box office.”
“We’ll give you a late supper after the concert,” said Lisa.
“That would be great. Make sure you watch the 6:00 news. See you tonight.”
Lisa and Mark sat in silence for a few minutes until they heard the engine.
“Do you think we shocked him?” asked Marc.
“Hardly. I don’t think Ray is easily shocked, but you’re a bit embarrassed, aren’t you? I saw you blush when I came out of the cottage,” said Lisa, showing some obvious joy at needling him. “Has Ray always been interested in chamber music?”
“He was in love with a cellist when he was in graduate school. She was on the music faculty and part of a very successful string quartet. I think that she was Ray’s first real love, but she ended up marrying someone else.”
“And then? I don’t really know much about Ray other than his life up here.”
“He took a job teaching criminal justice.” Marc paused and then continued, “It looked like he was going to spend his career at a university. When he found out his mother was terminally ill with cancer, he took a leave of absence and came back to look after her. About that time the sheriff announced his retirement and some locals got Ray to run in the primary. After he won the primary and general election, he resigned his teaching job. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
13
Ray was not looking forward to interviewing the ex-wife of the dead man. He arrived a few minutes before the time the person on the phone had said, “Mrs. Bussey will find it convenient to meet with you then.”
A pretty young woman, probably the voice on the phone, met him at the door and escorted him through the living room and out onto a deck overlooking the lake. By her dress it was difficult to tell whether she was a maid or a secretary, but her formal manner suggested she was not a family member. She offered him a chair at an umbrella- covered table and said Mrs. Bussey would be with him in a few minutes.
Ray surveyed the house, large and new, a kind of rustic modern that mixed stone, wood, and glass. A glass-walled living room faced the lake; the vaulted ceiling rose two stories. The house was perched high on a hill over the water, and the deck was cantilevered out over the sideof the hill, providing an extraordinary view of the lake and shoreline. The deck was an elaborate piece of craftsmanship—redwood, cut and fitted in an intricate pattern, a Jacuzzi carefully worked into the pattern at one end of the porch.
Ray’s attention was pulled back as the sliding door opened and a woman emerged. The young woman who had met him at the door followed her carrying a tray with coffee. The woman crossed the deck to where he was sitting, extending a hand as she approached. He rose to greet her. Her hand was cold and bony, her grip strong.
“Please stay seated. I’m Rachel Bussey.” She seated herself across from Ray. The tray with a silver coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl, and two cups—thin, white, and translucent—was placed on the table. The young woman silently departed.
“Sheriff Ray Elkins, ma’am. I just have a few questions. I know this probably isn’t an easy time.” He looked across the table. She was wearing a large pair of dark glasses, and he couldn’t see her eyes. She was very slim, almost frail and appeared to be in her early forties. Her hair, very blond, was pulled into a tight roll at the back of her head, giving the impression that the hair was helping to pull the skin taut over her narrow, tense face. She was wearing a dark blue cotton skirt, pink knit polo shirt, and white court shoes.
“I’m upset,” she said in a low, tense voice, “but hardly grieving.” Without asking whether or not he would have any, she poured two cups of coffee and served one to Ray. “Cream and sugar?”
“No, this is fine.”
“We’ve been divorced for almost three years—just had this place built before he wanted the divorce. Our old cottage was in the village, a cute Victorian
“We’ll give you a late supper after the concert,” said Lisa.
“That would be great. Make sure you watch the 6:00 news. See you tonight.”
Lisa and Mark sat in silence for a few minutes until they heard the engine.
“Do you think we shocked him?” asked Marc.
“Hardly. I don’t think Ray is easily shocked, but you’re a bit embarrassed, aren’t you? I saw you blush when I came out of the cottage,” said Lisa, showing some obvious joy at needling him. “Has Ray always been interested in chamber music?”
“He was in love with a cellist when he was in graduate school. She was on the music faculty and part of a very successful string quartet. I think that she was Ray’s first real love, but she ended up marrying someone else.”
“And then? I don’t really know much about Ray other than his life up here.”
“He took a job teaching criminal justice.” Marc paused and then continued, “It looked like he was going to spend his career at a university. When he found out his mother was terminally ill with cancer, he took a leave of absence and came back to look after her. About that time the sheriff announced his retirement and some locals got Ray to run in the primary. After he won the primary and general election, he resigned his teaching job. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
13
Ray was not looking forward to interviewing the ex-wife of the dead man. He arrived a few minutes before the time the person on the phone had said, “Mrs. Bussey will find it convenient to meet with you then.”
A pretty young woman, probably the voice on the phone, met him at the door and escorted him through the living room and out onto a deck overlooking the lake. By her dress it was difficult to tell whether she was a maid or a secretary, but her formal manner suggested she was not a family member. She offered him a chair at an umbrella- covered table and said Mrs. Bussey would be with him in a few minutes.
Ray surveyed the house, large and new, a kind of rustic modern that mixed stone, wood, and glass. A glass-walled living room faced the lake; the vaulted ceiling rose two stories. The house was perched high on a hill over the water, and the deck was cantilevered out over the sideof the hill, providing an extraordinary view of the lake and shoreline. The deck was an elaborate piece of craftsmanship—redwood, cut and fitted in an intricate pattern, a Jacuzzi carefully worked into the pattern at one end of the porch.
Ray’s attention was pulled back as the sliding door opened and a woman emerged. The young woman who had met him at the door followed her carrying a tray with coffee. The woman crossed the deck to where he was sitting, extending a hand as she approached. He rose to greet her. Her hand was cold and bony, her grip strong.
“Please stay seated. I’m Rachel Bussey.” She seated herself across from Ray. The tray with a silver coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl, and two cups—thin, white, and translucent—was placed on the table. The young woman silently departed.
“Sheriff Ray Elkins, ma’am. I just have a few questions. I know this probably isn’t an easy time.” He looked across the table. She was wearing a large pair of dark glasses, and he couldn’t see her eyes. She was very slim, almost frail and appeared to be in her early forties. Her hair, very blond, was pulled into a tight roll at the back of her head, giving the impression that the hair was helping to pull the skin taut over her narrow, tense face. She was wearing a dark blue cotton skirt, pink knit polo shirt, and white court shoes.
“I’m upset,” she said in a low, tense voice, “but hardly grieving.” Without asking whether or not he would have any, she poured two cups of coffee and served one to Ray. “Cream and sugar?”
“No, this is fine.”
“We’ve been divorced for almost three years—just had this place built before he wanted the divorce. Our old cottage was in the village, a cute Victorian
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