“Now you.” He pulled off the ear protectors and hung them around his neck.

“No.”

“How’s that?”

His protective eyeglasses had slid down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger. The yellow lenses lent a sinister quality to his unblinking gaze.

“If you want proof you’re a better shot than me, you’ll need to talk first.”

I knew I held the trump card because it would irritate him to death not knowing for sure that he was the superior marksman.

“What are you—afraid to be shown up?”

“As I understand it, you went duck hunting with Professor Chamberlain the morning he died.”

“Yeah, you’re chicken.” He ejected the empty magazine, lifted a loaded one from a pocket on his belt, and used the heel of his palm to slam it home at the base of the grip.

“You met him at his house at what time that morning?”

“At 0430 hours. We motored from his dock down to Gulf Island Pond and set a couple of strings of decoys, then drew the net over the boat. Birds came in, geese and mallards. We shot fourteen in all. Most were mine. Eben had acquired a tremor that gave him trouble leading his targets. I had a late morning appointment: dentist. He dropped me off at 0930. That was the last I saw of him. End of story.”

“What guns did you both use?”

“What does that matter?”

“Just curious.” I wanted to see if he remembered what he’d told Rivard.

“Remington Versa Max for me. Eben used that old punt gun of his. I call it a punt gun because the barrel of the Marlin 55 is so long. Your divers recovered it from the bottom of the river. I’m surprised the African Queen doesn’t have it displayed in the shrine she’s built to St. Eben of Stratford. Did I pass your test, Warden?”

“You did.”

“I’ve thought about that gun and the rest of Eben’s collection. He owned some beautiful shooting irons. I’m guessing the lesbienne sold the best of them to pay for drugs.”

“You’re referring to Bibi Chamberlain?”

“She goes by the house a couple times a week in that English go-cart of hers. Heads up the hill to score. You’d think she could find a dealer somewhere classier than a fucking trailer park. If Eben knew what a scheming bitch she is, he would have written her out of his will. The way that dyke played him.…”

“Played him how?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. She’s rich. End of story.”

“I’d like to hear more.”