cleansing breath, forcing the negativity out of her body, seeking a critical mass of positive thought. David was so fastidious. Always looked good, smelled good, kept his fingernails clean. It was good of him to have found Joe a job. Surprising, but good. She knew that Joe and her husband didn’t get along, but that didn’t stop David from doing the right thing. He’s a good man, she told herself. He tries so hard.
A brass plaque on the stone arch read: ORCHARD ESTATES . Crow guided his Rabbit through the arch, entering a tangle of neatly plowed streets named after fruits and berries. He followed Cherry Curve to Appletree Drive, then explored Blueberry Street, Circle, and Lane before locating Blueberry Trail. The homes of Orchard Estates were set well back from the winding streets, each home well isolated from its neighbors by heavily wooded borders and a minimum lot size that must have run five or ten acres. From the little he could see from the street, all the homes appeared to be large and expensive, and no two the same. Still, Crow had the sense that all had been designed by one architectural firm. He suspected that clones of each one of these homes existed elsewhere, on other lakes, in other “exclusive estates.”
Blueberry Trail, a short street that quickly dead-ended, was buried deep in the maze. The last house, number 17380, was a split-level mock Tudor on a large lot, secluded from the neighbors by a couple acres of woods on each side. A three-foot-high bank of carefully plowed snow defined the outer perimeter of a circular driveway. He recognized Getter’s Mercedes parked near the front door and pulled his Rabbit in behind it. An aging Dodge station wagon was parked at the far end of the driveway. White deicing pebbles dotted the brick walk that led to the front door. Checking his watch, Crow noted that he was late by twenty minutes—roughly equivalent to the amount of sleep he had gotten. It was going to be a long night. He pressed the illuminated doorbell button.
He was about to press it again, when a tinny voice said, “Yes?”
Crow looked for the speaker, found it set into the stucco to the right of the door.
“My name’s Crow,” he said. “I’m here to—” He remembered he didn’t know the name of his prospective client. “I’m supposed to meet Dave Getter here.”
The door opened, and a cloud of warm, moist, rich-smelling air poured out into the night. A mild-featured man in a rumpled gray sweater and rimless eyeglasses, about Crow’s size but older and softer around the cheeks, motioned him to enter. Crow stamped the snow off his feet and stepped into the vestibule. What was that smell? Something strong and organic, but not unpleasant. He shrugged out of his trench coat, an eighty-nine-dollar poly-cotton knockoff of the Burberry classic, and held it out to the man who had answered the door. The man frowned at the coat.
“I am not a butler,” the man said. “Mr. Getter and my brother are back in his office.” He turned and walked into a spacious, severely formal parlor. The upholstered furnishings were done in white and ivory damask, the matching glass-topped end tables supported by a fragile framework of white oak. A cut-glass chandelier sent spatters of light across patterned white satin wall covering and an eggshell-colored carpet. The room had a cold, sterile feeling. No one would want to be in this room. No one would ever be offered a glass of red wine or a cup of coffee here. It was a room to be photographed, or a room to walk through, being careful not to brush against anything. Crow stopped at the perimeter of the carpet, aware of his snow-caked, salt-rimed wing tips.
The man said, without turning back, “Don’t worry about it.”
Crow noticed a faint gray path across the carpet, evidence of many feet passing since the last cleaning. The glass tabletops supported a patina of dust. Crow followed the man who was not a butler through the parlor and into a formal dining
A brass plaque on the stone arch read: ORCHARD ESTATES . Crow guided his Rabbit through the arch, entering a tangle of neatly plowed streets named after fruits and berries. He followed Cherry Curve to Appletree Drive, then explored Blueberry Street, Circle, and Lane before locating Blueberry Trail. The homes of Orchard Estates were set well back from the winding streets, each home well isolated from its neighbors by heavily wooded borders and a minimum lot size that must have run five or ten acres. From the little he could see from the street, all the homes appeared to be large and expensive, and no two the same. Still, Crow had the sense that all had been designed by one architectural firm. He suspected that clones of each one of these homes existed elsewhere, on other lakes, in other “exclusive estates.”
Blueberry Trail, a short street that quickly dead-ended, was buried deep in the maze. The last house, number 17380, was a split-level mock Tudor on a large lot, secluded from the neighbors by a couple acres of woods on each side. A three-foot-high bank of carefully plowed snow defined the outer perimeter of a circular driveway. He recognized Getter’s Mercedes parked near the front door and pulled his Rabbit in behind it. An aging Dodge station wagon was parked at the far end of the driveway. White deicing pebbles dotted the brick walk that led to the front door. Checking his watch, Crow noted that he was late by twenty minutes—roughly equivalent to the amount of sleep he had gotten. It was going to be a long night. He pressed the illuminated doorbell button.
He was about to press it again, when a tinny voice said, “Yes?”
Crow looked for the speaker, found it set into the stucco to the right of the door.
“My name’s Crow,” he said. “I’m here to—” He remembered he didn’t know the name of his prospective client. “I’m supposed to meet Dave Getter here.”
The door opened, and a cloud of warm, moist, rich-smelling air poured out into the night. A mild-featured man in a rumpled gray sweater and rimless eyeglasses, about Crow’s size but older and softer around the cheeks, motioned him to enter. Crow stamped the snow off his feet and stepped into the vestibule. What was that smell? Something strong and organic, but not unpleasant. He shrugged out of his trench coat, an eighty-nine-dollar poly-cotton knockoff of the Burberry classic, and held it out to the man who had answered the door. The man frowned at the coat.
“I am not a butler,” the man said. “Mr. Getter and my brother are back in his office.” He turned and walked into a spacious, severely formal parlor. The upholstered furnishings were done in white and ivory damask, the matching glass-topped end tables supported by a fragile framework of white oak. A cut-glass chandelier sent spatters of light across patterned white satin wall covering and an eggshell-colored carpet. The room had a cold, sterile feeling. No one would want to be in this room. No one would ever be offered a glass of red wine or a cup of coffee here. It was a room to be photographed, or a room to walk through, being careful not to brush against anything. Crow stopped at the perimeter of the carpet, aware of his snow-caked, salt-rimed wing tips.
The man said, without turning back, “Don’t worry about it.”
Crow noticed a faint gray path across the carpet, evidence of many feet passing since the last cleaning. The glass tabletops supported a patina of dust. Crow followed the man who was not a butler through the parlor and into a formal dining
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