the primary subject, “that Brother Sheldon was acting or that he hadn’t anticipated how the sight would affect him.”
“The passing out was genuine. I really don’t think he was part of the murder. Of course, Harry and I were there in the dark. We probably missed things. There was no sign of struggle, but there was blood all around the tree. I know I missed a lot.”
“Anyone other than a law-enforcement officer would. And even they miss things sometimes.”
“Funny thing, though. Harry says she doesn’t want a tree now. I expect she’ll change her mind. She’ll see trees everywhere, so maybe the emotion will pass.”
“I didn’t know Christopher Hewitt. I knew him as a child. After all, everyone sees everyone else, and he was close in age to Little Mim and you all, but I didn’t know him. He wasn’t part of your crowd. I knew what everyone else knew: the insider-trading scandal. He seemed mild enough. But then, perhaps successful criminals always do—the kind that steal millions, I mean.”
“White-collar crime is so different from what I think of as lower forms of crime: assault and battery, murder, petty theft. Those crimes, I think, are committed by people with poor impulse control. Low normals, really.” He used the expression for low-normal intelligence. “White-collar crimes demand intelligence, a bland exterior for the most part, and vigilance. Constant vigilance to cover your tracks.” He thought a moment. “I suppose premeditated murder and large-scale robbery demand intelligence.”
“Murder is easier to accomplish and remain undetected than television crime dramas acknowledge. Why do you think there’s so much publicity when a murder is solved?”
Fair finished his tea. “Also fuels the illusion that you can’t get away with murder, when you can.”
“I wonder if the killer is reveling in the publicity. The greatest luxury in life is privacy.”
“That it is.” He smiled. “Another luxury is having your wife listen to you even if she’s a trifle bored.”
She smiled. “I doubt she finds you boring. But you know how she, um, becomes obsessed. If ever there was a person who shouldn’t have seen the remains of Christopher Hewitt, that person is Harry.”
As Big Mim and Fair chatted, Dr. Bryson Deeds was having lunch at Farmington Country Club with his lawyer and college friend, Bill Keelo, a man as high-powered in his way as Bryson was in his.
Seated at the next table was a group of eight who’d finished a game of platform tennis, which was played outside on a raised platform in a cage. They sweated so much the snow didn’t bother them, but it finally got so slippery everyone had to stop. Each court hosted a foursome, mixed doubles. The exhilarating exercise put everyone in high spirits, as did the holidays. Anthony McKnight, president of a small but quite successful local bank, and Arnold Skaar, a retired stockbroker, were part of the group. Both men knew and had business relations with Bryson and Bill. Arnie was in everyone’s good book because he still made them money during recessions, both mild and deep.
Bryson stabbed his salmon. “Spoke to Brother Morris this morning.”
“Me, too. He’s distraught.” Bill noticed as Donald Hormisdas, another lawyer, passed their table and waved.
“Faggot,” Bill hissed.
Bryson ignored the slur on Donald, as he’d heard it so many times from Bill. “Apart from the emotional loss, Brother Morris is upset because Brother Christopher had such a good business mind.”
“He certainly was persuasive. I’d worked as their lawyer for years at a reduced fee, and Christopher convinced me to do their work for free.”
Bryson smiled slightly at Bill. “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”
Aunt Tally entered the room, accompanied by her great-niece, Little Mim. As Tally passed each table, the gentlemen rose to greet her. For one thing, this displayed superb manners, something a fellow should consider
“The passing out was genuine. I really don’t think he was part of the murder. Of course, Harry and I were there in the dark. We probably missed things. There was no sign of struggle, but there was blood all around the tree. I know I missed a lot.”
“Anyone other than a law-enforcement officer would. And even they miss things sometimes.”
“Funny thing, though. Harry says she doesn’t want a tree now. I expect she’ll change her mind. She’ll see trees everywhere, so maybe the emotion will pass.”
“I didn’t know Christopher Hewitt. I knew him as a child. After all, everyone sees everyone else, and he was close in age to Little Mim and you all, but I didn’t know him. He wasn’t part of your crowd. I knew what everyone else knew: the insider-trading scandal. He seemed mild enough. But then, perhaps successful criminals always do—the kind that steal millions, I mean.”
“White-collar crime is so different from what I think of as lower forms of crime: assault and battery, murder, petty theft. Those crimes, I think, are committed by people with poor impulse control. Low normals, really.” He used the expression for low-normal intelligence. “White-collar crimes demand intelligence, a bland exterior for the most part, and vigilance. Constant vigilance to cover your tracks.” He thought a moment. “I suppose premeditated murder and large-scale robbery demand intelligence.”
“Murder is easier to accomplish and remain undetected than television crime dramas acknowledge. Why do you think there’s so much publicity when a murder is solved?”
Fair finished his tea. “Also fuels the illusion that you can’t get away with murder, when you can.”
“I wonder if the killer is reveling in the publicity. The greatest luxury in life is privacy.”
“That it is.” He smiled. “Another luxury is having your wife listen to you even if she’s a trifle bored.”
She smiled. “I doubt she finds you boring. But you know how she, um, becomes obsessed. If ever there was a person who shouldn’t have seen the remains of Christopher Hewitt, that person is Harry.”
As Big Mim and Fair chatted, Dr. Bryson Deeds was having lunch at Farmington Country Club with his lawyer and college friend, Bill Keelo, a man as high-powered in his way as Bryson was in his.
Seated at the next table was a group of eight who’d finished a game of platform tennis, which was played outside on a raised platform in a cage. They sweated so much the snow didn’t bother them, but it finally got so slippery everyone had to stop. Each court hosted a foursome, mixed doubles. The exhilarating exercise put everyone in high spirits, as did the holidays. Anthony McKnight, president of a small but quite successful local bank, and Arnold Skaar, a retired stockbroker, were part of the group. Both men knew and had business relations with Bryson and Bill. Arnie was in everyone’s good book because he still made them money during recessions, both mild and deep.
Bryson stabbed his salmon. “Spoke to Brother Morris this morning.”
“Me, too. He’s distraught.” Bill noticed as Donald Hormisdas, another lawyer, passed their table and waved.
“Faggot,” Bill hissed.
Bryson ignored the slur on Donald, as he’d heard it so many times from Bill. “Apart from the emotional loss, Brother Morris is upset because Brother Christopher had such a good business mind.”
“He certainly was persuasive. I’d worked as their lawyer for years at a reduced fee, and Christopher convinced me to do their work for free.”
Bryson smiled slightly at Bill. “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”
Aunt Tally entered the room, accompanied by her great-niece, Little Mim. As Tally passed each table, the gentlemen rose to greet her. For one thing, this displayed superb manners, something a fellow should consider
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