I appreciate that." He hung up and started back toward his patrol car.
"Hey, Sheriff." It was Herby Swaymen's way of saying goodbye.
"Hey, Herby," Rusty called. Then he climbed into his car and headed for Cove Road.
The condominiums at Pyramid Cove were nicely kept, and the sign that proclaimed COUNTRY CLUB LIVING wasn't far wrong. Rusty drove along Cove Road, looking at the tennis courts, at the condos with their well-kept lawns, at the people walking by in swimsuits or tennis whites.
A major change from the days when the Cove had been an overgrown inlet visited by men in puttering motorboats and boys with cane fishing poles. A change not necessarily for the worse. It saddened Rusty to see the old ways go. They were part of him, but also he liked the carefree, well-off atmosphere at the new Pyramid Cove where everyone seemed to be on vacation.
He parked in front of number sixty-eight, crossed the perfectly trimmed yard, and rang the doorbell. The door opened quickly. For a moment, the bearded face of the man inside showed relief. But it quickly turned to disappointment, then alarm.
"Are you Grant Parkington?" Rusty asked.
The man nodded. He appeared to be about fifty years old. Fairly handsome, tanned, in good shape. His light brown hair, shiny with a scattering of gray, was rumpled as if he'd just awakened.'He wore glasses with round lenses and wire frames that made him look very academic and old-fashioned. He also sported a bushy mustache.
Quite the professor, Rusty thought.
But like everyone else at the Cove, he looked as if he were vacationing at an upscale resort. His bright, flowered shirt was open to the middle of his chest, and untucked. His knee length white shorts looked clean but wrinkled. He was barefoot.
"I'm Sheriff Hodges."
"Sheriff? What's happened?"
"May I come in?"
"Yes. Of course." He stepped back. After Rusty was inside, he shut the door. "What's happened to her?" he asked. "This is about Alison, isn't it?"
"We're not a hundred percent sure it's your wife, Dr. Parkington, but a woman's body was found this morning near the river. Your wife's car was nearby." He unbuttoned the flap of his shirt pocket and pulled out a driver's license. "I took this from a purse in the car."
"That's Alison's," Grant muttered. "Oh, God."
"As I said, we're not sure it's her body."
Grant reached out with a trembling hand and tapped his forefinger against the license's color photo. "Her picture. That's her picture. Did you . . . ?"
"I'm afraid there are circumstances. . . ." Rusty's voice faltered as he tried to figure a tasteful way to describe the situation.
"What circumstances?"
"Maybe you'd like to sit down, Dr. Parkington." Gently, he took the man by the elbow and led him to a sofa that seemed to be upholstered in zebra skin.
"Why couldn't you tell from the photo? She wasn't . . . disfigured? She was always so beautiful . . . a thing of beauty, a joy forever. Oh, God!"
"I'm afraid the killer took . . ." Rusty started over. "She was decapitated. So far, I'm afraid we haven't been able to locate the head."
Grant gazed up at him, his eyes red and wide. "Decapitated? No. You're . . . You're having me on."
"We'll need you to identify the body. She must've had certain freckles, scars . . ."
"Her head is gone?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And you can't find it?"
"Apparently, the killer took it with him."
"Oh, dear God!" Grant shook his head, rubbing his tangled hair. "She was so beautiful. The most . . . he must've thought so, too."
"Who's that?"
"The killer. The man who did this."
"Uh-huh."
"Do you know Byron?" Grant asked, looking into Rusty's eyes.
"Byron who?"
"Lord Byron. The poet."
"Oh. Sure. I've heard of him."
"He wanted Shelley's head. He wanted it for a drinking mug. After Shelley drowned off Viareggio. Maybe that's why the killer wanted Alison's head. For a mug. Do you suppose?"
"I guess it's possible."
While Rusty drove, Grant Parkington stared at the dashboard of the patrol car, his head
"Hey, Sheriff." It was Herby Swaymen's way of saying goodbye.
"Hey, Herby," Rusty called. Then he climbed into his car and headed for Cove Road.
The condominiums at Pyramid Cove were nicely kept, and the sign that proclaimed COUNTRY CLUB LIVING wasn't far wrong. Rusty drove along Cove Road, looking at the tennis courts, at the condos with their well-kept lawns, at the people walking by in swimsuits or tennis whites.
A major change from the days when the Cove had been an overgrown inlet visited by men in puttering motorboats and boys with cane fishing poles. A change not necessarily for the worse. It saddened Rusty to see the old ways go. They were part of him, but also he liked the carefree, well-off atmosphere at the new Pyramid Cove where everyone seemed to be on vacation.
He parked in front of number sixty-eight, crossed the perfectly trimmed yard, and rang the doorbell. The door opened quickly. For a moment, the bearded face of the man inside showed relief. But it quickly turned to disappointment, then alarm.
"Are you Grant Parkington?" Rusty asked.
The man nodded. He appeared to be about fifty years old. Fairly handsome, tanned, in good shape. His light brown hair, shiny with a scattering of gray, was rumpled as if he'd just awakened.'He wore glasses with round lenses and wire frames that made him look very academic and old-fashioned. He also sported a bushy mustache.
Quite the professor, Rusty thought.
But like everyone else at the Cove, he looked as if he were vacationing at an upscale resort. His bright, flowered shirt was open to the middle of his chest, and untucked. His knee length white shorts looked clean but wrinkled. He was barefoot.
"I'm Sheriff Hodges."
"Sheriff? What's happened?"
"May I come in?"
"Yes. Of course." He stepped back. After Rusty was inside, he shut the door. "What's happened to her?" he asked. "This is about Alison, isn't it?"
"We're not a hundred percent sure it's your wife, Dr. Parkington, but a woman's body was found this morning near the river. Your wife's car was nearby." He unbuttoned the flap of his shirt pocket and pulled out a driver's license. "I took this from a purse in the car."
"That's Alison's," Grant muttered. "Oh, God."
"As I said, we're not sure it's her body."
Grant reached out with a trembling hand and tapped his forefinger against the license's color photo. "Her picture. That's her picture. Did you . . . ?"
"I'm afraid there are circumstances. . . ." Rusty's voice faltered as he tried to figure a tasteful way to describe the situation.
"What circumstances?"
"Maybe you'd like to sit down, Dr. Parkington." Gently, he took the man by the elbow and led him to a sofa that seemed to be upholstered in zebra skin.
"Why couldn't you tell from the photo? She wasn't . . . disfigured? She was always so beautiful . . . a thing of beauty, a joy forever. Oh, God!"
"I'm afraid the killer took . . ." Rusty started over. "She was decapitated. So far, I'm afraid we haven't been able to locate the head."
Grant gazed up at him, his eyes red and wide. "Decapitated? No. You're . . . You're having me on."
"We'll need you to identify the body. She must've had certain freckles, scars . . ."
"Her head is gone?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And you can't find it?"
"Apparently, the killer took it with him."
"Oh, dear God!" Grant shook his head, rubbing his tangled hair. "She was so beautiful. The most . . . he must've thought so, too."
"Who's that?"
"The killer. The man who did this."
"Uh-huh."
"Do you know Byron?" Grant asked, looking into Rusty's eyes.
"Byron who?"
"Lord Byron. The poet."
"Oh. Sure. I've heard of him."
"He wanted Shelley's head. He wanted it for a drinking mug. After Shelley drowned off Viareggio. Maybe that's why the killer wanted Alison's head. For a mug. Do you suppose?"
"I guess it's possible."
While Rusty drove, Grant Parkington stared at the dashboard of the patrol car, his head
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