced. (Years of mingling with her husband’s friends and business associates had ingrained in her the habit of instant character assessment. While not always right, she seldom hit far off the mark.)

Lowering her head, Wimsey turned to lead Cootie in the other direction, toward the left-hand branch of the path. As she walked away, she heard the woman say, “I’m sorry, Norbert, my mind is made up. I just won’t do it.” Whatever spoiled Norbert had to say in response, Wimsey did not want to know. She kept walking.

She and Cootie had a pleasant walk. In landscaping around the pond, the developers had saved some large old Bur oaks while planting a smattering of Mexican plum and Texas redbud. The lake to the north was visible from almost anywhere in the community, as was the golf course to the south. The spray from the fountain added an invigorating scent of moisture to the air. It was the kind of day that made one glad to be alive, to be able to walk, to see only pleasant sights. On such a mild day, Wimsey was surprised not to see more people out walking.

Despite Cootie’s straining at the leash, Wimsey leisurely explored Whitehaven Path, which curved around small seasonal plantings, a sundial, and garden figurines. It was all quite charming, right down to the street lamps along the path. They were off now, being sensor-controlled, but no bench was without its own lamp post set in between the path and the pond.

After completing the circuit around the pond—about three-quarters of a mile—Wimsey and Cootie headed back toward their starting point at the fork in the path. Finding the path ahead unobstructed, Wimsey gave no thought to the arguing pair, other than fleeting relief that they had resolved their argument or taken it elsewhere.

Movement near the pond caught her eye, and she saw the woman standing at the very edge of the water by herself. She still held the leash on the Dandie, who was sitting quietly at her feet. But the man was nowhere in sight. Wimsey turned up the path without disturbing her.

Coming back to St. Mary Mead Lane, Wimsey hastened Cootie across the street, out of the way of a speeding golf cart (and holding no resentment toward the driver. The first time Wimsey had driven one of these on a visit, the accelerator had gotten stuck.) This brought them to Shrewsbury Circle, where the first building in sight was a coffee shop. So she stopped at its walk-up window to order a latte.

The attendant was a senior citizen who wore the shop’s jaunty red apron over a white shirt and bow tie. “One tall decaf mocha latte coming up for the pretty lady,” he repeated her order, whipping out a cup. She smiled thinly. While he mixed the brew, he said, “You must be visiting. You’re too young to live here.” His nametag read, “Chas.”

Considering herself no longer “pretty,” she didn’t like being reminded that she once was. To hide her irritation, she restrained Cootie from darting after a squirrel, then put on a friendly face to reply, “Oh, no, I easily meet the minimum age requirement”—55. “I am Wimsey, and I’m a new resident.”

“Ah. ‘As my whimsy takes me,’ eh?” he said, dolloping whipped cream atop the coffee. “There you are.”

Her irritation melted in cautious delight, and she took the latte. “Are you a Lord Peter fan?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” he snorted. “My favorite’s probably The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club. But I have to admit I had a hard time getting into Gaudy Night. That’s two-seventy-nine.”
She dug in her pocket and pulled out a five. “I appreciated Gaudy Night a lot more the second and third times I read it. My favorite book is whichever one I happen to have read last. . . . Is ‘Chas’ short for Charles? Keep the change.”

“No, it’s just plain ‘Chas.’ It used to be ‘Charles,’ but I signed everything ‘Chas’ for so long, it stuck—like your mom always told you that if you kept making that face, it’d freeze that way. So you get a free latte next time you come in, Whimsy,” he added, depositing the five in the register.

“Thanks, Chas,” she said, allowing Cootie to pull her away. He waved, and she continued her stroll down the abnormally clean street.

Sipping the latte, she passed a deli, a café, a small grocery store, a dry cleaners, and a gift/recreation shop that carried seasonal decorations and games for lakefront residents and their visitors. Fall displays dominated the store windows, along with a few token, tasteful Halloween decorations.

Among these were orange and black placards that read, “Trick or Treaters Welcome Here,” with the firm reminder that door-to-door trick-or-treating was allowed only at those premises that displayed the placard. Although Wimsey loved children (really), she probably wouldn’t have trick-or-treating. A continually ringing doorbell got Cootie overly excited.

Finishing the latte, Wimsey deposited the cup in one of the ubiquitous trash cans and resumed her walking tour of the circle. For the first time, she noticed that the chapel was right across the street from the medical clinic with its attached pharmacy. There was something unsettling about that juxtaposition. The bingo hall and library afforded a similar incongruence, especially with the large, exasperated sign on the library explaining that its tiny parking lot was for library patrons ONLY. Wimsey smiled sympathetically, doubting that the village would resort to towing golf carts.
Next door to the pharmacy was an old-fashioned hardware store—a concession to the few men here, she surmised. Next to it was the bank with its walk-up automated teller machine, prominently located at the east intersection of St. Mary Mead Lane and Shrewsbury Circle.

Once Wimsey and companion got back to their street, the cocker knew where they were going and confidently led the way. On the right, across the street from the row of lakefront houses, were long beds of marigolds, pansies, daylilies, and fountain grasses, anchored by hardy hollies.

Cootie turned up the walk to the arched stucco entryway of the semi-Tudor house marked 120. Wimsey pulled out her key to unlock the door and bent to unleash the happy, panting dog. Cootie trotted to her water dish in the kitchen to lap noisily, then flopped onto the cool tile.

Returning to the couch in the living area, Wimsey sat to reach for a brochure beside the now-invisible newspaper. The brochure was titled, “Geology Field Trip for Lifelong Learners.” It began, “The university is pleased to offer this bus tour along the Llano River. Under the direction of the head of our Geology department, tour members will study billion-year-old gneiss and granite outcroppings along the banks and riverbed. . . .”

Flipping to the back of the brochure, she picked up her phone to dial a number. When her call was answered, she said, “Yes, I would like to make a reservation for your geology tour of the Llano River this Saturday. Yes, that’s for one. Yes, I do have a credit card—” She reached for her purse to retrieve the requested information.

When that call was completed, Wimsey looked toward her companion in the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Cootie; you’ll have to stay here Saturday. But it’s only for four hours, so I’ll wear you out with a nice long walk Friday.” Today was Wednesday.

With that, she settled a contemplative gaze out the back window toward the lake. “We don’t have much daylight left.” Hooking her glasses on a chain around her neck, she went to the spare bedroom, where she scanned boxes. Her bicycle was also stored back here, as there was no garage. She moved two boxes and opened a third, withdrawing a sketch pad and drawing pencil.

By the time she reemerged into the living room, Cootie was waiting by the back door, tail in motion. So they started down the cedar steps. Wimsey’s foot slipped; she grabbed the hand rail to steady herself and peered down at the steps—whatever finish had been applied made them slippery when wet, and Cootie had left damp prints coming up.

Wimsey cautiously descended, calling, “Stay close, or I’ll have to leash you.” Cootie scampered only twenty feet away.

Sketchbook underarm, Wimsey began to walk along the shore. She noted the spindly hydrilla just beneath the surface—a lake weed that Texas environmentalists were earnestly trying to control. There was also a generous colony of American Lotus, obviously introduced by the developers, and mostly benign. But then she spotted a plant that she didn’t immediately recognize, even with her glasses in place, so she began a sketch of it to compare with those in her books.

Wimsey was neither an artist nor a scientist, just—an amateur naturalist. She liked to study things. A few years ago she had run across a mysterious plant that she could not precisely identify; she took photos of it which turned out so poorly that she made sketches instead. These she mailed to a nature magazine with a polite request for identification. They got all excited and sent one of their regular contributors with an expensive camera to photograph her find. Then they published her sketch along with the photographs because the mystery plant turned out to be a new species. She still had the check they had sent for that. It was in one of those boxes. Somewhere.

Wimsey walked along the shore, taking notes in her sketchbook and occasionally calling Cootie back to her side until it got too dark to see well. So she whistled to get the dog back into the house. Placing her open sketchbook on the desk in the second bedroom, Wimsey began pulling reference books out of boxes to check against her drawing.

She spent far longer doing this than she had intended. After searching one book for her mystery plant and not finding it, she browsed the book lovingly before placing it on the shelf and reaching for the next book. The fourth book she picked up hadn’t been read in so long, she had to blow dust off the top before opening it. A compact disk in an envelope fell out of the back. Wimsey replaced the disk, flipping through the color photographs. She lingered over a breathtaking shot of Big Sur, then that book, too, went on the shelf.

Finally, Cootie got her attention by pawing at her foot and whining. “Oh, dear.” Wimsey glanced around for a clock that hadn’t been unpacked yet. “You’re hungry. I’m sorry, Cootie.”

Leaving the plant unidentified, Wimsey went to the kitchen to pour Cootie her cup of dog food. Wimsey was taking a dinner out of the freezer for herself when her cell phone bleated from the glass-topped table. She selected a dinner and set it on the counter before retrieving the phone.

She checked the number display, then answered: “Hello, Tara.”

“Hi, Mom. Is everything going all right?”

“Yes, dear, of course.” Phone at her ear, Wimsey returned to the kitchen to set the oven timer and temperature while she talked.

“Well—I worry about you getting bored, being all alone.”

“Bored?” Wimsey repeated. In a flash, she recalled the excitement of discovering that the brake line on her Mercedes had been cut. It was providential how she had discovered it right after pulling out of the drive—she had slammed on the brakes, remembering something she had left in the house. But instead of stopping, she had taken out the neighbor’s brick mail box. Opening the hood, she had found the damaged brake line and, belatedly, the puddle of brake fluid in the drive where the car had been parked. Her husband Greg had been solicitously available all that day—he made sure everyone knew where he would be, and checked his messages with uncharacteristic frequency. Shortly after the car had been towed to a shop, he offered her the divorce settlement, and she had accepted.

“No, dear, I’m not bored in the slightest,” Wimsey said. “I’m going on a geology tour this weekend that looks to be breathtaking.”

“Oh, Mom!” Tara laughed. Since Wimsey always spoke in a deadpan, her daughter was never quite sure when she was joking. “Well—Halle, honey, not now, Mommy’s on the phone”—Wimsey heard her granddaughter raise her voice in the background—“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Nothing, dear. I appreciate that you worry, but I wish you wouldn’t,” Wimsey said.

“Okay, well, I’ll call tomorrow. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, dear.” Closing the phone, Wimsey paused at the sound of sirens. An ambulance? Cootie raised her head from her food bowl. Wimsey looked toward the front door, listening as the sirens grew louder and louder, and then stopped. She waited, uneasy in the ensuing silence. Then she slowly unwrapped the frozen dinner to put it in the oven. But her hand rested on the oven-door handle for a long time while she listened.

She continued to subconsciously listen while eating, unpack-ing, and further arranging her books on the shelves. Even when she and Cootie went to bed, she lay in the darkness listening, and was disturbed that she never heard sirens from an ambulance transporting an injured but living person to an emergency room. “Then it wasn’t an emergency after all,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

The following morning, Wimsey left Cootie sleeping in while she biked to the grocery store for a few staples. Friendly as the village was, Wimsey couldn’t imagine that they would welcome a dog in the shops. She scanned the area while she pedaled easily, then parked her bike in the rack and entered the store, where she picked up a half-gallon of milk, breakfast granola, lunch meat, bread, and fresh fruit.

When she took her purchases to the check-out counter, she was amused to see the woman in front of her toting a Siamese cat in a macramé shoulder bag. The cat hissed upon Wimsey’s approach, so she was careful not to crowd him.

After paying for her groceries, she loaded her two bags in the basket behind the seat of the bike, then paused to look around again. The ambulance of last night had stopped somewhere close by, but everything looked serene and orderly this morning—nothing indicated an accident or mishap. Of course, in an older population, health issues were probably more common. She wondered if they sent for a screaming ambulance every time someone fell down. Ruminating, she threw a leg over the seat to transport her groceries home.

An hour later, she was sitting in the second bedroom looking at her boxed computer and monitor. Then she looked under the desk at the jacks. She knew that somehow, the cables packed in those boxes powered the computer and accessories, but she had no clue how to set it all up.

While living with her daughter’s family, she had used their computer for her infrequent internet needs. This computer, boxed since her divorce, had been bought and set up for her by Greg during the last year of their marriage, though she had expressed little interest in using it. Tara was the one who discovered that he had also set up an e-mail account in Wimsey’s name, posting it on their alumni and social boards. Since Wimsey did not know it existed, he was also the only one with the password.

Her doorbell rang; Cootie scrambled to answer it with excited barking. Warily, Wimsey went to the peephole to look at her visitor: a man in a sports coat. A reporter, or a cop—neither of whom she wanted to talk to. He leaned over to ring the bell again, then knock. “Down, Cootie,” she instructed. The cocker stopped barking, but stayed close by with rapidly rotating tail.

With neither smile nor greeting, Wimsey opened the door. The man on her doorstep was in his mid-forties with thinning hair, a prominent nose, and bags under his eyes. “Wimsey Reade?”

“Who is asking?” she inquired.

“Detective Carter Lott. I’m an investigator with the Llano County Sheriff’s Office,” he said, extending a badge to her.

She took it to pretend to look at it, along with his photo identification card. “Sheriff’s Office? You’re not in uniform,” she murmured, leaning against the doorframe to conceal her suddenly weak knees. She would not put it past Greg to attempt to implicate her in his troubles, or forge her name to documents she had never seen. She didn’t have an attorney. She did not know any in the area—

“No ma’am; the county’s investigators are plain-clothes.” He noted the dog at her feet. “Are you Wimsey Reade?”

Evasion was futile, of course. “Yes,” she said, returning his badge.

“May I come in?” He gestured behind her. Reluctantly, she opened the door and stepped back. He entered, tucking the badge in his coat pocket as his eyes swept the living area of the small house. While Wimsey closed the door, he bent to pat Cootie. “Hey, fella. What’s your name?”

“This is Cootie,” she replied.

He straightened. “This was the dog you were walking yesterday afternoon?”

She blinked. “Yes. Why?”

“Do you mind if we sit?” he said, nodding toward the couch.

“I guess not,” she said in resignation. While Detective Lott lumbered over to the sitting area, Wimsey appraised: Former athlete. Bad knees.

He spread out on the couch, Wimsey and Cootie following. The dog jumped right up on his leg and he began scratching her behind the ear just where she liked. Dog owner, Wimsey thought, sliding onto the opposite end of the couch.

“Now, then. Did you speak to anyone while you were walking?” He took a notepad from his shirt pocket and clicked a pen.

“Yes,” she said.

When she did not offer further information, he prompted, “Who’d you speak to, Ms. Reade?”

“I passed several people, but just said the briefest hello. I couldn’t tell you anything about them. When I came to the pond, there was a couple on the path—their dog slipped away from them to go after Cootie, so I returned him to them. Then on the way back from the pond, I stopped at the coffee shop window and talked to Chas about books. That’s all.”

He nodded, not having written anything yet. “Okay. The couple by the pond, with the dog. Describe them, please.”

“An older woman; a young man I took to be her son,” she said warily.

“Did you hear them talking?” He now leaned forward with his pad.

“They appeared to be arguing. The woman had been crying.” Wimsey’s heart began to beat faster when he put his pen to the pad.

“What, specifically, did you hear them say?” he asked.

She swallowed. “He said she was not being fair to him or her grandson. She said . . . she was sorry, but she couldn’t do it. I did not hear what ‘it’ was. She called him ‘Norbert.’” He blinked at this information; her heart was now pounding in her ears. “Excuse me, but—I heard sirens last night—”

He was pulling a photo from his breast pocket. “Do you recognize her?”

Wimsey looked down at the photograph. “Yes. That is the woman. Who is she?”

“Madelyn Treschler, a resident here.” He replaced the photo in his pocket, leaning back.

“Well, may I ask—?”

“Two walkers found her body at the edge of the pond last night. She appears to have drowned.”


Buy Unknown Name, Unknown Number here


© 2009 Robin Hardy

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