moving slowly from side to side.
"Was your wife with you last night?" Rusty asked.
"Oh, yes."
"What time did she leave?"
"I don't know. Very late. In the vicinity of one, one-thirty, I should think."
"That is late. Why did she go out?"
" 'What makes her in the wood so late, a furlong from the castle gate?' Maybe dreams of knights. I don't know."
"What?" Rusty asked.
The professor smiled strangely. " 'Cristobel.' "
"That another poet?"
"A poem. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge."
"Had you and your wife been arguing at the time she left?"
"No. Oh, no, not at all."
"Did she go by herself?"
"All alone."
"But you weren't having any sort of fight?"
"No. I already told you that. This was just a thing she enjoyed doing. Taking off for a wild drive through the night."
"What was she wearing?"
"Her nightgown. A diaphanous white negligee."
"What else?"
"Slippers? I believe she wore slippers. And naturally she had her purse. She never went anywhere without her purse."
"Is that all?"
"Nothing more."
"Why didn't she get dressed before she left?"
"It was simply her way. She liked to think of herself as quite scandalous. Something of a Zelda Fitzgerald, you know. It excited her, made her feel special."
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"Out. 'I'm going out.' " He turned toward Rusty and slowly smoothed one side of his mustache with a forefinger. "She did go out, too. She went out, and went out. Snuffed like a candle."
"Do you know anyone she might've gone to meet?"
"No. No." He shook his head. "No. Nobody."
At the morgue, Rusty studied Grant Parkington's reaction to the sight of his wife's body. The man pressed a hand to his open mouth as if to hold in a scream. But he examined her with care, pointing out the mole beneath her left breast, the brown oblong birthmark on her right thigh, how the small toenail of her right foot was missing. Then he broke down crying.
Rusty led him out of the room.
Chapter Nine
The Digs
As Pac watched, a tine of her rake snagged a white cord. Jack Staffer dropped to his knees in front of her, slipped a finger beneath the cord, and lifted. Sand fell away as he pulled the nightgown free. "This belong to you?" he asked Pac.
"Never use the things," she said.
"Lucky Ham."
"You betcha."
"Do you think it's hers?" Jack asked.
"Until I find out otherwise." She dropped the rake, hurried over to her case and took out a clear plastic bag. She brought it to Jack. He dropped the nightgown inside. "How would you like to get the shovel?" she asked.
"Sure thing."
While Jack went for it, Pac looked down at the shallow dip in the sand. She felt a chill and rubbed her arms.
"You want me to do the honors?" Jack asked.
"Go ahead."
He pushed the broad head of the shovel into the sand and lifted out a load. Fine granules spilled off the shovel like water. He dumped the rest off to the side, turned again to the hole, and jabbed the blade in. It made a harsh, scraping sound.
"Maybe got something here," Jack said. He lifted out the shovel, and a pink slipper came up with the sand. "Its twin must be around here someplace."
Soon, the second slipper came up.
"The guy must've thrown everything into the same hole," Pac said.
"Nice for us."
Jack kept digging, pushing the shovel deep into the sand. Soon, its blade clinked against steel. Dropping to his knees, he brushed sand away until he uncovered a black plastic handle.
"Be careful. Prints."
The hacksaw was all there, its steel back glaring with sunlight, its blade coated with a fine crust of sand.
"Looks like we've got us the murder weapon," Jack said.
"Not exactly," Pac told him. "The murder weapon was probably the river. This is what he used afterward."
"Nice guy," Jack muttered.
"A real prince," said Pac.
Chapter Ten
Two Women
"Look who's here."
"I was in the neighborhood," Rusty said, "so I thought I'd drop by for lunch."
Millie unplugged the iron, set it upright, and stepped around the ironing board. She was barefoot. She wore white
"Was your wife with you last night?" Rusty asked.
"Oh, yes."
"What time did she leave?"
"I don't know. Very late. In the vicinity of one, one-thirty, I should think."
"That is late. Why did she go out?"
" 'What makes her in the wood so late, a furlong from the castle gate?' Maybe dreams of knights. I don't know."
"What?" Rusty asked.
The professor smiled strangely. " 'Cristobel.' "
"That another poet?"
"A poem. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge."
"Had you and your wife been arguing at the time she left?"
"No. Oh, no, not at all."
"Did she go by herself?"
"All alone."
"But you weren't having any sort of fight?"
"No. I already told you that. This was just a thing she enjoyed doing. Taking off for a wild drive through the night."
"What was she wearing?"
"Her nightgown. A diaphanous white negligee."
"What else?"
"Slippers? I believe she wore slippers. And naturally she had her purse. She never went anywhere without her purse."
"Is that all?"
"Nothing more."
"Why didn't she get dressed before she left?"
"It was simply her way. She liked to think of herself as quite scandalous. Something of a Zelda Fitzgerald, you know. It excited her, made her feel special."
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"Out. 'I'm going out.' " He turned toward Rusty and slowly smoothed one side of his mustache with a forefinger. "She did go out, too. She went out, and went out. Snuffed like a candle."
"Do you know anyone she might've gone to meet?"
"No. No." He shook his head. "No. Nobody."
At the morgue, Rusty studied Grant Parkington's reaction to the sight of his wife's body. The man pressed a hand to his open mouth as if to hold in a scream. But he examined her with care, pointing out the mole beneath her left breast, the brown oblong birthmark on her right thigh, how the small toenail of her right foot was missing. Then he broke down crying.
Rusty led him out of the room.
Chapter Nine
The Digs
As Pac watched, a tine of her rake snagged a white cord. Jack Staffer dropped to his knees in front of her, slipped a finger beneath the cord, and lifted. Sand fell away as he pulled the nightgown free. "This belong to you?" he asked Pac.
"Never use the things," she said.
"Lucky Ham."
"You betcha."
"Do you think it's hers?" Jack asked.
"Until I find out otherwise." She dropped the rake, hurried over to her case and took out a clear plastic bag. She brought it to Jack. He dropped the nightgown inside. "How would you like to get the shovel?" she asked.
"Sure thing."
While Jack went for it, Pac looked down at the shallow dip in the sand. She felt a chill and rubbed her arms.
"You want me to do the honors?" Jack asked.
"Go ahead."
He pushed the broad head of the shovel into the sand and lifted out a load. Fine granules spilled off the shovel like water. He dumped the rest off to the side, turned again to the hole, and jabbed the blade in. It made a harsh, scraping sound.
"Maybe got something here," Jack said. He lifted out the shovel, and a pink slipper came up with the sand. "Its twin must be around here someplace."
Soon, the second slipper came up.
"The guy must've thrown everything into the same hole," Pac said.
"Nice for us."
Jack kept digging, pushing the shovel deep into the sand. Soon, its blade clinked against steel. Dropping to his knees, he brushed sand away until he uncovered a black plastic handle.
"Be careful. Prints."
The hacksaw was all there, its steel back glaring with sunlight, its blade coated with a fine crust of sand.
"Looks like we've got us the murder weapon," Jack said.
"Not exactly," Pac told him. "The murder weapon was probably the river. This is what he used afterward."
"Nice guy," Jack muttered.
"A real prince," said Pac.
Chapter Ten
Two Women
"Look who's here."
"I was in the neighborhood," Rusty said, "so I thought I'd drop by for lunch."
Millie unplugged the iron, set it upright, and stepped around the ironing board. She was barefoot. She wore white
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