Normal?

Harry Chandler was to the movies what O. J. Simpson was to football.

Janet said, “After Mrs. Chandler disappeared, during the year and a half when Mr. Chandler was indisposed, we became almost like his family. We moved from our flat in number two into the main house so that the place wouldn’t go cold.

“Mr. Chandler appreciated that. He has always been very generous,” Janet said. “He paid for Nicole’s education. He gave us things. Gave us a car one year, didn’t he, Nigel?”

“His dead wife’s car.”

“Yes. It was secondhand, but we still have it.”

I asked, “When did you see Mr. Chandler last?”

“Three months ago. Yes. He came for dinner on Christmas. I always find Mr. Chandler charming, although maybe a little distracted. Always rehearsing something in his mind, I expect.”

Something crashed against the stove behind us.

I turned. Nigel Worley’s face looked like a furrowed field.

He said, “Rehearsing? Distracted? Yes, he was distracted. He’s a bloody womanizer,” Nigel Worley said. “Well, it was in all the papers, Jan. Don’t look at me like I drowned the baby in the bath.”

“He was a ladies’ man,” Janet conceded.

“Harry Chandler is what you might call an equal-opportunity ladies’ man. He liked all types,” Nigel went on. “Actresses mostly, but he fancied the odd waitress or even women of a certain age.”

Janet’s stiff expression tightened.

“I don’t think he ever met a woman he didn’t like,” said Nigel Worley, turning his eyes directly to me for the first time. “Harry Chandler would like you.”

His stare was chilling. It was as if he had put his hands around my neck and squeezed.

Chapter 19

A YOUNG WOMAN burst into the room, the sound breaking her father’s double-fisted lock on my eyes.

Janet Worley said, “Nicole, these people are from the police.” To me, she said, “I’ll be in the parlor,” and she left the room.

Nicole Worley was midtwenties, pretty, with a heart-shaped face, dark hair, green eyes, flushed cheeks. She wore jeans and a green sweatshirt with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife logo on the front.

Nicole asked her father, “What’s going on with you?”

“Your mother. She drives me round the bend.”

“I wish you wouldn’t fight.”

“The way she goes on about that self-important prick —”

“Stop that.”

“You women are crazy.”

“All right. All right,” Nicole said to her father. To me, she said, “I’m Nicole. You wanted to see me?”

Nigel started cleaning the burners on the stove, and Nicole joined us at the table.

I said, “We need some basic information, Nicole. Where were you over the last few days?”

“I was off on a rescue,” she said. “Pronghorn antelope get panicked at headlights, or at anything really. This one was hung up in a fence.”

“And when did you leave for this rescue?”

“Friday morning.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes. I drove up north to Mendocino County by myself. What is it that you want to know? Did I kill some people and then dig up their heads? Leave them on the back step to scare my parents?”