We left through the alcove. A white-coated man stood over the body. Lydia Cantwell’s thin legs splayed crazily from behind him like the bottom end of a department store mannequin that had toppled backward. Her toenails were bright red. There was the faint odor of chemicals. I turned away.

We passed the old patrolman at the door and then walked through the roses, a line of police cars, and an ambulance, stopping by the magnolias at the far side of the drive. The blossoms gave a thin, sweet smell. Next to us sun burnt a shimmering patch of asphalt. The white glare of car windows cut into my eyes.

“You found her like that?” Cade was asking.

I nodded.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said softly. A crow cawed. Cade’s voice turned harsh. “What’s he want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why in hell did you give them the will?”

“Because Henry’s missing.”

“You don’t think Henry—”

“Not me. This man Rayfield. It wasn’t a break-in, Roland. She let him in.”

“Who? Jason?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. You said once that Jason is a sick man.”

Cade’s voice was rough. “He’s scum—for all I care they can electrocute him. But you’re stripping the Cantwells in public. You know what the papers will run? That will, and the Cantwells’ troubles with it.”

“The will is evidence,” I shot back. “And there are fewer Cantwells than there used to be.”

Cade flushed. “What makes you suppose—whatever we might think—that Henry Cantwell wants us pointing at the boy?”

“What makes you suppose,” I said tightly, “that Henry Cantwell’s still alive?”

Cade’s mouth opened in an odd, surprised expression. “Look,” I told him, “I found Lydia murdered and Henry missing. Jason’s supposed to hate them both. The will may be his motive. I had to turn it over. If Henry’s in danger—if anything’s happened—the police should be hunting for Jason. They’d better do that even if Henry’s just gone fishing: Rayfield thinks whoever killed her may do this again. And if I hadn’t given him the will, then Henry’s his suspect, and by noon every hick sheriff will be looking to bring him back in handcuffs for the six o’clock news—”

“Quiet.” Cade’s eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder. I realized my fists were clenched. I relaxed them and turned. Two uniformed police bore a stretcher covered by a white blanket between the roses. Only her outline showed. They carried the stretcher to the back of the ambulance and slid it inside. The door slammed. Someone started the motor. Then the ambulance backed slowly down the long drive and was gone. We listened as the motor sound faded and died, and for a long time after.

Cade slumped with his hands in his pockets. “Why quarrel?” he said softly. “It’s done.”

We stared at the ground.