Cloak and Dagger

96

Three weeks’ vacation at Dexter’s family’s mountain house should have been just what two cops needed. Until Dexter’s mom tries to convince him that a few unfortunate accidents weren’t accidents at all. If only Vastarnyi didn’t humor her wild notions…

 

Vas & Dex is an original fiction series inspired by Starsky and Hutch. The two main characters were Jonathan Michael Dexter III aka Dex, and David Andras Vastarnyi aka Vas. They were written starting in 1976 as pass-around stories. A few appeared in zines. The stories were photocopied and circulated by mail, usually for the cost of postage. (Fanlore)

The first story in the Vas and Dex series is Different Drummer.

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Chapter 1

Rising slowly up from a sleep so deep it might have been drugged, Dexter became aware of the silence first, a deep, wide pool of it, with ripples of birdsong patterning the surface and the faint susurration of wind through the trees. There were no traffic sounds, no street noises, just sunlight and the scent of roses coming in the open window. Three weeks’ vacation in a wide mountain valley, in a house that offered every modern comfort, while outside were trails to ride, rivers to fish, lakes to sail or water-ski. Life, Jon Dexter decided, could be awful good. He yawned, stretched his long, angular frame into a star-fish sprawl under the single sheet, and relaxed, drifting back into a sleep of lazy contentment.

He did not hear his door open, the near-silent pad of bare feet on the thick carpet, nor the noiseless easing back of the drapes before the open floor-to-ceiling windows. The intruder stepped out onto the balcony, leaned over, and looked down into the swimming pool directly below him. The water was deep. He had already checked that. He gave the room another quick inspection—nothing was within reach that Dexter could use as a weapon—then, with the silence of a stalking carnivore, he advanced on the bed. Dexter was a tall man—six-foot-two, and weighing some 185 pounds—but he would have no chance to use the advantages extra height and weight would give.

The sleeping man sighed, stretched, and rolled over, freezing the intruder in his tracks until the deep, steady breathing told him Dexter was nowhere near waking. He drifted closer, eyes on the wide shoulders presented to him, then attacked, pinioning him long enough with his own weight to drag the pajama jacket from his shoulders down to elbow-level, effectively binding his arms to his sides before he could strike out, then with an explosive strength heaved the thrashing body out of the bed and bundled it towards the window.

Silently Dexter, wide awake but disadvantaged and disorientated, fought back as best he could, but to no avail. The brief glimpses he had of the fierce determination on his assailant’s face told him where he was headed, and he threw pride to the winds and opened his mouth for a yell that would wake the house. But a hand clamped over his lips, a fist jolted into his stomach hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, and the balcony rail cut into the small of his back. With a whoop of triumph, the smaller man dived for his ankles and heaved him up and over, tipping him into space.

Dexter hit the water with a mighty splash, and kicked back to the surface, freeing his arms with difficulty. On the balcony above him, David Vastarnyi, wearing only Levis, was draped over the rail, howling with laughter.

“You maniac!” Dexter yelled. “I’ll break your fool neck for this! Who the hell d’you think you are? Genghis Khan? Why don’t you act like a civilized human being once in a while!”

The dark head came up from the folded arms, and a wide white grin split the gypsy features. “That ain’t no fun, Jonno-viragam,” he chuckled. “What’s the water like?”

“Cold! And I’m gonna throw you in just as soon as I get up there!”

“Spoilin’ for war, huh?” Vastarnyi crowed with delight, and: “Talpra Magyar!” vaulted the rail and struck the water feet-first. Almost Immediately Dexter felt his ankles grabbed again, and, despite his frantic kicks, was yanked beneath the surface.

The commotion drew its inevitable audience. Frank Reiland leaning comfortably on the balcony rail outside of his bedroom, a serene stream of smoke rising from his pipe and a grin of enjoyment on his face. Life was never dull with the Vastarnyi around, that was obvious, and he was looking forward to the three weeks’ vacation the young man would be spending with them, with the keen enthusiasm of an inveterate observer of the human race and its associate members.

“What’s going on?” Eleanor Reiland joined him. “What—?”

“Nothing to worry about, honey,” he chuckled. “Dave just woke Jon up, I guess.”

“Woke… Frank, what are they doing in the pool, for heaven’s sake—with their clothes on!”

“Waking Jon up.” Her husband grinned. “And if he isn’t careful, he’s gonna lose his pajamas the hard way.”

“Pajamas?” Eleanor echoed, glancing round the U-shaped balcony from Vastarnyi’s room, her son’s room, then back to the violent activity in the pool. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m slowing up in my old age.” She laughed softly, and linked her arm through his. “It’s going to be good having them both here. I’d forgotten what a clown Davie is.”

“Well, he was kind of subdued when we met him last year,” Frank pointed out. “Three or four knife wounds take some convalescing.”

Eleanor shivered. “Yes,” she said, and didn’t add it might have been Jon.

The blue pajama jacket had been lost in the watery melee, and she could see the paleness of new scars against his tanned skin; injuries she had not been told about in the regular letters from Los Angeles, any more than she had heard the story behind the long thin scar across her son’s stomach. Vastarnyi, too, had collected some new trophies, and she shivered again. The dark-haired man had become as dear to her as her son—him she could indulge and spoil as she never could the more reserved, solemn boy that had been Jonathan. Jon had changed, though, over the last eighteen months. The solemnity and reserve were still there on occasion, but he had relaxed, had come out of his shell, and she knew that the sole responsibility for that could be laid at Vastarnyi’s door; another reason for her to love the mercurial, turbulent man.

***

They had arrived late the previous evening to a warm welcome from the Reilands, who had not known until the last minute that Dexter was bringing the Vastarnyi with him. They were not surprised, merely delighted, and Eleanor happily rearranged her plans to include her son’s partner. After all, she darkly confided to Frank over breakfast, while waiting for them to dry off and change, two heads were better than one.

He sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Honey, I wish you’d forget about it. They’re here for a vacation, for God’s sake.”

“Of course they are! And normally I wouldn’t dream of it, but this is important.”

“Look, Burt’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“Yes—”

“He looked into it and said there’s nothing, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“He’s been a cop for thirty years. Jon hasn’t been in the Force anywhere near thirty months. Now I love him dearly and I respect his intelligence, but I’ll back Burt’s experience any day, and if he says there’s no case, there is no case, and neither Jon nor that lunatic of his can manufacture one for you.”

Eleanor sat bolt upright and glared at him across the table, a slender, honey-haired woman approaching her fifties, the beautiful bones of her face nullifying age, and with glitter in her blue eyes as she prepared to join battle.

“Franklin,” she said, “I do not need a manufactured case. Two people have died. Our friends, Frank—”

“Accidents, honey,” he protested, as the sparkle of battle became the shine of tears.

“No! Murder!” Eleanor insisted with equal certainty. “And if Burt can’t or won’t do anything about it, then Jonathan will, before someone else dies!”

Frank sighed again and shook his head. “I used to think it was Phil that Jon got his mule-headedness from,” he muttered as she left the breakfast table with stormy abruptness. “Honey, please drop it, huh?”

“I have no intention of letting it rest. I’ve got some phone calls to make, then I’m going to have a talk with Jon and Davie.”

The door closed on the borderline of a slam, and Frank groaned, reached for the coffee pot and refilled his cup, an expression of harassed gloom settling on his rugged features.

“Seems to me,” Marj Connors observed, coming in from the kitchen with refills for the toast rack, “you want to give Mr. Dexter fair warnin’. Mrs. Reiland’s sure got a bee in her bonnet about Tess Wyatts and Burnett.”

“Lord, yes! Any sign of them coming down yet?”

She sniffed disparagingly. “Not of Mr. Dexter. That Mr. Whatsisname said he’s probably gone back to sleep—says he tends to hibernate when he don’t have to use his brain.”

“Vastarnyi,” Frank supplied the name automatically.

“Yeah, that’s what he said.” Marj’s scorn was patent. “Is he right in the head?”

“Probably not,” he grinned. “Don’t let him faze you, Marjie.”

“Huh! Ain’t met the man who could,” she snorted. “The likes of him just get their ears boxed, and I told him so.”

Fascinated, Frank gazed up at her round, middle-aged face, topped with fading red hair escaping from a bun. “Yeah?” he asked hopefully. “Then what?”

“Fell on his knees an’ cried into my apron,” she told him, with the exasperation of one used to dealing with the insane. “Said everyone picked on him because he’s a waif and stray.”

“And then?”

“I boxed his ears,” she said succinctly. “I’ll bring in fresh coffee—want some more ham, Mr. Reiland?”

“No thanks. Say, Marjie, would you tell Red he better get a couple of horses ready? Jon’ll want to ride out, I know, and he’ll drag Davie along as well. Don’t think Dave’s ever sat on a horse in his life, so better make it Smoke or Chesapeake for him. Red’ll know who’s best.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Reiland,” she said cheerfully. “He reckoned it’d be that way, said he was gonna get Corruna all set for Mr. Dexter, first thing.”

The kitchen door swung shut on her words, and the Vastarnyi entered the dining room, a jaunty bounce to his stride and a grin on his face. “Hi, Frank,” he said.

“Hi, son. Jon about?”

“Yeah. He’s just tryin’ to convince his hair it’s gotta stay back when he combs it back. As soon as he’s admitted defeat he’ll be down.”

Marj came from the kitchen with a full plate and put it in front of Vastarnyi. The waif and stray, Frank was interested to note, had been provided with a double portion of everything. He hid a grin and poured himself more coffee, to find it and the now empty pot whisked away from under his nose, fresh coffee and a clean cup replacing them.

“Told you I was gonna bring fresh.” Marj’s tone poured contempt on the idiocy of her employer. “Red says Smoke and Corruna’ll be ready when they’re wanted, an’ are you or Mrs. Reiland ridin’ this morning?”

“No. Eleanor will probably go out with the boys this afternoon, visiting down the valley, and she might take into her head to use the horses.”

“Yeah, well, if she does, tell her Cloud’s leg is fine today, so she can take him if she wants.”

‘”Kay.” Frank smiled.

“How many horses you got here?” Vastarnyi asked, when she had gone.

“Six. Smoke, Cloud, Chesapeake, Corruna, Major Blue, and Comanche,” he said. “Guess you don’t ride?”

Vastarnyi kept his eyes on his plate. “They don’t have too many horses in the backstreets of downtown L.A.” He sighed. “Hi, Jonno,” and the tall man entered, a frown pulling down the blond brows.

“Hi, Vas. If you pull that stunt again, I’ll pulverize you.”

“What stunt?” Wondering innocence.

“Dumping me in the pool,” Dexter snapped, taking his seat at the table.

“What’re you complainin’ about? Didn’t have company, did you? Or did I break up one of those dreams, the kind that Kinsey went to town on—”

“Will you quit it?”

“Gee, you’re a grouch, Jonno Three.” He grinned. “You can dream that kind of dream any time, if you put your mind to it.”

“Hold it, boys,” Frank cut in on the budding war. “We’ve got us something of a problem. Marj! Hey, Marjie, where’s Eleanor?”

“In the study, phoning Lollie Stevens.” The housekeeper came in with Dexter’s breakfast. “So she’ll be a while yet.”

“Fine. Keep watch, huh?”

“Sure thing.”

Aware that two pairs of suddenly anxious eyes were fixed on him, Frank took his time before continuing, sorting out his words carefully.

“What’s wrong?” Dexter asked quietly.

“Nothin’s wrong, exactly,” he said. “Your mother’s got an idea in her head, and I can’t shift it, is all.”

“So what’s the problem?” Vastarnyi wanted to know.

“A couple of friends of ours have died over the last month. Tess Wyatts drowned in her pool, and Harry Burnett crashed his car. Accidents, both of ’em—hell of a shock for us all—but Eleanor has decided that they weren’t accidents, that they were premeditated murders, and that someone else is next on the list.”

Stunned into silence, they stared at him.

“That’s kind of heavy,” Vastarnyi recovered first. “But she must have reasons.”

“Oh yeah, sure she does, but they don’t seem like reasons to me, or to Burt—Sheriff Rhinefeld, he’s a good friend of ours,”—for the benefit of the guest. “Eleanor’s always been interested in history, you know that, Jon. It’s murder watching an historical movie with her around; she sits there and picks holes in its authenticity. So she joined History Societies here and in San Francisco. A while back a couple of local groups put their heads together and decided on a joint event, and it’s happening in about ten days. It’s a costume party, would you believe, with everyone coming as a character from the English Wars of the Roses period, fourteen hundred and something, and the characters Tess and Harry were going as were Lancastrians. So Eleanor has got herself a list of potential victims—all Lancastrians.”

“Lancastrians?” Dexter repeated blankly.

“Yeah,” said Frank, and plunged on. “Y’see the other group with the History Society is the local branch of the Richard III Society, and she thinks they’ve got a nut in their membership who’s trying to kill off the opposition a little late in the day.”

“Opposition?” Bewildered, but valiantly struggling, Dexter’s voice was an echo of despair, almost a bleat.

“Who’s the flake?” Vastarnyi demanded.

“Well, Chairman of the Ricardian crowd is the one she’s put the mark on, tor some unknown reason. He’s a colorless little creep, just kind of neurotic about Richard III. In fact, that’s who he’s coming to the dinner as. He’s had a lot of nerve trouble, and he’s got himself a pet shrink, but who the hell hasn’t these days?”

“You?” Vastarnyi grinned.

“Don’t you believe it. I play golf with him every weekend,” he grinned back, “and gibber when he beats me. Anyhow, that’s the picture, and she’s gonna be wanting to rope you in on her side. She aims on talking you into an unofficial investigation.”

“On the basis of two accidents?” Dexter protested.

“Uh, three accidents. Couple of nights ago Bob Wyatts nearly died when the house caught fire. The T.V. set went up—hell, it’s a well-known fact that old sets are prone to it unless you take elementary precautions, which an awful lot of folks don’t. But Eleanor ignores that and insists it was hit number three, and that Bob’s damned lucky.”

“He’s related to Tess Wyatts?” Vastarnyi asked. “Husband?”

“Yeah.”

“How long between Incidents?”

“A week, and—uh—fifteen days.”

“Hey,” said Dexter, “you’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Eat your breakfast, Citrom Sajt, then go back to sleep. You don’t have to switch your brain back on for three weeks,” Vastarnyi said offensively.

“Franklin,” said Eleanor from the doorway, voice as bright as polished steel, “why don’t you go deal with your mail in the study?”

“Yes, dear,” he sighed, and left, the picture of a man hen-pecked into robotic submission.

The story as told by Eleanor Reiland differed little from that of her husband’s in its basic layout, but gave more detail on people and places, and concentrated wholly on the certainty of murder committed and with more to come.

“But, Mom, what do you expect us to do?” Dexter demanded, a note of despair in his voice. “If Burt—”

“Jonathan,” said Eleanor, “I would have thought that was obvious. You find whoever is doing these dreadful things and stop them; they are obviously sick and must have medical help, before someone else dies.”

“You got any ideas as to who it is, Momma D?” Vastarnyi filled the gap made by his partner’s slack-jawed bewilderment.

“Yes, I think Thomas Croome is responsible, but I may be wrong so I’m keeping an open mind on the subject.” Dexter choked on a mouthful of coffee, and she glared at him. “We can talk about it later. Why don’t you show Davie round the place, introduce him to Red and the horses?”

Dexter brightened visibly. “Yeah,” he said, a glint growing in his eyes. “Do you ride, Vas?”

His partner stared at him, obviously wary. “Sure, I ride!” he snorted, the brash confidence in voice, face, and slight swagger of the shoulders telling Dexter a different story. “Did I ever tell you ’bout the time I punched cows down in Arizona?”

“No,” Dexter grinned, “you never did. Can’t think how it slipped your mind. Okay, Duke Wayne, come and show me how it’s done.”

“Why don’t we take a rain-check on that? I want to tell Momma Dex all about what a great cop you are.”

“Some other time.” He stood up, got a fistful of denim collar, and hauled Vastarnyi out of his chair. The smaller man resisted, loudly, and the ensuing scuffle carried them through the dining room, kitchen, and out of the back door, the two women watching the erratic progress with varying expressions.

“Huh,” said Marj, arms folded over her large bosom. “If that’s what the Police Force is coming to, I may leave the country.”

“They’re really quite good at it.” Eleanor sprang to the defense of her menfolk.

“Yeah?” Marj sniffed. “If you want my opinion, Mrs. Reiland, you need your head examined, expecting those two mooncalves to work on your murder case. They couldn’t detect a barn door if it fell off at their feet!”

“Yes, they could! I mean, they’ve made plenty of arrests—detective work, not just traffic offences!”

“Then the crooks in L.A. are dumber than I figured,” Marj fired a neat broadside, and Eleanor gave up the unequal battle.

“Yes, well, I think I’ll go and see how Cloud is,” she said, and hurried after her son and Vastarnyi.

The wrestling match had come to an abrupt end as the two men rounded the corner of the kitchen-wing, and came into view of the stable-block with the paddock-orchard immediately before it. Just inside the white painted fence, a long, lean individual in a bright checkered shirt and faded Levis leaned against a tree, chewing gum with the calm introspection of a ruminant. Beside him, two horses stood, coats glistening in the mid-morning sun; one a deep-chested gelding of some seventeen hands plus, copper of coat, flaxen of mane and tail; the other, a good two hands shorter, was a clearly marked dapple-grey, mane and tail brushed to sleek silver. The chestnut turned his head and whickered as Dexter opened the gate.

“Hi, Corruna,” he called. “Hi, Red.”

“Hi,” said Red, not moving. “How’s Flakey City these days?”

“Flakier,” he grinned. “You ought to spend some time down there.”

“An’ give you the pleasure of haulin’ me in on a DSD?” Red snorted. “I ain’t no hick sucker. Though,” he continued, thoughtfully eyeing Dexter up and down, “I reckon I could give you some sweat if you tried it. Seems to me you’ve gotten kind of flabby since I saw you last.”

“No way. It’s all muscle. Anyhow, I’ve learned a few neat tricks on handling recalcitrants. Red, I want you to meet my partner, David Vastarnyi. Vas, Red Connors. He’s been with Frank for years, knows all there is to know about horses and this part of the country.”

“Hi,” said Vastarnyi absently, eyes on the horses.

Connors grunted, nodded a greeting.

“Red, Vas is going to need a crash-course in horsemanship—reckon we could do it?”

Hard brown eyes raked his partner from head to foot. “Sure we could do it. But d’you reckon your buddy’ll survive it?”

“Oh sure. He’s born to hang.”

“Wa-al,” drawled Connors. “If you’re sure, Dexter.”

“I’m sure. You still watch all those third-rate westerns? You’re nearly as bad as Vas; he thinks the sun shines out of Clint Eastwood’s eyeballs, and John Wayne is the God in his heaven.”

“The hell he is,” growled Vastarnyi in his best Wayne-drawl.

“Okay, you imitation cowpoke.” His partner grinned. “Let’s see you climb aboard the grey.”

“No sweat.” Vastarnyi approached the gelding, a placid, well-mannered beast, and they eyed each other, speculation in the human eyes, mild interest in the equine.

“The name’s Smoke,” Connors volunteered.

“Oh. Hi, Smoke,” said Vastarnyi, and held out a hand. The horse accepted the halved Hershey bar with dignity. “Hey, I think he likes me.”

“Bribery,” Dexter said, disparagingly. “Mount up.”

“Don’t rush me! Me’n’Smoke are gettin’ acquainted—go hold hands with yourself someplace else, Jonno-Three.”

“Now you’re stalling.”

“Who, me? How many times have you bawled me out for not stallin’? For barrellin’ in with both feet?”

“You’re still stalling.”

“Huh!”

“Jon,” Eleanor joined them, slightly out of breath, “don’t be difficult. Show Davie how to do it.”

“Okay. You hold the reins so, put this foot in this stirrup, and swing up. Like that.”

Vastarnyi gazed up at him, blue eyes wide and worshipful. “Aw, gee, J.D., that’s awful clever,” he groveled earnestly. “D’you think it’ll take me long t’learn, huh? So’s I’ll be as good as you, J.D., huh?”

“Mom, kick him for me, will you?”

“No,” she chuckled, “I won’t,” and gave him a quick hug instead. “Don’t take any notice of Jon. Just do as Red tells you, and don’t worry about Smoke; he’s got a beautiful temperament. Go on.” She stepped back.

“Well, I don’t know.” Vastarnyi moved back with her. “He’s—uh—kind of—large, Momma-Dex,” turning wide, apprehensive eyes to her. And winked, slowly and deliberately.

She choked back a sudden surge of laughter. “Don’t be silly.” Eleanor managed a convincing severity. “Smoke is far safer than that motorcycle of yours.”

“Chicken, Rakosy?” Dexter drawled, swinging down from Corruna, and got a belligerent scowl. “C’mon, David Andras, where’s all that Hungarian ancestry of yours? What’s happened to the one-man-horde? Is that Mancini blood showing through at last? What was it you said about them? Oh, yes. They don’t have blood, if you cut them, they bleed spaghetti-sauce? I guess you’re more Mancini than you think.”

Vastarnyi gaped at him, stunned and outraged into momentary silence, and Dexter grinned down at him in heady triumph. It wasn’t often he won these verbal encounters, and victory was a very strong wine. “Well, Magyar?”

“May you be cursed with crab-lice and impotence!” Vastarnyi briefly forgot Eleanor’s presence.

“What’s so terrible about that?” came the counter-attack. “I’m already cursed with you for a partner—any other affliction would come as a welcome relief.”

An odd sound forced its way out of Vastarnyi’s throat, a cross between a snarl and a whimper, and Dexter patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “It’s okay, we’ll forget about the horses and go back to the house—I don’t mind having a chicken guinea for a partner.”

Determination showing in every inch of his wiry frame, Vastarnyi stalked past Dexter, past the widely grinning Red and the disinterested chestnut.

“I guess you’re not that much taller than the vaultin’ box in the Academy’s gym,” he told the grey, and on Eleanor’s involuntary “Davie, be careful—” he landed in the saddle without the use of the stirrups, a surprised expression on his face. “Hey, that was easy! How come you tried to pull all the fancy work, Jonno-Three?”

“Now pick up the reins, smart-ass,” Dexter chuckled.

“These? Like this?” and drove his heels home, hard. Startled, but obedient, Smoke jumped from a standing start to a canter in about three strides, with the Vastarnyi, loose stirrups flying, hugging both arms round his neck and yelping happily.

The yelps didn’t sound happy to his audience, two of whom were suddenly grave and anxious, and neither could they see that the rider’s right leg was urging Smoke to a gallop.

Dexter beat Red to the chestnut by a matter of inches, sprang into the saddle and sent the big horse after the flying grey. The paddock fence was looming up—then Smoke veered away at a tangent, weaving through the fruit trees, ears back, tail broomed, the epitome of a bolting horse.

“Hold on!” Dexter yelled, and a panic-stricken wail floated back to him. Grimly he crouched in the saddle, cutting down wind-resistance, and the long-striding Corruna closed in on the grey. Vastarnyi was sliding sideways, slowly, but inexorably, but Dexter could not get near enough to Smoke to catch the bridle—as soon as the two horses were running neck and neck and he edged Corruna close, the grey veered away.

“Hold on!” he yelled again, desperately, as Vastarnyi disappeared with a squawk over Smoke’s right shoulder. Suddenly, the dark head appeared again, incredibly under the grey’s neck, a wicked grin showing behind the reins held in his teeth. He was anchored to the horse’s side with his left heel hooked on the cantle of the saddle, left hand gripping the saddlehorn, right foot in the stirrup, and with his free hand he pantomimed firing a gun.

“Bang, you’re dead!” he whooped, and Smoke, firmly under control, as he had been from the start, veered off again, Vastarnyi now upright in the saddle, riding as if he was glued to his horse’s back. “Didn’t believe me, did you, Lemon? Figured I was a greenhorn, huh?”

“You’re a lunatic!” bellowed Dexter, furious and half-relieved, but justifiable homicide would have to be postponed until Eleanor was out of the way. From the way she was laughing, she’d been in on it from the beginning; had watched her son being set up without a warning word, and would undoubtedly side with the reprobate. In an unguarded moment she had once told him that she now felt as if she had two sons—well, he knew which one was the favorite, damn him, and he was going to dismember him the first chance he got.

“Where did you learn to ride?” Red grinned as Vastarnyi swung down beside him.

“Arizona. Our Dumb Blond didn’t believe me when I told him I’d punched cows for a while.” Vastarnyi grinned back. “Strangely enough, it was a guy called Red who taught me—only his name was Red Wolf an’ he was a full-blooded Apache.”

“No kiddin’?” He was impressed.

“Don’t believe him!” Dexter dismounted and advanced on them. “He fantasizes like a kid in Junior High! He makes it up as he goes along to see what kind of a reaction he can get!”

“But, Jon, Davie can ride, so—” Eleanor started.

“Probably picked it up watching Gene Autry re-runs,” he snapped.

“Grouch,” Vastarnyi crowed. “An’ I know why. Bet you can’t do trick-ridin’! Bet all you can do is sit there looking pretty, an’ hop over a few jumps.”

Which was true and unanswerable, and needled Dexter into battle. “Listen, you graceless, misbegotten apology of a third-rate Cossack, you’ve got the sense of humor of a deranged delinquent, d’you know that? And one of these days I am going to perform a lobotomy on you with my boot! When’s the last time you rode?”

“Oh, a few years back. Why?” The wary expression came back.

“Get back on that horse, cowboy. I’m going to show you around the valley, and if you’re lucky we might be back in time for dinner tonight.”

They were back for the meal, just, and the Vastarnyi was limping, was somewhat set about the mouth, and obviously in discomfort. By the morning, Dexter predicted with relish, he would be completely stiff.

Vastarnyi glowered at him. “An’ I used to think old Red Holt was a sadist,” he said. “Well, I just changed my mind. You can out-sade him any day of the week without even trying.”

“It was you who reckoned you were L.A.’s answer to Alvin Schockemueller.”

“Who?”

“The poor man’s Paul Revere.” Dexter grinned. “Boy, am I looking forward to tomorrow morning. You are going to be paralyzed.”

Eleanor came down the stairs to catch the tail-end of the conversation, and the anticipatory relish in her son’s voice brought a frown to her eyes. She took in the situation at a glance.

“There are times, Jonathan,” she said coldly, “when I am convinced your development was arrested at kindergarten level. Go and wash up for dinner. After the meal, Davie, you must go up and soak in a hot bath; it’ll ease your muscles,” she went on, tones changing to warm compassion.

Dexter stared at her, hurt. “But Mom—that crazy misfit goaded—”

“Do you intend to sit down to dinner unwashed and unchanged?”

“You don’t know what I have to put up with from him. He’s a—”

“Jonathan.”

“Do as you’re told, Jonno-Three, or you’ll be sent to bed with no supper,” Vastarnyi crowed, and Dexter glared at him, color rising.

“You wait,” he hissed. “I’ll make you wish you’d never been—” He caught his mother’s eye, and retreated hastily, leaving his partner to follow painfully and laboriously in his wake.

***

For Frank, the meal was a delight, better than Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. In spite of Eleanor’s frequent attempts at bright innocuous conversation, the insults sniped between the two young men were better than any comedy team on a T.V. show, with the honors, for once, he guessed, going to Dexter, judging by the widening grin on the blond features. Vastarnyi had been driven into sputtering Hungarian by the time Marj served up dessert, and after coffee he excused himself to Eleanor with old-world charm, shot a malevolent squint at Dexter, and limped dramatically all the way upstairs. He locked himself in his en-suite bathroom and soaked for two hours in a tub of hot water liberally laced with a highly expensive brand of bath salts guaranteed to soothe away any muscular aches.

Meanwhile, Dexter, though deep in disgrace, was enjoying the rare phenomenon of being able to watch—and pick holes in—Vas’ favorite T.V. cop show without being threatened with physical violence every time he laughed.

Vastarnyi came in as the final credits rolled, entering without his usual bounce, and lowered himself gingerly into one of the deep armchairs, wafting an odor of cedar bath salts as he moved. “Have I missed it? Aw, shi-ucks! I forgot it was on.”

***

If Vastarnyi had crowed less, had not taken such shameless advantage of his mother’s warm and generous nature, it would be different, Dexter thought grimly. But he had, and she could not—or would not—see what an infuriating, trouble-making pain in the ass he was. Vastarnyi was worse than red ants and poison ivy at a picnic at times, and this was one of those times. It wasn’t just that Eleanor doted on him, and that he wallowed in her captured affections like the unprincipled pirate he was. It was the way he used her as a shield, behind which he could insult and goad Dexter with impunity, secure in her fierce defense of his life and limb. Well, this time she couldn’t. Vastarnyi was, quite literally, “naked to his enemy,” he mis-quoted happily, hitched up his slacks, rubbed his hands together and advanced silently on the bed.

It was not quite six o’clock on a fine, clear morning, and Dexter having awakened full of zest and vengeance, saw no reason for Vastarnyi to sleep on. So he had thrown off his pajamas, pulled on a pair of ancient cords, and pussy-footed along to the guest room via the balcony.

The Vastarnyi was asleep, curled into a neat ball in the middle of the large bed, and his night had obviously been a restless one, as cramped muscles tried to find a comfortable position. Pillows and covers were on the floor in tangled heaps, and Dexter carefully unraveled the sheet. He wasn’t going to take any chances; the Bohunk fought dirty, and he himself was somewhat stiff of limb after yesterday’s riding. Using the sheet as a net, he bundled Vastarnyi into as much of a tangle as he could manage. The man woke with a convulsive jerk and a yell of mingled surprise and pain.

Dexter muffled a few more folds round his head, hauled the writhing mass out of the bed and made for the balcony, using sheer brute strength to subdue the handicapped prisoner, and dropped him over the rail into the pool beneath.

Vastarnyi fought his way free of the clinging fabric and surfaced, coughing and spitting threats. “That does it!” he yelled, striking out for the side.

Dexter grinned. “Hi, Mom,” he said loudly, and a panic-stricken Vastarnyi disappeared beneath the surface, diving quickly for the discarded sheet.

He emerged from the pool looking like the last, wrathful survivor of drowned Atlantis, the sheet draped toga-wise about him.

“Hi, Vas,” said Dexter happily. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It will be when you’re not around to pollute it,” he snarled. “Did I ever tell you I hate your guts?”

“Frequently.”

“Yeah, well I do. An’ you are going to suffer for this.”

“Yeah?” Dexter drawled, chuckling.

“Yeah.” Vastarnyi squinted up at him evilly, hands on wet hips, head cocked to one side. “Know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna tell Dimitri all about your ears, and I mean all.”

The blond man paled visibly, his laughter banished by fearful anxiety. “Hey, c’mon buddy, you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you? Vas?”

“Yes.”

“But, Vas—we’re partners—friends—”

“Yeah, an’ I hate your guts.”

“Vas—” he pleaded, and got a wolfish grin.

“I’m gonna call him up,” he said with relish, “just as soon as I dry off. You better practice standing in corners with your back to the wall.”

“Hey, wait a minute—why don’t we talk this over—” But his partner had gone from his sight, leaving a trail of water and wet footprints behind him.

Dexter took the stairs four at a time, but the poolside patio was deserted when he got there, so he followed the damp trail round the wing of the house to the kitchen door. Vastarnyi was perched on a stool, exuding dampness, an exasperated Marj removing all eatables from his reach.

“…opinion he’s certifiable,” he was saying, tucking a container of cookies into the front of his toga. “I ask you—to do that to a guest? Was he ever dropped on his head when he was young, Marj?”

“Yeah, ’bout as often as you, if the evidence is anything to go by,” the woman snapped. “C’mon, you halfwit—hand ’em over.”

“‘M hungry. I need sustenance to restore my equilibrium after that trauma,” Vastarnyi protested, wrapping his arms across his trophy.

“What you need is a kick in the pants!” she snorted. “Hand ’em over.”

“Ain’t wearin’ any,” he announced gloomily. “I ask you, what kind of a buddy slings a guy in the drink at this time in the morning?”

“You did,” Dexter accused, pushing through the swinging-doors.

“So what? I’m not supposed to be civilized—you keep on tellin’ me!” he retaliated. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be so high-class an’ genteel. Still, it don’t matter.” He gave Marj a dazzling smile. “I’m gonna get back at him for it. See, there’s this kid called Di—”

“Vastarnyi!” Dexter bellowed. “Give Marj those cookies!”

He jumped like a startled deer, dropping cookie container and most of his toga, and the cook rescued her property.

“Cookies!” she sneered. “You want food, you can have some proper eats, not coffee-break-pickin’s.”

“Can I?” Vastarnyi beamed, hitching up his drapery. “Aw, gee, Marj, you’ve restored my faith in human nature. Not like some I could mention,” he added, glowering at Dexter. “Where do they keep the phones in this place?”

“Hall, library, study, and master bedroom,” said Marj automatically, not taking any notice of Dexter’s frantic signalings. “Why?”

“Gotta call L.A.,” Vastarnyi grinned. “Rap with a friend of Dex’s.”

“Why don’t you go get some clothes on?” Dexter suggested quickly.

“Will, when I’ve eaten. Don’t rush me—without food, I might catch a chill, an’ Momma D’ll know it’s all your fault, an’ she’ll make your life hell.”

“You—” Words failed him, and the jaunty grin grew wider, as Vas slid from his stool and padded over to give Dexter a quick, damp bearhug.

“‘S’okay Jonno. I love you too,” he announced, and sat at the table to tackle the heaped plate of eggs, toast, and melon Marj had set there for him.

Defeated and speechless, but not without resourcefulness, Dexter departed with more haste than dignity. There were a few things he had to see to before Vastarnyi got himself dried and dressed.

Another long soak in a hot bath took some of the residual stiffness out of Vas’ abused muscles, and he presented himself at the usual time for a second breakfast—to keep Frank and Eleanor company, he said, ignoring Dexter, who had accused him of gluttony without thinking first. It was as he had known it would be—his mother raised no protests at Vastarnyi dropping him in the pool, but for him to retaliate was all wrong. Unexpectedly, it was Marj who came to his rescue—Marj, who from his fourteenth year had covered up his escapades, shielded him from justified retribution, had patched up cuts and washed away bloodstains so that Eleanor wouldn’t worry.

“What your mother means, Mr. Dexter,” she said grimly, reaching over to remove his empty plate, “is that she expects nothin’ else from that crazy loon. Whereas you’re a sensible, level-headed adult. Some of the time.”

Vastarnyi gazed at her, wounded. “Aw, Marj—” he protested, and Dexter grinned at him, the hurt gone.

“I think maybe you just hit the bullseye, Marj,” he chuckled. “More coffee, Mom?”

Frank leaned back in his chair and chewed on his unlit pipe, a thoughtful smile on his mouth. Eleanor was going to have to be careful; he could see it, though she obviously could not, since he had grown up with numerous brothers and sisters. Eleanor had not, so she did not know that she was being faced with sibling rivalry between her two boys, the natural son and the adopted. Well, it wouldn’t do any of them harm, even if it did smart a little now and then.

“What are your plans for today?” Eleanor asked brightly, smiling at Dexter.

“Uh, well, show Vas around some more—on horseback for a few hours this morning, maybe take the car this afternoon.”

Vastarnyi groaned, loudly, but Eleanor nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “You ought to ride for a while, use those muscles again—it’ll do them good.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “That’s what Red Wolf said, only not so pretty. Okay, Momma Dex—for you, anything.”

“That’s settled, then,” she smiled. “Did you go up the valley yesterday? Fine, we’ll go this morning. I’ll take you up to Tess’s place, and meet Bob. I can show you where Harry crashed, as well.”

Dexter’s eyes met Frank’s, and both men gave silent sighs. They had been hoping Eleanor had forgotten her theories—they should have known better.

“Suits me,” said Vastarnyi, gloomily. “Can I borrow one of the cushions from the lounge?”

“No,” said Dexter, glad of the excuse to change the subject, even if it did bring his mother’s wrath on his head. “You can suffer—it’s good for the soul, and yours can do with all the help it can get.”

“Yeah?” Vas grinned at him, then looked around the room. “Can I use your phone, Momma D?”

“Of course…”

“No!” snapped Dexter, over her soft assent.

“Why ever not?” she demanded, amazed. “For heaven’s sake, Jon, what’s got into you? Why shouldn’t he phone?”

Scarlet-faced with embarrassment, he stared at her, unable to speak. How could he tell his mother that his partner—his so-called friend—was going to tell an actively-practicing homosexual about the one erogenous zone that never failed to turn him on?

A delighted howl of laughter from Vastarnyi told him that his mind had been read, and his color deepened. He stood up, clumsy in his haste, but before he could say, or do, anything to his tormentor, he also rose.

“Yep,” he said. “Let’s go see if the cayuses are in that there old corral yet,” and with a limping, bow-legged swagger, led the way to the door.

“Oh, Davie, tell Red I’ll be coming with you on Cloud,” Eleanor called after them.

“Sho thing, Ma’am.”

***

Dexter glared at the back of Vastarnyi’s head, but the concentrated loathing did nothing to quell his partner’s exuberance. The trail was too narrow to ride three abreast, and Dexter had found himself relegated to the rear while Vastarnyi monopolized his mother. Eleanor, unwisely, in Dexter’s opinion, had asked who was Red Wolf, and how and where Vas had learned to ride. The resulting story was pure fabrication, Dexter was sure—Vas had missed his vocation, being a cop; he ought to be a script-writer for third- rate T.V. shows—but Eleanor showed every sign of swallowing it hook, line and sinker.

“…should have seen that animal,” Vastarnyi was saying cheerfully. “You’ve heard that old song, ‘Strawberry Roan’? Well, this was a paint, but the rest fitted. I never saw a horse like it—everythin’ looked like it was put together kind of off-center. It was Roman-nosed, sway-backed, goose-rumped, cat-hocked, and pigeon-toed—a wreck. Had one blue eye, an’ both were wall-eyes. Had one of them over-long underlips, used to look at me an’ sneer. Had teeth like a dinosaur, too. All told, Paint looked like he’d collapse if the wind blew too strong. Well, Red, he put the bridle on this thing, an’ said: ‘okay son, climb aboard’. So I did. Stayed on about three seconds—no saddle, y’see, not even a blanket ‘n’ surcingle, and that blasted animal had a backbone like the Rocky Mountains. Damn near ruined me for life. Anyhow, Red picked me up outa the sagebrush, an’ boosted me back on. Two seconds this time, an’ to emphasize his point, Paint stepped on me.”

“That explains a lot,” Dexter interrupted loudly. “Did he kick you in the thick of the head?” But raconteur and audience did not appear to hear him.

“Didn’t you hurt yourself?” Eleanor demanded, concerned.

“Yeah, I was black ‘n blue all over,” Vastarnyi said soulfully. “Had hoof-marks ‘n teeth marks on me, too. But by the time Red and Paint had finished, I could ride anythin’—no kind of style, of course, not like the Great White Hope ridin’ behind us, but I can stay on most things. Was thinkin’ of goin’ on the rodeo circuit during one of my college vacations, but never got round to it—then I joined the fuzz, and haven’t had time since.”

“So what’s the difference?” Dexter grumbled. “You turn the squadroom into a three-ring-circus at times, let alone a rodeo.”

“You’re gettin’ to sound like Parr, good buddy.” Vastarnyi grinned over his shoulder. “Remind me I gotta give Dimitri a call when we get back.”

“Who’s Dimitri?” Eleanor asked, to Dexter’s immediate horror.

“He’s a kind of friend, but more in the nature of a paid information bureau,” Vas said, his grin becoming malicious. “He’s Greek, more or less, an’—”

“Seeing that Vas is such a marvelous rider,” Dexter cut in, “why don’t we put him on Major Blue?”

“Major Blue?” Eleanor frowned. “Don’t be silly, Jon. That horse is insane.”

“Yes,” said Dexter. “They’d he a good pair.”

“Thanks a bunch, pal.”

“Davie is not going to ride Major,” she said firmly. “The vet’s coming out to him in a couple of days.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Vas wanted to know.

“Major has fits,” Eleanor said. “Throws himself at things.”

“So does Dimitri,” said Vastarnyi, glaring at Dexter, who flushed.

Eleanor did not hear. “…and Red thinks he should be put down. But we’ll see if he can be cured, first.”

“Maybe he should check Vastarnyi over as well. Put them both down,” Dexter snarled.

“Jonathan! That wasn’t very—oh, we turn off here…”

It was a narrow, winding path between birch and aspen, and Eleanor led the way on her white gelding. The track climbed sharply, and suddenly they were on a road, the hooves of the three horses echoing hollowly on the asphalt surface.

“This is where Harry died,” Eleanor said quietly. “He was coming downhill.”

The two men looked around them. The road was well kept-up, but narrow, and curved steeply down the mountainside in a series of hairpin bends. To the right was a steep scrub-and-sapling covered bank, the usual summer dust slipping down to drift at the foot and filter onto the road. To the left the land fell away into the valley, and the place of the crash was clearly visible as a swathe of broken bushes, scarred earth, and trees on the downhill side of the bend.

“He must have been travelling,” Vastarnyi commented, swinging down from his horse, and hitching the reins to a convenient branch. “What was he driving?” .

“A 1946 Packard Station Wagon,” Eleanor said.

“Huh? Jesus, they were built like Sherman tanks!” he snorted. “Was he an old car freak?”

“Yes. Burt thought he was doing between fifty and sixty when he went off the road,” she said, and he stared at her.

“That’s kinda fast.”

“Harry knew the road like the back of his hand—he always drove fast—and it was at night, so he’d be able to see headlights if another car was coming—” Eleanor said quickly.

“Times I’ve heard that before,” Vastarnyi sighed.

Dexter nodded grimly. “They never think it’ll happen to them—always someone else.”

“But that’s just it—it wasn’t an accident!” she protested vehemently. “I can’t see any way it could have been. Harry knew the road so well—”

“Mom, what was the weather like round the time of the crash?” Dexter interrupted quietly.

“Um, stormy, I think. Why?”

“Look at that bank. I can remember seeing streams of mud washing down from it in storms, and it comes right across the road and down the hillside. All he needed to do was hit that, at any speed, and he’d skid.”

“Not Harry.”

“Good God! He wasn’t a miracle-worker!” he snapped. “I’m sorry, Mom, but you’ve got to look at the more likely possibilities before you consider the highly improbable.”

“Was the car checked out?” Vas put in before Eleanor could lose her temper completely.

“Yes, Burt’s people couldn’t find anything—but that doesn’t mean there was nothing to find!”

“Was it smashed up?”

“No, not all that much, apparently. Harry was killed going through the windshield—he never used a seat-belt.”

“Well, when a driver plays Russian Roulette—” Dexter started.

“But everyone knows he doesn’t—didn’t—use seat-belts!”

“Mom, hold on a moment. You honestly prefer to think he was killed by someone he—and you—know, rather than take it as an accident?”

“Of course I don’t!” she said angrily. “It’s a horrible thought, and it gives me nightmares, but I’m convinced I’m right! And something must be done!”

“Okay, Mom.” Belatedly, Dexter attempted to pacify her. “Take it easy. You think the car was tampered with? Even though the Sheriff’s office found nothing?”

“Yes.”

“D’you think we could get hold of copies of the reports?” Vastarnyi asked.

“Maybe, but I can’t see us finding anything Burt might have missed. Well, I guess we’ve seen all there is to see here; maybe we should move on.”

“Yeah,” Vastarnyi agreed thoughtfully. “How much mud gets on to the road in wet weather?”

“A lot.” Dexter prepared to rein away.

“Show me.”

“Huh? What for?”

“I want to know the usual area of the mud slick.”

“Okay,” he sighed, dismounted, and paced it out for him, a swathe that would be roughly fifteen to twenty feet wide, crossing the road on the bend. “So what does that prove?” He climbed back onto the big chestnut.

“You’re an occasional visitor, and you know about it, so I guess a residential Harry knew about it. He was a pretty good driver?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor. “Fast, but skillful.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. And I could get a car round there at fifty or sixty, if I knew the car and the road in all weathers.”

Dexter stared at him blankly. “So?”

“So he could have been forced off the road.”

“You’re crazy!”

“It’s an idea.”

Dexter glared down at him, hurt and furious. “We don’t need any more crazy ideas! Mom’s got enough already!”

“Jonathan!”

“I’m sorry, Mom, but you’ve got to face up to it. I’m very sorry about Harry. I knew him, and liked him, but the way he drove along these mountain roads, this was only a matter of time.”

“That’s a very hard thing to say, Jonathan,” she whispered, distressed.

He bit back another I’m sorry. “Yes,” he said grimly. “But then, so is life, sometimes. I suggest we go now.”

Startled, she stared at him; for a few seconds it might have been Philip Dexter stating that cold fact and command with an authority that would brook no argument.

Then an affectionate, chuckling whisper at her side broke the spell. “Jonno can be awful macho sometimes.”

Eleanor leaned down and touched the dark curls lightly. “I can still box his ears for him. And yours,” she added.

The rest of the journey passed in somewhat enforced harmony. Dexter monopolized the conversation, keeping it well away from deaths, accidental or otherwise, and firmly on trivia.

 

Chapter 2

The Wyatts’ house was similar to the Reiland’s in many ways; the same basic U-shape around the backyard, but without the wide gardens and orchard opening on from it. Instead, the land dropped down in a series of terraces to another pool, fed by streams and dammed by ornamental sluice gates.

Bob Wyatts’ private fishing-hole, Dexter remembered, grinning.

“Yeah?” said Vastarnyi, recognizing the smug reminiscent grin for what it was.

“Yes. Burt taught me how to tickle a trout one summer. I lifted a beauty out of there one night.”

“Jon! You never told me!” Eleanor protested.

And he flushed slightly, still smiling. “I’m telling you now,” he chuckled.

Vastarnyi reeled back in his saddle, one hand pressed to his heart, the other to his eyes. “My son, the trout-rustler!” he cried in an improbable falsetto.

“You’re impossible.” Eleanor laughed. “Come on, boys—there’s Bob on the patio.”

***

“Jon. How are you?” Bob Wyatts’ greeting was warm and welcoming. “It’s been quite a while since you were up in this neck of the woods. How’s this new career going?”

“Fine, thanks.” He smiled, shaking hands vigorously with him.

Wyatts was somewhere in his thirties, of average height, leanly built, with a handsome face under a mane of dark red hair. His handshake, when he was introduced to the Vastarnyi, was firm and confident.

“Bob, I’m sorry about Tess,” Dexter said quietly, when the formalities were over. “I—well, what do you say, when something like this happens.”

“It’s okay, Jon. I guess I’m over the worst shock now, and I can look at it this way—you knew Tess. A real live-wire, she would have hated to have grown old, slowed down, maybe gotten housebound. An accident like this seems cruel—but some things are worse.”

“Yes,” said Dexter, thinking about it. “I guess you’re right.”

“That’s fine, but—” Eleanor started.

Wyatts took her arm and led the way into the house. “Ellie, no more nonsense,” he said fondly. “Come and have coffee, and we’ll talk about other things.”

But Eleanor Reiland was not so easily distracted, and was prepared to bide her time.

Coffee was drunk in an atmosphere of friendly warmth, Dexter responding cheerfully to Wyatts’ half-serious, half-bantering questions about life as a cop in L.A., and in return quizzing the older man about his proposed expansion of the trout-pool to a trout-lake. Eleanor joined in happily with comments of her own, while Vastarnyi sat in comparative silence, listening to them talk and forming his own impression of the man.

He didn’t know why Bob Wyatts should put his hackles up—hell, that was too strong a term—make him vaguely uneasy, then. It was crazy, he knew it. Wyatts was a nice guy. Jonno liked him, Momma D liked him, Frank liked him—so what was wrong? His instincts told him that something was—and normally he could trust them. Not this time, apparently.

“Bob.” There was a quiet note in Eleanor’s voice that caught their attention. “I’m very sorry to re-open the wound, but would you please show Jon and Davie where Tess died, and tell them what happened?”

“Mom—” Dexter protested at once, but Wyatts put a hand on his arm.

“It’s okay, Jon. Sure, Ellie.” Over her head his smile was rueful and understanding, telling Dexter all was well and that he was happy enough to humor Eleanor’s whim.

He led the way out to the patio and the pool, and they stood in a silent group for a few moments, looking at the still water.

“Tess was a real water-baby,” Wyatts said softly. “Spent more time in or on the water than on dry land. She had a habit of taking a dip whenever she felt like it, regardless of the time—hey, Jon, remember when we had that party for Junie and that guy she was going to marry? Boy, was he a dull dog! Turned the whole shebang flat as a pancake. Tess got so fed up with it, she just marched into the bedroom, changed out of her party-dress and dived in.”

“I remember.” Dexter smiled. “Tess didn’t give a damn about much, did she?”

“Nope. That was one of the things I loved most about her. There was no double-talk with my Tess. She shot straight from the hip, both barrels, and no pussy-footing around.”

“Sounds like she was quite a lady,” Vastarnyi said. “I’d have like to have met her.”

“She’d have loved you, Davie,” Eleanor whispered. “She could always turn the world into a joke, as well.”

“Yeah,” said Wyatts. “Yes, well,” he went on, suddenly brisk, “the night she died, it was close; real heavy, thundery weather. We’d had a pretty big supper that evening. She’d found a recipe she wanted to try out, and it was so good we both stuffed ourselves. Went to bed, and I slept like a log as usual, weather or no weather, but I guess she couldn’t sleep, got up, and went out for a swim to cool off. Our bedroom opens right onto the patio… “ He paused. “The Medical Examiner thought she was hit by sudden cramps after that heavy meal, and—just drowned.”

“You found her?” Vastarnyi asked quietly.

“Yeah. I woke up, found she wasn’t in bed, and went out to the pool. I figured she’d gone in for an early morning dip, and I was going to pull her leg about growing gills…. She was lying at the bottom of the pool. I dived in and hauled her out, but she was dead. They estimated she died about one thirty to two o’clock in the morning.”

“I see. Thanks, Bob,” Dexter said.

“‘S okay. Got any questions, officers?” he added with a wry smile.

Dexter flushed, and sent his mother a resentful look.

Vastarnyi cleared his throat, equally uncomfortable. “Mr. Wyatts—”

“Bob.”

“—Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to kill your wife?”

“Good Lord, no. Tess didn’t have enemies. Everyone who knew her loved her.”

“Yes, but you said a while back that she didn’t mess around—that she spoke out with what she had to say, regardless. Folk like that can step on people’s toes.”

“Yeah,” he sounded doubtful. “I guess she did hurt people’s feeling sometimes, being outspoken, but surely not enough to make anyone want to kill her?”

Vastarnyi gave an infinitesimal shrug, and Eleanor said, “But that doesn’t explain Harry’s death, or the attempt on Bob.”

“It could.”

Two pairs of blank eyes, one pair of icy, angry blue, stared at him. “I don’t see—”

“Look at it this way. Suppose someone wanted to kill Harry—had good reason to, and if anyone dug deep, that reason could come out? So the killer stirs up the mud. Kills someone else—anyone else—then Harry, then another poor goop or two. So what are the cops looking for? Either a nut or someone with a grudge against all of them, which gives our guy a good chance of getting away with it.”

“That’s horribly devious,” Eleanor said, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Dexter said, cold fury in his face. “When it comes to sheer twisted deviousness, Vastarnyi has a head start on everybody. Thanks for your hospitality, Bob, and your patience. We won’t trespass on your privacy any more. There won’t be any more questions. Vastarnyi, go fetch the horses.”

“Sho’, Bwana,” he grinned. “Uh—thanks, Bob.”

“But, Jon—” Eleanor started.

He took her arm and propelled her across the patio. “That’s enough, Mother.”

“But—”

“Mother.” And she subsided.

***

For a while Eleanor rode in reflective silence. Jonathan was not being as helpful as she had thought he would be. In fact, he was being downright obstructive. She felt a little disappointed in Jonathan. But not discouraged in her aims. Something was going to be done about poor sick whoever-it-was who was killing her friends, and if her son the police officer would not do it, then she would see to it herself.

Davie’s theory, now, was interesting, but too devious and—well, nasty. Sometimes she worried about that boy’s mind. Cold-blooded, premeditated, multiple murder was a sickening thought. So was homicidal mania, but one was deliberate and sane and required punishment, and one was a sickness that needed treatment. If only people could be brought to see it. At least Davie was on her side, even if his theory was off. He was willing to acknowledge the possibility of foul play. Perhaps he could persuade Jon where she had failed.

She shot a glance at her son’s grim profile, and sighed. Right now, he didn’t look very persuadable. Another quick glance to her other side showed her Davie’s profile, no grimness there, just a small smile of relaxed enjoyment.

He turned his head and met her gaze, the smile widening. “How does it feel to have half of a National Park for your backyard?” he wanted to know.

“Pretty good. Sometimes I wish we lived here all year round, not just spring and summer.”

“I guess Fall is kinda spectacular out here.”

“Unbelievable. You’ll have to come and see for yourself sometime.”

“You got a date.” He laughed. “Hey, Momma-D, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Bob about his T.V. goin’ up. D’you know the details?”

“Not all of them. I think you ought to pay Bob another visit. Maybe without Jon.”

“You bet without Jon. He can be just like his Pop sometimes.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said ruefully. “I think that’s got a lot to do with why they don’t get on too well.”

“Bound to be. You think this guy Croome is behind the deaths? Tell me about him, huh?”

A narrowing of the trail had permitted them to drop back, letting Dexter ride on ahead. Eleanor gave his broad back a guarded, speculative look, and dropped her voice somewhat. “Well, he’s quite a nice little man—pathetic, almost. He’s had a lot of bad luck and illness in his life—I really don’t think he can be held responsible for his actions.”

“You don’t have to apologize for him, mezam-lady.” Vastarnyi snorted. “What bad luck?”

Eleanor did not need another prompt. “He had stock in a business that went under—lost a lot of money. Then the bank refused to extend his credit any further. He needed a loan and couldn’t get it. I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown…. He threw himself into this Richard III Society as an escape. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

Vastarnyi listened in silence, making no comment to interrupt the flow of words, assimilating all she said.

“…So you see, he has to be stopped, before he hurts someone else, and I’m afraid that could be Vin Tallis.”

“Why him?”

“Because—oh dear, this does sound rather crazy—Tom is neurotic about Richard III of England—you know, the 15th century?”

“Sure. Go on.”

“Well, Vin is coming to the banquet as Henry VII,” she said.

Vas looked at her, one eyebrow cocked.

“Henry Morton—Harry—is dead, one of the chief plotters against Richard; so is Margaret Beaufort, the mother of Henry Tudor and another plotter; and there’s been an attempt on Sir Thomas Stanley, Margaret’s husband, who turned against Richard in the middle of the Battle of Bosworth.”

“Harry Burnett, Tess Wyatts, and the try for Bob.”

“Right. So it’s inevitable that Vin—”

“Hey, whoa—back. Who else is due to turn up at this medieval bash? Historical who-elses?”

“Oh. Well, there are Richard and Cicely Neville of York—Richard III’s parents—that’s Frank and myself—Richard III, Henry VII, Jane Shore, Queen Elizabeth Woodville, Queen Elizabeth of York—Henry’s wife—Richard, Duke of Warwick and his wife Anne, Queen Anne Neville—that’s Richard’s wife—and Margaret of Anjou. She was Henry VI’s wife. Are you dreadfully confused, Davie?”

“Oh, I’ll get it straightened out. But I guess you got a kinda superfluity of royalty there, Momma Dex.” He grinned, and she gave a sudden chuckle.

“We’re going to have another, if I have my way. Don’t you dare tell him, but I’ve got Jon lined up for Edward IV, and if he finds out too soon, I’ll never get him there, in or out of costume.”

“Not a word will I breathe,” he vowed solemnly, hand on heart. “But seriously, if Flaky Tom is aiming to wipe out Lancastrian enemies and traitors, he’s got a whole batch of others to go for as well as Henry. Margaret of Anjou, for one. She got his Pop and brother killed at Wakefield, and before that had driven them into exile and taken his mom and himself prisoner at Ludlow Castle. He had good cause for a king-size grudge against her—forgive the pun.”

“Davie, you’ve been holding out on me! How much more do you know about that period?”

“Oh, just what I picked up from the movies. The Woodville—she’s another he might hate. Not to mention Warwick, who turned his coat from York to Lancaster.”

“Yes—”

“Could even make a case against Jane Shore, I guess.”

“David,” Eleanor said ominously.

“Don’t jump on me! What I mean is, if he’s hittin’ on Lancastrians, he’s gonna want to finish on a lulu, so he’d save Henry Seven ’til last.”

She gazed at him uncertainly. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “Do you really think so?”

“It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “See, you gotta look at all the angles, not just ignore them and hang onto your pet one.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I still think poor Vin is in danger—”

“Could be he is. Have you warned him?”

“Yes. He just grinned at me and gave me a hug and asked if I wanted lemonade or iced coffee,” she complained. “Sometimes you men can be so—obtuse—I could bang your collective heads together.”

“Why?” demanded Dexter, having realized that he was riding alone in a wide glade, and reining back suspiciously. “What’s the trouble?”

“You.” Eleanor glared at him. “And Frank. And Vin, Bob, Burt—the whole pack of you! Thank God Davie at least listens to me, and doesn’t talk to me like a Dutch uncle or act like he was humoring a disillusioned old woman!”

“Yes?” Dexter drawled, keeping a check on his temper with difficulty. “Don’t you believe it. He’s a better actor than you give him credit for. Why don’t you ride on ahead, Mother? There are a few things I want to discuss with Vastarnyi.”

“Don’t leave me, Momma D!” Vastarnyi howled. “He’s gonna scalp me!” and drove his heels into Smoke’s ribs, taking off like a scalded cat.

Eleanor laughed delightedly, and urged her own horse to a gallop. “A race, Jon!” she called over her shoulder. “Come on, Corruna ought to run the legs off both of us!” Then she too was whisked out of sight among the trees.

The big chestnut was too well-mannered to fight for his head, but Dexter could feel the eagerness in the powerful body; for a moment he almost gave in to the temptation to send the horse after the others—in the half-mile to the stables he knew that Corruna could catch up and pass both Cloud and Smoke—but he crushed the impulse with iron resolution, and held the chestnut to a collected walk every yard of the way.

***

Of his mother there was no sign when Dexter rode into the stable-yard. Red was rubbing down Cloud, and Vastarnyi was in the orchard, conducting a nose-to-nose conversation with the dapple-grey, saddle and bridle draped over the fence.

Dexter dismounted, led Corruna into his loose-box, stripped off the tack, and stowed it away before he headed for the orchard.

Vastarnyi was still there crooning seductively in Hungarian into a responsive grey ear, feeding the horse pieces of mangled Hershey bar.

Dexter vaulted the fence and advanced. “Beat it,” he snapped at the grey, slapping the glossy rump hard. Smoke snorted and skittered away, indignation in the flattened ears and broomed tail.

“Whadja do that for?” Vastarnyi demanded.

Dexter stood over him—loomed over him, the two-inch heels of his cowboy boots giving even more advantage in height. “Just exactly what do you mean by it?” he asked tightly, blue eyes cold, almost contemptuous.

“Huh?” said Vastarnyi. “Mean by what, Jonno?”

“You know what I mean, dammit! This idea of my mother’s—”

“Yeah, we gotta talk about that, good buddy—see, I got this theory—”

“That’s what I mean!” Dexter blazed. “Okay, she’s upset. A couple of her friends have died, but there is absolutely nothing suspicious about those deaths. There is no case—”

“Hey, come on, J.D.!” Vastarnyi objected.

“Listen, I’ve known Burt since I was fourteen. He’s a good cop. He’s thorough, conscientious, and highly intelligent. What he’s also got is an intuitive streak a mile wide—and if he says there’s no case, I believe him. Or are you going to stand there and tell me you know better than a guy who’s got years of experience over you, and knows the people and the area?”

“Your mom thinks there’s a case,” he said stubbornly.

“And that’s another thing! You don’t know Mom. She can get kinda—well, neurotic, at times.”

“That’s a lousy thing to say about your own mother!” Vastarnyi interrupted indignantly.

“She’s nearly fifty—at her time of life women can get weird ideas—”

“Sure. ‘Women of a certain age’,” Vastarnyi quoted. “It comes along with the hot flashes. Yeah, I could buy that, only I ain’t seen your mom break out in hot flashes. She’s not neurotic. She’s convinced. So am I.”

“Convinced, hell!” Dexter exploded. “You’re no more convinced than I am! But as usual you opened your big mouth too often, and because you can’t admit to being wrong occasionally, you’re making her as paranoid as you are! Goddammit, Vastarnyi, we are supposed to be on vacation! If I’d known you were going to behave like an irresponsible, tunnel-visioned amateur P.I., I’d have thought twice about bringing you!”

“I don’t need any favors from you!” Vastarnyi shot back, his own short-fuse temper reaching flash-point. “If you can’t see what’s right in front of your eyes, maybe you need those black horn-rims you’re always flauntin’! How you’ve got the gall to call me tunnel-visioned, I don’t know! What’s the matter with you, J.D.? D’you think crime only exists in L.A.? D’you think it switches itself off until the White Knight can get back to handle it? C’mon, Pollyanna, wise up—”

That was when Dexter hit him, a roundhouse swing that lifted the smaller man off his feet and sent him sprawling in the long grass. Dexter turned on his heel, white-faced with fury, and stalked away, unaware of gashed knuckles oozing blood, and that Vastarnyi had not moved.

Red, a fascinated spectator, waited until the blond head was out of sight, then hopped over the rail and loped to the limp body. There was a reddened swelling on the point of the stubborn jaw, and Red, grinning widely, shook his head. “That was one helluva punch, fellah,” he said, and got a groan and uncoordinated movement from Vastarnyi.

Blue eyes opened and squinted painfully up at him.

“Can y’speak? Or did he bust your jawbone?”

“Huh?” Vastarnyi managed. “What?”

“Haw, guess you’re okay. C’mon, Duke, on your feet. You kinda pushed the kid too far, that time.”

“Yeah,” Vastarnyi took the offered hand and was hauled to unsteady feet. “I think maybe you’re right…” Nursing his jaw, he looked speculatively at Red’s rugged face. “What d’you think about it all?”

“Me? I ain’t sayin’.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the cop,” Red said, cunningly.

“And you’re the local native,” Vastarnyi cut back the advantage. “D’you think Mrs. Reiland’s shooting at the moon?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Duke. The only death that looked half-way suspicious to me was Burnett’s—the Wyatt’s troubles have to be purely accidental.”

“What’s wrong with Burnett’s death?”

“The way it happened. That guy had been beltin’ round these roads like Mario Andretti for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve ridden with him in far worse conditions than when he died, when he’d put that big heap around tight, mud-slicked bends like a guy skiing down a slalom. I figured he’d had a heart attack at the wheel until the autopsy showed different. Then I did wonder some.”

“And?”

“The way I figure, somethin’ must have gone across the road under his nose, an’ instinct made him swerve. A deer, maybe, or a dog.”

“Yeah, that’s a thought. Thanks, Red.”

“You’re welcome. What you gonna do ’bout Laughin’ Boy?”

Vastarnyi correctly identified Dexter, and grinned. “Don’t know. I’ll work on it. Jonno can’t keep a mad on for very long usually, but this one might be kinda different.”

“Hasn’t he put you down before?” Red asked, fascinated.

“Nope. I’ve always ducked before, ‘cept at the Academy. We had one hell of a fight there. Trouble was, neither one of us could flatten the other. It was a drawn contest.” He grinned ruefully, remembering that epic battle. “Jonno can mix it pretty good when he forgets his manners.”

There was an element of pride in his voice that made Red grin. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You better come over to the horse-trough and have a cold compress on that lump on your jaw. Mrs. Reiland is gonna be upset if she thinks you two have been beatin’ up on each other.”

“Yeah,” Vastarnyi agreed, absently. An idea was presenting itself for inspection, and the more he looked at it, the more possible it seemed. Maybe Harry Burnett had been forced off the road, maybe an animal of some kind had run across under his nose—therefore he might have hit it. Nothing had come out at the inquest, or it would have been mentioned that the car showed signs of impact with a specified animal, but a trip to the sheriff’s office might prove useful, if he was careful what he said.

“Red,” he said abruptly, “can I borrow your pick-up?”

“Sure. I won’t need it ’til tomorrow. Why? What’re you—no, on second thoughts I don’t want to know.”

“‘S okay.” Vastarnyi grinned. “Just want to run in to the nearest town. Can you tell me where I’ll find Burt Rhinefeld?”

With a wall-eyed stare, Red told him.

***

&&&Lunch was a strained affair. It was obvious to all that the two young men had had a difference of opinion, as discolored lumps and battered knuckles speak for themselves, which was as well, since neither Vastarnyi nor Dexter had a word to say to each other. Though for different reasons. Vastarnyi was planning out his afternoon’s activities, while Dexter was still hating his guts and refusing to acknowledge his existence.

Eleanor was concerned, but her first tentative questions were squashed or diverted by Frank. Vastarnyi, composing a disarming speech to Sheriff Rhinefeld, did not notice, but Dexter did, and flushed scarlet with anger and embarrassment. He excused himself brusquely from the table and left the room. Eleanor gazed after him and sighed.

Vastarnyi had changed his clothes before he left the house. He now wore tailored slacks, a roll-neck sweater, and looked an entirely different species of animal. So that when he walked into the sheriff’s office, smiled engagingly at the neatly-uniformed girl behind the desk, and asked if Sheriff Rhinefeld could spare him a little of his time, she smiled back and said she’d find out.

“Who shall I say?” She paused at the door marked ‘Sheriff’.

“Vastarnyi, but he won’t know the name. I’m a friend of the Reilands’—staying with them for a while.”

Rhinefeld did know the name. He greeted Vastarnyi with a smile, an appraising stare, and a firm handshake. “Afternoon, Mr. Vastarnyi. Heard a lot about you from Eleanor and Frank.”

“Yeah, well, I’m considering suing, so don’t believe all of it.”

“Okay, I’ll bear that in mind. What happened to your chin?”

“Jonno.” He grinned. “We argue. I haven’t come to file an assault charge,” he assured, “but it is more than just a social visit.”

“Sit down, son. Coffee? Gilly, two coffees in here, honey!” A deep-voiced bellow, despite the intercom on his desk. He was a big man, massive of chest and shoulder, with the beginnings of a middle-aged paunch that still looked as if it was more muscle than fat. His iron-grey hair was cropped short, emphasizing the heaviness of his facial bones, giving his features a stolid, unimaginative bulldog cast that made it easy to miss the ice-cold shrewdness of the hazel eyes.

Vastarnyi did not miss it, and knew he’d have to be careful or he’d end up on his butt on the sidewalk. Having met the man, he could see Dexter’s point. If Burt Rhinefeld said there was no case, then the odds were 100-to-1 that there was no case. For the first time he began to waver in his conviction, was aware that his uncertainty showed, and was horrified to feel his face grow hot.

“Uh, it’s kind of difficult,” he said, to cover his discomfiture. “I guess you know that Mom—uh, Mrs. Reiland has got this theory about the deaths in the valley recently?”

“Yeah. Eleanor can be stubborn as a mule sometimes. She’s been bending your ears about it, has she? So what’s the problem, son?”

“Well, I figured that her conviction seems to hinge mainly on Harry Burnett’s death, and that if we could show her anything that could prove it was pure chance that put him off the road, we’re two-thirds of the way to convincing her that Tess Wyatts’ drowning was accidental, too.”

“If she won’t swallow the facts as they are, how do you expect to convince her of anything? There was nothing at all wrong with the car, or Harry’s heart. He took a chance, and lost out.”

“Mrs. Reiland’s main point is that Burnett was too skillful a driver to lose the car on that bend regardless of road conditions. And I got to thinking, was there anything on the front wings or fender to show he might have sideswiped a deer, or a dog? Something that might have come down the bank across the road under his nose?”

Rhinefeld sat back in his chair and studied the swarthy features in front of him. “No,” he said regretfully, after a long pause. “That old car was kind of battered about at the best of times, and collected quite a few more dents going into the trees. There was no sign of blood, skin, or fur on the front bodywork, either—I had that checked out. I guess it didn’t come out at the inquest, since we found zilch. Mind you, it was a real cloudburst he crashed in, so that kind of evidence could be washed away.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it was kind of a long shot.” He drank his coffee and stood up, shaking hands again. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, son. I hope you and Jon can talk her out of it.”

“We’re working on it. Uh, sir—would you have any objections if we did some poking around up in the valley? If I can find so much as a dead bird within a hundred yards of the crash, I can use it as a cause of death. It could have flown into the windshield, or something.”

“Help yourself, son.” Rhinefeld laughed. “Give Jon my regards, and tell him I expect to have him visit us pretty soon.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thanks again.”

“The Mad Magyar, huh?” Rhinefeld said to the closed door when his visitor had departed. “Seems sane enough to me.”

***

Vastarnyi’s next stop was the mountain road where Burnett had crashed. He tucked the pick-up out of the way on a track and walked up to the bend, where, ignoring the fact that he was not dressed for it, he began a systematic search of the undergrowth, investigating all the dark holes and overhangs and deep tangles in a widening arc from the crash point, and three hours of back-breaking work brought him due reward.

In the cave-like hollow of gaunt tree-roots, a pathetic huddle of brown and white fur, already ravaged by scavengers and decay, was revealed as the cloud of flies rose up from Vastarnyi’s prodding stick.

“You poor bastard,” he said to the dead dog. “Did you belong to someone, or are you a stray?” and found a collar hidden under the long shaggy pelt. He unbuckled it, then with no squeamishness, investigated the maggot- infested remains. The animal’s left hip and leg were broken, ribs splintered in—it was a hundred yards from the road, and it seemed amazing that the dog had managed to drag itself that far to die. “Poor little fattyu.”

He stood up, picked his way down to a stream and washed his hands, then climbed back, marked the tree with his knife, covered up the body with loose stones and dirt, and headed for the pick-up. The dog looked as if it had been dead for the right period of time; it had obviously been hit by a vehicle of some kind, so could well be the cause of Burnett’s death. It did, however, make it highly unlikely that foul play was involved, but he wasn’t about to break his heart over that. That snow-job he’d sold Rhinefeld looked like it was the truth after all.

He smiled wryly to himself. Looked like he owed Jonno an apology. In fact, he owed him one anyway. He’d pushed the goad too deep, which was more than unjust, since Jon was obviously concerned about his mother and her insistence on psychopathic murderers on the loose. Okay, he’d make reparation.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, he inspected the collar. It sported a license tag with the name Butch engraved on it, and an address. Someone would be worried about the missing dog, a kid, maybe. One of the things he loathed most in policework was having to inform relatives of a death, and it made it no easier when the deceased was a family pet. He put the odorous collar in the glove-compartment, and pulled out onto the road. Red would be able to come up with directions to that address.

He found the man in the kitchen, drinking coffee with Marj, and he joined them, a hopeful expression on his face. The cook sighed, poured a large mugful, and set it and the cookie barrel in front of him.

“Thanks, Mar.” he grinned widely. “You’re one of my favorite ladies.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. An’ you’re a walking example of that old sayin’ that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she retorted sourly.

“It’s one of the ways.” He chuckled. “Thanks for the loan of the pickup, Red.”

“You’re welcome. Did you find Rhinefeld?”

“Yeah. He’s quite a guy. Wouldn’t like to get the wrong side of him.”

“You better believe it. Burt can be a real mean fella.”

“I don’t aim on finding out how mean. Red, where will I find Cedar Court, Yoshomite Road?”

“That’s the Caulders’ place,” Marj said. “Why?”

“It’s about ten, twelve miles away,” Red told him. “What’ve you got on to?”

“Nothing. Or maybe something. I may have found Harry Burnett’s killer.” And crowed with delight as their faces changed to astounded disbelief.

“Who?” Marj breathed.

“A brown and white mutt called Butch.” Vastarnyi put the collar on the table.

“You’re gonna tell ’em?” Red asked quietly, gazing at it.

“I’m going to tell them I found a dead dog up in the woods, that’s all. They got kids?”

“Yeah. Butch was Bobby’s and Nita’s dog.”

“Oh. Well, I better get on over there, or I won’t be back for dinner.”

“You better change first,” Marj ordered. “You look like you’ve been dragged through barbed wire.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that. Is Dex around?”

“Nope. Lit out on Corruna after lunch. Ain’t seen him since.”

“Ah-huh. See you later, folks. Hey, don’t say anything to anyone about Butch, huh? I gotta work out the most effective way of telling Momma D, so’s she won’t think it’s a plant.”

“I’ll give you directions,” Red said, following him to the door, and as they neared the pickup. “Hey, Duke. That for real about the dog?”

“Sure it is!” Vastarnyi said indignantly. “I don’t fake evidence.”

“Okay, okay, you’re a straight cop!” Red grinned. “Where did you find him?” Vastarnyi related the discovery and the state of the small corpse, and Red listened, frowning thoughtfully. “The poor little bastard was a hell of a long way from home,” he commented.

“Dogs roam, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but fourteen miles seems kinda excessive.”

“Yes,” said Vastarnyi, all the Rhinefeld-instilled doubts fading away. “It does.”

“You need any kind of backup, you let me know,” Red said, gave him the necessary directions, and headed off to the stables.

Vastarnyi disappeared briefly into the house to change into Levis, a Snoopy T-shirt, and an ancient corduroy jacket slung carelessly around his shoulders. He was whistling jauntily, but that was no true reflection of his mood.

He had not expected it to be easy, nor was it. Caulder was a small harassed man with a small harassed wife, and a couple of energetic children who became distressingly subdued at the sight of the dog-collar in the stranger’s hands.

“…When I saw he wore a collar, with an address on it, I figured you maybe ought to know,” he finished lamely. “I’m sorry.”

“How’d he die, mister?” the girl asked, her tomboy-toughness wavering on the edge of tears.

“I figured a car had hit him, honey,” he said gently. “Broke his back. He couldn’t have known anything about it.”

“Did you bury him?” the boy demanded shakily.

“Yes.”

“Will you show us, huh?” Almost a chorus.

“It’s kinda far,” he said doubtfully. ”Fourteen miles off, above the Reiland place.”

“Fourteen miles?” the boy echoed. “But that’s crazy! Butch wouldn’t go that far from home! It wasn’t Butch! It’s all a dirty trick—”

“Bobby!” his mother snapped.

“But it’s true,” the girl protested. “Butch wasn’t that kind of dog! He never went far, you know that. Mom! Paw, tell him!”

Caulder took the collar from Vastarnyi’s hands, examined it. “It’s his, okay.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, kids—dammit, I liked him too—but you’ve got to face up to it. He’s dead. Quick and clean, like Mr. Vastarnyi said.”

The two children fled, to mourn in the privacy of their tree-house, and Vastarnyi backed towards the door. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Maybe I should have left it, only—”

“Only they’d have been eating their hearts out for months, wondering what had happened to the dumb mutt,” Caulder said. “This way, they know, and they’ll get over it. Thanks, Mr. Vastarnyi.”

The door closed behind him, and Vastarnyi started down the path to the road and the truck. Then, catching a glimpse of the boy’s red shirt in the branches of a cedar, he impulsively made a detour.

“Hey, Bobby—Nita,” he said. “I’d like to talk. Will you come down?”

“What about?” the boy demanded sullenly.

“Butch. Like you said, fourteen miles is a long way for a dog to go.”

Curious eyes studied him for long seconds, then: “You can come up if you like,” the girl offered.

Sitting cross-legged on hard boards, Vastarnyi regarded them both. “Bobby, you think Butch wouldn’t travel far from home. When did you miss him? When did you see him last?”

“About three weeks ago,” Bobby said after a silence. “We’d ridden over to the lake, and Butch went with us—he went everywhere with us. When it was time to head back, he didn’t come. We searched around, called, whistled, and all, but he still didn’t show, so we figured he’d gotten hungry and gone back home.”

“Had he done that before? Come home without you?”

Two heads shook. “No, but he was always hungry,” Nita said gloomily.

“Can you tell me the exact day?”

“Uh—yeah—Wednesday,” Bobby said. “Why? What d’you want to know all this for?”

“Because I’m a cop, and I don’t like the way your dog disappeared and ended up dead a long way from home,” he said, and showed them his I.D. “I know that says L.A.P.D., not S.F.P.D., but I’m still a cop, even on vacation. How was Butch with strangers?”

“He liked people, unless they were coming into his yard, then he’d bark a lot,” Bobby said, awed by the bright badge. “But outside he was real friendly.”

“Did you see anyone by the lake?”

“Fishermen—water-skier. There were a couple of skin-divers, too.”

“Okay. Did anyone speak to you or to Butch?”

“No one we didn’t know.”

“Who that you did know?”

“Um—Patty’s dad,” Nita said. “And Mr. Coles.”

“And Pete’s brothers—they were water-skiing. Mr. Parkinson was fishing. And Mrs. Skeets.”

“That’s about it, I guess,” the girl finished.

“And no one paid any attention to Butch at all?”

“No.”

“Okay. Now listen, kids. Are you quite sure that Butch wouldn’t have wandered that far on his own? Chasing a cat, or another dog? A rabbit, even? Think about it.”

“He wouldn’t have, honest, mister,” Bobby said earnestly.

“Fair enough. Thanks, kids. I’ll ask around up the valley, and if you remember anything that might help, my name’s Vas, and I’m staying with the Reilands for a few weeks. Do you know their place?”

“I think so,” the boy said. “But we’ll find it if we need to.”

“Sure you will. So long, kids.”

***

Vastarnyi headed back up the valley at a fast pace, the ancient instincts of the hunter beginning to tingle along his nerve-ends. Harry Burnett was murdered, and by someone who knew him, knew the way he drove, and was familiar with the area. Someone had picked up a dog, shoved it down the bank to end up in the path of the car, knowing that the man’s reactions would be to avoid the animal. The next place to look for evidence would be the top of that bank, tomorrow. There wouldn’t be enough light left by the time he’d had dinner and driven out there.

But first, he had to make his peace with Jonno.

There was a saying that an inscrutable and slit-eyed Hung Fat would come out with when he and his partner had been at each other’s throats on occasion, a saying so long and involved it took a lot of working-out to come at the bare bones of it. But it boiled down to “Let not the sun go down on your anger,” and at times he was a keen advocate of that.

“Okay, Jonno,” he said to the windshield. “Polish up your saintly expression, you’re gonna be apologized to.”

However, apologizing to Dexter was not going to be easy. First Vas had to find him, and eventually discovered him walking up the track from the river with fishing rods over his shoulder. Having found him, he then had to claim his attention, which, when you are being studiously ignored by someone who, with his western boots, has the advantage of six inches in height and can gaze directly and distantly over your head, is not only a problem but bruising to the ego.

But the Vastarnyi was a difficult animal to ignore, and by the simple expedient of standing in a narrowing of the path with thick bushes on one side, and rock on the other, he forced Dexter to either stop and acknowledge him or walk through him. They faced each other, cold hostility on the blond Anglo-Saxon Dexter features, contrition and an irrepressibly self-mocking and wry amusement on the other’s dark face.

“Hi, Jonno,” he said brightly.

“Hi, Vas,” Dexter answered automatically, then scowled. First round to the Vastarnyi—he’d been tricked into speaking to him. The handsome face settled into a mask of icy determination, and he took a step forward, eyes gazing over Vastarnyi’s head.

Vastarnyi moved back a pace. Being used as a footpath by Dexter’s size 14s was not his idea of fun. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you’re worried about your mother, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. There’s no sense in me lousing up your vacation any more than I have already. See you around, Jonno.”

He turned and walked away, without waiting for a reaction from Dexter. As usual, he’d spoken his mind, the first thing that came into his head, and as usual, where his partner was concerned, the instinct had been right. He’d pack up and get Red to run him into town, give Burt Rhinefeld the details on Butch and his suspicions, and leave it up to him. Then catch a bus into San Fransisco and either take a Greyhound or hitch back to L.A.

Or maybe he’d head over to Sacramento, look up the family, see what scrapes Dean had managed to get into since the last time he’d been there. But the cheerful carelessness of his cousin’s escapades could not take the edge off the pain, nor was it eased by the knowledge that he had been the one at fault all along the line.

“Hey!” A furious bellow from behind. “You two-timing, schizophrenic, mule-headed carnival clown! What the hell do you mean by running out and leaving me to Mom’s socializing? That’s typical of you, d’you know that?”

Sheepishly he stopped, and turned. “Jonno,” he said. “I’m not dropping my theory. Burnett was murdered.”

“Keep your blasted theory if you want, just don’t flaunt it around, huh? And we’ll agree to differ on that point, I guess. But, Vas, don’t trot it out for Mom? Don’t encourage her anymore.”

“I won’t. I give you my word,” he said soberly. “D’you think I can lie to her and have her believe me?”

“You could lie to St. Peter and get away with it,” Dexter snorted, and collected a bearhug that left him winded. “Wish you wouldn’t do that,” he complained.

“‘S okay. We’re consenting adults,” Vastarnyi told him, grinning.

“Damned if I’m consenting. Vas, how can you say that Harry’s death was deliberate?”

“Circumstantial evidence,” Vastarnyi said. “I’ve been doing some legwork this afternoon. Want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Something Red said made me think, so I paid a visit to Rhinefeld, asked—”

“You did what?”

“He says you gotta visit them soon, Jonno. You don’t want to offend that guy. Anyhow, I asked if they’d found evidence of the car hittin’ anything like a dog or a deer that might have gone across the road in front of him. Rhinefeld says there was nothing he could put his finger on—no forensic evidence, certainly, but it was raining pretty hard and there were so many dents he couldn’t say any particular one was caused by hitting an animal. But he didn’t rule out that possibility.”

He paused, waiting for a comment that did not come. Dexter’s expression was long-suffering, with a flicker of interest unsuccessfully hidden.

“So I went back to the site and poked around. Found a dead dog about a hundred yards from the bend—hip, leg, and ribs broken, and it had been dead about two weeks, judging by its state. Had a collar on with a name and address. Right then,” he went on, “I was figuring I was wrong, and you and everyone else ‘cept Momma D. were right, and that the dog had dived across the road, he’d tried to avoid it, and crashed. So I was all ready to eat humble pie. Then I took the collar back to the address in case there were kids worrying about their lost pet, and I figured it’d be best to know regardless of—well—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dexter said quietly, as he faltered into an embarrassed silence. “So what changed your mind again?”

“The kids, I guess. The dog went everywhere with them, didn’t wander off, even to go back home when it was hungry. It disappeared when they went out to some lake only a mile or two from their home, and that was the last they saw of it. Thing is, Jonno, they live fourteen miles from here. Which is a hell of a long way for a dog who doesn’t wander, to travel off by itself.”

“You think the dog was deliberately set loose—thrown—in Harry’s path?”

“Yeah.”

“Vas, that’s awful far-fetched.”

“So’s that fourteen-mile trek for a home-lovin’ dog.”

“Yes,” doubtfully. “I see your point. Have you said anything to Mom or Burt about this?”

“Nope. Only to Red and Marj. That was before I’d been to the dog’s home, and when I was figuring it for an accident.”

“But it could still be—just because a dog never wanders, doesn’t mean to say it never will. Could have got the scent of a bitch in heat—”

“I know, but—”

“Yes, there’s always the but. I guess I could ask a few questions—I know most of the folks around here, and I knew Harry, so it’d be only natural to talk about it—”

Vastarnyi whooped and gave him another bearhug. “You’re a prince, Jonno.” He laughed. “Hey, I’m starved—d’you think we’ll be late for dinner?”

“Not if we run,” Dexter said, and sprinted off.

Vastarnyi caught him easily, and passed him, but Dexter gained ground in the last few strides to make it a dead heat, jamming them both and the fishing gear in the kitchen doorway.

“Good grief,” Marj sighed, turning from the stove to glare at them. “Why the hell can’t you two stay enemies? It’s a hell of a lot more peaceful.”

She nearly got her wish. The three men were awaiting Eleanor’s arrival to sit down to dinner when she stormed into the dining-room.

“Will someone please tell me,” she demanded indignantly, “why every phone in this house has been hidden away?”

The meal continued smoothly enough after an unsatisfactory and disjointed explanation from Dexter that explained nothing but the meagre and self-evident fact that he didn’t want the Vastarnyi to make a phone call, and since her two boys seemed to be back on speaking terms again, Eleanor put aside her anger.

***

Came the morning, with plans of her own, all was forgiven, and she smiled sunnily upon them. “What are you doing today, boys?’ she asked. The tone of her voice said clearly that she had ideas of her own for them.

Dexter, hackles still ruffled over the telephone incident, shot Vastarnyi a baleful glare. In his opinion his partner’s mirth at his discomfiture had been more than excessive. “We’re going to look up some of my old friends this morning,” he said.

“That’s nice. But don’t get tied up tonight—we’ve all been invited over to the Stevens’.”

“All?” Dexter queried, an expression of bemused horror settling on the blond features.

“Yes, dear. Lollie is having a Musical Evening. Just a small get-together.” She smiled engagingly at Vas. “A few friends who love music and singing—nothing professional, of course. Purely for our own entertainment.”

“OhmyGod,” Dexter moaned under his breath. “Mom—”

“Don’t be difficult, dear.” She stood up and caught Vastarnyi’s eye. “Davie, I’d like to speak to you for a moment. Will you come with me?”

“To the ends of the earth.” He grinned, and held the door, bowing her out like a medieval courtier.

Frank and Dexter stared after them suspiciously.

Chapter 3

“Not very subtle, I’m afraid.” Eleanor smiled ruefully. “But I’m not very good at subterfuge. Davie, what are we going to do about these murders?”

He gazed down at her. Having given his word to Dexter, he was now effectively hog-tied, since, he suddenly realized, he could not invent anything for her benefit. The Vastarnyi could lie with the fluency and conviction of a Jesuit priest expounding the Credo, but not to this woman. He’d given Dexter his word that he would not discuss his theories with Eleanor—so he would not.

“We are going to do nothing. I am working on it,” he said quietly.

She blinked at him. “But—”

“Listen to me, Momma Dex. I’m investigating Harry Burnett right now, and that’s all I can tell you. Until I can put the finger on the criminal, I’m not giving progress reports to anyone, because the fewer people know, the better, and the less chance there’ll be that the killer learns too much.”

“But, my dear, I wouldn’t say anything!” she protested, hurt.

“Mezam-lady, it’s awful easy to overhear conversations. Trust me, huh?” And smiled.

“Of course I will,” she responded, unable to withstand the willful charm. “But, Davie—”

“No buts, Momma D. I’m working on it, so you sit back and do nothing, okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled.

“I mean nothing.”

“I know—I promise.”

Vastarnyi escaped with a sigh of relief, and found Dexter waiting for him in the green Dodge. “Well?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Pass, and all’s well.” Vastarnyi dropped into the passenger seat in a loose-limbed sprawl. “I think I’ve pulled it off.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. And I got her to promise to do nothing as well.”

Wide-eyed, Dexter stared at him. “Good grief! I never thought of that!” he whispered, horrified. “She wouldn’t, would she?”

“She’s your mom, Jonno. Come on, let’s get out of here before she collars us again.”

Anticipating more scrambling about in thorny undergrowth, Vastarnyi was wearing ancient Levis and a tough plaid work shirt, a glaring contrast to Dexter’s light tan safari-suit. But Dexter did not intend to do any searching.

“Don’t be long,” he said, pulling in below the bend. “And don’t get lost, huh?”

“Very funny, Eagle Scout. I’m no greenhorn.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten Red Wolf. Watch out for Big Foot, good buddy.”

“Smart-ass,” Vastarnyi growled, slamming the car door vigorously, and scoring a pained wince from the car’s owner.

Diligent searching this time produced no results. There was no sign of any unusual activity up on the top of the bank, or the area round it. No old tire-marks, footprints, paw-prints, nothing. Disappointed and disheveled, Vastarnyi returned to the car and reported failure.

“Looks like Butch took it into his head to wander off for the first and last time,” Dexter said. “Maybe he found himself a lady-friend.”

“I don’t buy that,” Vastarnyi said stubbornly.

“No,” Dexter sighed. “I don’t suppose you do.” He switched on the ignition. “There was nothing up there at all?”

“Nope. Not even an empty beer can or cigarette-pack.”

“Tough luck. We may as well head on up to Harry’s place.” He put the big car into gear and took the bend with smooth speed. “Apart from paying my respects to Aunt Celia, there’s Harry’s car collection to show you, so we’ve excuses enough to stay around and talk.”

“Your Aunt Celia?”

“No, everyone’s Aunt Celia—Harry’s older sister. His wife died about ten years ago, and she moved in as housekeeper. She’s a great old girl.”

“How many cars has he got?”

“Twelve, the last I heard, including a model T that’ll knock your eyes out, and a pre-war Rolls.”

“No kidding?” Vastarnyi’s eyes lit up like a child promised Disneyland. “What else?”

“Oh, a T-bird from the fifties—all chrome and tail-fins—an ancient Studebaker; he was bartering for a 1930 Mercedes-Benz racing model, but I don’t know if he ever got it.”

Vastarnyi crowed, and bounced in his seat. “Oh, brother! C’mon, c’mon, put your foot down, citrom! You gonna take a week to get there?”

Dexter laughed at the vivid eager profile beside him, and obliged. It occurred to him that if Burnett were still alive, he’d have taken the Vastarnyi to his heart and probably his workshop, and the two of them would have spent a delirious three weeks totally immersed in aged engines.

Harry Burnett had lived in a spacious, though somewhat run-down ranch-style house high up the mountain-side, the three huge well-kept-up barns serving to hold not livestock but the loves of his life.

“What’ll happen to the cars now?” Vastarnyi asked suddenly, as Dexter parked in front of the house.

“Don’t know. It’ll be up to Adam, I guess. Harry’s son. He’s married and living in Boston. Why? Motive?”

“Maybe. You know how fanatical collectors can be, and there must be quite a lot of cash tied up in those heaps.”

“Yes,” Dexter said thoughtfully. “Keep it laid back, Vas, here’s Aunt Celia—Hi, Aunt,” he said, louder, as a plump, white-haired figure appeared on the porch.

“Jon!” she exclaimed, and hurried down the steps to hug him. “Good heavens, boy, how you’ve grown!”

“How’re you keeping, Aunt?”

“Not so bad, considering. Adam’s coming up in a few days’ time, with Lucy and the children, so I’ll have a full house again,” she said hopefully. “I don’t like an empty house. I rattle around it like a pea in a drum.”

“Uh, Aunt Celia, this is Dave Vastarnyi, my partner. We’re spending our vacation with Mom and Frank.”

“Your partner?” She smiled up into Vastarnyi’s face. “That’s nice. Have you started your own company, then?”

“No, Aunt—”

“Oh, I see.” Wisely. “It’s good to get some young blood in the family concern—keeps it going—gives it some zest. Did you go to Harvard too, David?”

“No, ma’am. U.C.L.A.”

“Oh well, never mind. Come on in and have some coffee. Or buttermilk?”

“Coffee’s just fine, Aunt. Are you managing okay? If there’s anything you need—”

“I’m doing fine.” She smiled at him mistily. “Harry left me the house and a good income from his estate, so no one has to worry about me. Everyone has been so kind.”

“What will happen to the cars?” Dexter said to cover his embarrassment.

“They stay. I didn’t think Adam would keep them—Harry had said in his will he could do what he liked with them—but when some man from Detroit phoned and made an offer—a very generous one, as well—Adam got quite fierce with him. They were his dad’s pride and joy, so they are going to stay in Burnett hands. Besides, young Paul is becoming very interested in cars, Lucy says, so he may well take them on when he’s grown up.”

“Who was the Detroit guy?” Vastarnyi asked tentatively.

“Oh, some dealer Harry used to do business with—he got the Mercedes from him only a month or two ago.”

“The racing-car?” Dexter smiled.

“Yes, dear.”

Vastarnyi gave a small whimper, and Dexter nearly choked on his coffee. “Aunt Celia, Vas is a car-freak. Can I show him the collection?”

“Of course.” She beamed with pleasure, then her face crumpled into folds of sadness. “Harry should be here. He could tell you so much about those old cars, far more than I could.” She tugged her apron straight, patted her untidy white hair, and refilled their coffee cups. “Never mind,” she said. “He got a lot of pleasure out of those cars, and he’d be glad to know Adam’s keeping them. He was always kind of worried about that. Do you collect cars, Davie?”

“No, ma’am. Not on my salary.” He smiled wryly.

“But surely Jon’s father pays you well?” she demanded almost indignantly.

Both men coughed over their coffee.

“I’m not an architect, ma’am,” Vastarnyi said humbly.

She gazed at him, startled. “You’re not?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not even the office-boy.”

“We’re police officers, Aunt Celia,” Dexter explained gently. “Have been tor over a year now.”

“Police officers? Jon, dear, don’t be ridiculous. You’re an architect, like your father.”

“No, Aunt,” he said patiently, thinking—Oh God, anytime now she’ll ask why I haven’t brought Carole up to see her. “I’m in the Los Angeles Police Department. So is Vas.”

“That is ridiculous. Where’s Carole? She won’t play fool tricks on an old woman. Didn’t you bring her up to see me?”

“Carole’s in Florida, the last I heard,” Dexter sighed. “Aunt, we’ve been divorced for over a year, now.”

“Good heavens.” She sat down abruptly. “Jon, whatever for? Why?”

“Because I decided I was going to be a cop, not an architect.”

“Will you please stop this silly police-joke,” she said tartly. “Dexters don’t become policemen.”

“This one did.” He put his I.D. on the table, the badge glistening brightly in the early-morning sunshine.

“Good heavens,” she said again. “Oh, Jon! Traffic tickets and lost dogs! What a waste!”

“Not quite,” he laughed. “Even so, you’ve got to start at the bottom, in any profession, to be any good at it. But we’re aiming for higher things. Detective Squad, Homicide.”

“So I should think,” she said sternly. “Now I come to think of it, Eleanor did show me some photos of you in some kind of uniform, but I probably thought it was fancy-dress—”

Dexter kicked Vastarnyi under the table before he could add comments of his own.

“I probably heard about Carole, too,” she confessed. “I get a little woolly-headed, sometimes. I’m seventy-nine, you know,” she excused herself, an odd mixture of pride and apology in her voice. “Finished your coffee? Would you like some more? Oh yes, the cars—here are the keys, I think…. That’s the Model-T, that’s the Rolls, the Thunderbird, and the Mercedes. But that one needs work on the engine. Harry had just started on her when he died.”

“Have there been any other offers for the cars?” Vastarnyi asked, clutching the keys in both fists before Dexter could get hold of them.

“Oh yes, dear, lots. But I tell them all no, Adam’s keeping them. Come along and take a look!” And led the way out to the barns.

The Thunderbird and the windshield-less Packard were the youngest cars in the collection, and were virtually ignored. The Rolls was ivory white with maroon upholstery, a beautiful monster that filled Vastarnyi’s vision until he saw the red Mercedes-Benz. Its paintwork needed refurbishing, but the engine covers were off, exposing its innards, and that was where Dexter lost his partner. He and Celia continued on round the barns, looking at the remembered cars, finding a few new to him, but the Vastarnyi was inspecting pistons and cylinders and crooning quietly to himself in Hungarian.

An hour later it took brute force to prise him away from the Mercedes, and Dexter hauled him into the kitchen to clean the grease off face and hands.

Celia took it in her stride—she’d lived with that kind of fanaticism for ten years. “Come up again, Davie,” she smiled indulgently. “Adam won’t mind if you fool around with that old engine and maybe get it running as it should. Come any time you like, don’t bother checking with me—those barns aren’t locked.”

“Komolyan?” he grinned. “Seriously?” Translating automatically as Dexter’s elbow connected with his ribs. “Oh, boy! Koszonom—thank you—”

Dexter took hold of his arm and towed him out to the Dodge. “Aunt Celia, you don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for.” He chuckled. “Thanks for the coffee and everything.”

“You’re both very welcome, you know that. Take care now—”

Vastarnyi raved happily for ten minutes about the internals of the ancient racing machine, then said abruptly: “Anything?”

“No, not a thing. No one local has made offers for the cars, individually or collectively. The nearest offer came from Oakland—all the rest were out-of-state. Harry didn’t have a quarrel with anyone except Burt, who handed him traffic-tickets with awesome regularity, all the way from speeding to illegal parking and driving an unlicensed vehicle. Somehow I don’t think Burt is the guy you’re looking for.”

“Neither do I.” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Hey, where’re we going?”

“To pay my social call on Burt.” He grinned back, relishing the sudden look of panic on Vastarnyi’s fee. “Watch yourself, Bohunk, or I’ll drop you in it.”

“Hey, Jonno—”

“What exactly did you snow him with?”

“Told you—just let him think we wanted something to hang a lever on to pry your Mom away from her murder-line.”

“Ah-huh. Guess you better mention the dog.”

“I guess …”

Burt Rhinefeld was in the outer office when they entered, and he pounced on Dexter like a huge mastiff, shaking his hand and slapping his back with delighted vigor. “How y’doing, son?” He grinned. “Turned L.A. on its ear yet?”

“Not guilty,” Dexter grinned back.

“Well, there was the time he nearly slapped a parking-ticket on the Commissioner’s car,” Vastarnyi cut in. “Took two veterans to haul him off round the corner before the Brass came out.”

Rhinefeld hooted with laughter. “For real?” he demanded, and one look at Dexter’s high color told him it was.

“Hell, he was in a no-parking zone—” he defended himself, and drove his elbow hard into Vastarnyi’s ribs. “Behave, Bohunk,” he warned.

“I’ve got permanent bruising,” Vastarnyi complained. “Us smaller guys always get picked on by the muscle-bound hulks.”

“Shame, ain’t it,” Rhinefeld sympathized heavily. “How’s the chin?”

“Fine, thanks,” he said, eyeing Dexter with wary affection. “It’s always the same when there’s a full moon.”

Rhinefeld chuckled appreciatively. This was a very different proposition from the young man who had visited him yesterday. Gone was the quiet elegance, the cool sophistication, in its place was an unpredictable—more dangerous?—specimen, and he began to see the reason for the Mad Magyar nickname. Looks like Jon’s got a tiger by the tail, he thought to himself. What the hell game was this guy playing? Had he been snowed?

 “How did the hunting go, yesterday?” he asked, fixing heavy-lidded granite eyes on Vastarnyi’s face.

“Found me a dead dog,” Vastarnyi replied cheerfully. “‘Bout a hundred yards from the bend. It had wandered away from the Caulder place.”

“Good work. Did it convince Eleanor?”

“Haven’t told her yet,” he admitted. “She’s awful set on her theory.”

“Huh!” said Dexter. “She’s not the only—”

“Hey! There’s a phone!” Vastarnyi interrupted. “D’you think Dimitri might be up by this time?”

“Okay!” Dexter yelped. “We’ll change the subject!”

The conversation was steered away from that particular point, though not from policework in general—few men can resist the urge to talk shop. Rhinefeld decided he liked Vastarnyi—might even make a good cop, but thank God, firmly based in L.A., not his particular patch. He approved, too, of the change in Jon Dexter—the boy had obviously found his niche in life, and not before time. The subject drifted on to fishing, eventually, and he gave Dexter an update on the best fishing-holes since the upheaval in a local river caused by the building of a road bridge.

This time, when challenged, Vastarnyi did not attempt a snow-job.

“No, I guess I don’t,” he admitted, to Dexter’s cautious demand. “I can tickle a trout, but that’s about it. I never got around to fishing with a pole.”

“Rod,” Dexter corrected automatically.

Rhinefeld cocked an experienced eye at the weather. “It’s getting overcast,” he said. “We could be in for some rain before nightfall. Why don’t you give it a whirl this afternoon? Can’t beat grilled trout.”

“True,” said Dexter, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “How about it, Vas?”

“Suits me.” Vastarnyi grinned. “I never say no to grilled trout, pal.”

There was a moment of silence while all three contemplated the thought, and the sheriff heaved a regretful sigh. “Just leave some behind for me, huh?” he said finally. “Or I’ll haul you in on a charge.”

“Trout-rustling?” Vastarnyi whooped in delight, and was frog-marched out by a slightly flushed Dexter.

“See you around, Burt!” he called from the sidewalk. “Will you behave?” An angry hiss as he released Vastarnyi’s collar.

“Sure! You don’t have to get tough!” he protested. “Hey, c’mon, Jonno. I’m about ready for lunch, and didn’t I hear Marj say she was fixing something special?”

***

Rhinefeld settled back in his chair, thinking about the evidence the kid had unearthed. Might convince Eleanor. Might not. It didn’t make a helluva lot of difference, either way. He was following his own leads, his own lines of inquiry, and the less folks knew about it, the better. Let them think the case was closed. He could work easier then, without people getting jumpy and clamming up when he talked to them. Not that anyone was actively concealing information—but he reckoned he could tell when someone was holding out on him. And, quite plainly, someone had to be.

That kid was a bright boy. Brighter than he looked, probably. The initial impression isn’t always the one to be trusted—Burt went strongly on hunches, and he was seldom disappointed in them. Dexter was an open book—but with the other, you might find you’d been reading him wrong all the way.

***

The afternoon was still, quiet under a pearl-grey sky. Mountain peaks were hidden from view, and clouds were creeping down the dark forested slopes. There was virtually no breeze, and the bird sounds were piercingly sweet and clear.

Dexter put down the bundle of rods, catch-nets, and tackle-box, gave the river-bank another once-over, and nodded confidently. “This should be a pretty good place,” he said.

“Great. Hand over a pole—rod—an’ let me at ’em.”

“Oh no.”

“Aw, Dex! You said you was gonna teach me how to fish!” he protested.

“Right,” said Dexter firmly. “And you’re going to start at the beginning. You’re going to tie your own fly.”

Vastarnyi gazed wonderingly at him. “Jonno, don’t know about you, but my fly’s got a zipper. An’ I zip it myself. Mostly.”

He withered the wide-eyed innocence with a glare and carried on regardless, opening the tackle box. “This is one I invented myself—the Dexter Special. Ideal for these conditions.”

“Hey,” Vastarnyi said reverently, peering into the compartmented box. “Willya look at all the colors! That’s real pretty. Looks like one of your Mom’s best hats fell to pieces in there—ouch—You mean fish really go for those bits of feather ‘n’ fur? That’s awful dumb. If I was a fish, I wouldn’t go for anything less than a real juicy maggot or a worm or two.”

“That,” said Dexter smugly, “is because you are coarse, Vastarnyi. Live bait is for coarse fish. Leave that alone, and watch what I’m doing first, or you’ll end up with a hook in your—oh.”

“Yike,” said the Vastarnyi between his teeth, eyes squinted with pain as he regarded the hook embedded in the ball of his thumb.

“OhmyGod. What did I tell you! Give it here—”

“No way!” he yelped, snatching his hand away. “I’m not lettin’ you butcher me, Dexter! You’re a sadist, you are! I’ll get it out myself.”

“But—” Dexter started, then: “Okay, wise guy. You do that.”

It proved more difficult than Vastarnyi thought; he’d forgotten the hook was barbed, and his attempts to remove it only resulted in him tearing the injury further. Finally, Dexter got hold of his wrist, ignoring his vociferous objections, snipped off the shank of the hook with the shears kept for that purpose, and briskly pushed the barb through and out.

“If it’s a mess, you’ve only got yourself to blame,” he announced with a certain satisfaction.

Vastarnyi looked up at him, all eyes, and plainly of the impression that he was about to bleed to death, if gangrene didn’t get him first. Or tetanus. Or something. “It hurts,” he said plaintively.

Dexter sighed, dug out a clean handkerchief and flicked it around the injured hand. “So what else do you expect? Just leave it alone, and we’ll fix it when we go home.”

Vastarnyi, however, couldn’t leave it alone. He declined further fishing-lessons, sat miserably on a tree-stump, and kept unwrapping the wound to inspect it worriedly, giving the exasperated Dexter a running commentary on the gory details. Which were very gory, since it would not stop bleeding. Not surprisingly, because he frequently squeezed the torn flesh and started a fresh flow of blood. He said it was to keep the wound clean, because you never know what you might pick up on a river-bank, and now he came to think about it, he was getting these shooting pains up his arm—

After less than half an hour of his afternoon’s fishing, Dexter admitted defeat and drove him back to the house. Once there, he marched him into the kitchen, stood him at the sink, ran cold water over the laceration, and to complete the treatment took a dark-brown bottle from the bottom shelf of the wall cabinet and poured about a spoonful of the colorless contents over the injury.

Vastarnyi’s full-throated bellow of outraged anguish rattled the china and brought tears to his eyes.

“Holy Mother! You might have warned me!” he accused, whimpering. “What is that stuff? Vitriol?”

“Hydrogen peroxide,” Dexter said, putting it back. “Guarantees you don’t get gangrene, good buddy.”

“You’re all heart, you know that?” Vas moaned, clutching his crippled hand to his chest. “That’s a real test of friendship, Dexter, when a guy sacrifices his hair bleach so’s his pal won’t get gangrene. I hope your roots don’t grow through too quick.”

“What the blazes is going on?” an irate Marj demanded from the doorway. “Who’s bawlin’ like a bull-calf with colic?”

“Uh, Hi, Marj.” Vastarnyi grinned weakly.

“He is,” said Dexter. “Got a fish-hook in his hand, had to try and get it out himself.”

“Say no more,” the cook said grimly, captured the injured limb and inspected it. “Damnfool city slicker. Band-aid is all that needs, not Blue Cross.”

“He put acid on it,” Vastarnyi moaned, cradling his wound tenderly, and rolling wide, pained eyes to her face.

“Did he? Was the nasty man cruel to the poor little boy, then?” she crooned, patting his head. “Never mind. My pappy had a real good medicine for raw wounds.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” Marj smiled. “Sodium chloride.” And reached for the crock of cooking salt.

Vastarnyi howled and bolted for the door—Dexter gave a whoop of delight, swept Marj off her feet and hugged her.

Red’s pickup was nowhere in sight, and Vas decided his hand could not manage a saddle. A bridle was not beyond him, though, so a few minutes later the dapple-grey gelding was trotting out of the stable-yard, the Vastarnyi riding bareback, his right arm in a makeshift sling. He had been routed, and he did not like it. They were ganging up on him now. Well, to hell with them, he was going to ground. Not to sulk in solitary state—oh, no, he was above such demonstrations. He was going where sure instinct told him lavish sympathy awaited, along with cookies, coffee, and fascinating cars. Aunt Celia wouldn’t mock a guy with a hurt hand.

Nor did she. The chameleon Vastarnyi played his cards with subtle skill and won all the attention and cookies he desired, along with home-made cake, buttermilk, and free run of the house and barns. Dexter could have told Celia Burnett that his partner was an unprincipled brigand, but she wouldn’t have believed him, would have scolded him for speaking that way about the poor boy, and indulged said poor boy even more to compensate for Dexter’s unfeeling hardness.

As it was, he was well supplied with goodies, had his hand suitably exclaimed over and a Band-Aid and salve applied thereto, and was left to explore the Mercedes to his heart’s content. Celia trotted out at regular intervals, bringing coffee and cookies and happy gossip that he only listened to with half an ear. She talked mostly about her nephew, his wife and children, about Harry and his passion for cars—anecdotes concerning him and his friendly war with Burt Rhinefeld, about Eleanor and Frank Reiland, Jon Dexter as a gawky colt-legged teenager, about Tess Desmoine, her previous three husbands, her business concerns, and her marriage to Bob Wyatts. Celia was not altogether happy about that, she confided to the back of Vastarnyi’s head. There was bound to be trouble when there was such an age difference between husband and wife. Still, she went on with a despondent sigh, there was even trouble when the age difference was virtually nil—look at Jon and Carole. Had he met her?

“No,” Vastarnyi grunted, inspecting valve seats. “Don’t know as I’m awful sad about that.”

“Such a lovely girl—they seemed so right for each other—a beautiful couple.”

“Sure,” said Vastarnyi sourly. Carole had done a lot of damage to Dexter, and he had no liking for people who hurt his partner, be the hurt physical, mental or emotional, as in Carole’s case. He himself, of course, could inflict practically anything on him, but that was different.

“Are you married, Davie?” she asked.

“Uh-uh. Not me.” He gave her a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Why buy a hive when honey is free.”

“Young devil,” she snorted, chuckling, but half indignant. “Guess you’re about ready for another coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am. And some more of your fruitcake if you can spare it?”

“Of course,” she beamed. “It’s good to see a boy with a healthy appetite. It won’t spoil your meal tonight, will it?”

“Heck, no,” he protested. “Takes more than a few snacks t’do that.”

“That’s all right, then,” Celia said, relieved.

***

Time was something belonging to another dimension. Vastarnyi had not had so much fun since Hung Fat had let him play with the engine of the Hardware Store’s delivery van, and Harry Burnett’s small but fully comprehensive workshop was a pleasure to be in.

“Davie,” said Celia tentatively. “Eleanor has dinner at seven-thirty, doesn’t she?”

“Uh, yeah,” an absent agreement.

“Well, it’s a quarter before seven now, dear.”

“Yeah, okay, nagyneni.” She sighed—clearly, he had not taken in a word—and waited for the double-take. “It’s what?”

“A quarter before seven.”

“Holy Mother!” He bolted for the kitchen. There was a bowl of hot water, cleansing gel, and a scrubbing brush ready for him. He cleaned up with frantic haste, gave the old woman a quick hug and a kiss on both cheeks, and headed for the small orchard where Smoke was grazing.

The gelding liked to run, and Vastarnyi gave him his head, taking short cuts cross-country where trails curved, at a pace that was little short of reckless.

Bob Wyatts, driving sedately up to his home, caught a glimpse of the speeding grey horse, the dark-haired rider crouched over his back as they hurdled a bank and a small stream, and shook his head wryly. If that young man wasn’t careful, he was going to end up with a broken neck. This was not the country for careless riding.

But on that occasion at least, horse and rider reached the stable-yard without mishap, and Vastarnyi vaulted down, handing Smoke over to the impatient Red.

“Hey, Duke, you cut it awful fine!” he yelled as Vas sprinted for the house.

Vastarnyi didn’t pause to answer. He showered and dressed in record time, ripped off the blackened Band-Aid and hunted briefly for a replacement, found none, and hurtled down the stairs three at a time to present himself for dinner. Three pairs of exasperated eyes studied him, and he smiled winningly. His hair was still wet, shirt wrinkled damply over his shoulders, and he cradled his right hand to his chest.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I couldn’t find a Band-Aid,” and held out the hand for Eleanor’s inspection.

The reaction was gratifying, and the meal was held up until a suitable dressing had been applied. “How did it happen?” Eleanor asked, taking her seat at the table.

Dexter opened his mouth to answer, but the Vastarnyi got there first. “It’s Jonno’s fault,” he said, plaintively. “I got a fish-hook in my hand an’ he made me get it out myself.”

“What?” she exclaimed, frowning.

The expression of bemused outrage on Dexter’s face caused Frank to choke on swallowed laughter.

Eleanor saw the responsive glint in Vastarnyi’s eyes, and suddenly realized she was being taken for a ride. “Is this what they call a ‘snow-job’?” she demanded sternly.

“More like a full-scale blizzard,” Marj grunted, serving soup. “Never known a pair like ’em for scoring off each other.”

Vastarnyi hung his head in over done contrition. “Momma Dex, I cannot tell a lie,” he said nobly. “It was my own fault, but he poured acid on it.”

“Acid?”

“Yeah. That stuff he uses on his hair. Peroxide.”

“So’s you wouldn’t get gangrene,” Dexter reminded him.

“Stop it the pair of you, or I’ll bang your heads together. Frank, stop laughing, it’ll only encourage them.”

The first course went smoothly—then came the steak and green salad.

Vastarnyi gazed at the steak—looked hard at Dexter, decided against saying anything, and turned his eyes to Eleanor with melting supplication.

“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, worriedly—he managed to give the impression of stoic suffering without saying a word. “Oh, you can’t manage it with your hand like that, let me—”

“Mother!” Dexter bellowed, and she stared at him.

“Jon?”

“S’okay, Momma D,” Vas said hurriedly, aware that he had gone too far. “I guess I can manage, honest…”

“Where did you disappear to, this afternoon?” Dexter asked, casually enough.

“Aunt Celia. She knows how to look after a guy.”

“Yes? Was it the fruitcake and buttermilk or the Mercedes that was the big attraction?”

“That car is somethin’ else—out of this world! I reckon I might be able to get her goin’ as smooth as silk with a few days work. Aunt Celia says Burnett’s son’ll be turnin’ up any day, so I’ll have a talk with him—there are a coupla parts I need—”

“Guess that answers you, son,” Frank grinned. “It’s the car, every time. If Celia was a twenty-year-old glamour girl, the car’d still come first.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Vastarnyi snorted. “I got my priorities right.”

“Sure,” Dexter agreed. “He’d work out some way to end up with both.”

“Of course. Like I said, I got my priorities right.”

“And you’re devious.”

“Have to be, with a partner like you. You shouldn’t let him bleach his hair, Momma D. It’ll probably all fall out by the time he’s thirty. L.A.’s answer to Kojak, he’ll be, chewin’ his lollipop—”

“With a ready-made Stavros at the next desk,” he countered swiftly. “Been wondering who you reminded me of—now I know. That fat Greek—all hair and gut.”

Which so effectively rendered Vastarnyi speechless that Eleanor was able to call the meal to order. Frank recovered himself enough to ask questions about the aged Mercedes, and dinner passed more or less decorously.

Towards the end of dessert, Eleanor suddenly remembered the evening’s plans. “We’ll need to leave at nine,” she said brightly. “Can you boys be ready by then?”

Their blank faces informed her that they had forgotten her morning instructions. “Mollie has invited us all to a—”

“—Musical Evening,” Dexter recalled, with a groan of dismay. “Hey, Mom, she doesn’t want me ‘n Vas along.”

“Of course she does. In fact, she specifically said she was dying to meet Jon’s friend.”

“Friend?”

“Besides,” ignoring her son’s growl, “it’ll be an ideal opportunity for Davie to meet Vin and some of the others who’ll be at the Medieval Banquet.”

“I thought all that had been settled,” Dexter snapped, fixing Vastarnyi with an icy glare. “And it’s no use you looking at me like a kicked basset-hound, because—”

“Jonno!” he protested. “On my life, I swear—”

“I hope you haven’t made other arrangements for this evening,” Eleanor said ominously.”

“No, Mom, but—well, maybe it’ll be a good idea if we don’t come.”

“Hey, don’t pass it up on my account,” Vastarnyi said swiftly. “I’ll stay home and watch T.V.”

“You are both coming,” Eleanor snapped.

“Mom,” Dexter pleaded desperately, “you can’t expect Vas to sit through that kind of evening and stay sane, can you? Don’t know if I can, myself—”

“Jonathan. That is quite enough. I am quite sure that Davie, at least, will not disgrace us.”

“Ouch,” said Vastarnyi, sympathetically. “What do you usually do, buddy? Climb the drapes an’ bite the maid?”

“At least,” contributed Frank, and got an exasperated glare from his wife, a wounded one from Dexter.

“Knew it.” Vastarnyi grinned, triumphant. “Knew that ultra-sophisticated pose was all baloney.”

“At least I’ve got a pose, which is more than you have!” Dexter struck back. “Okay, we’re going, but you better behave yourself, or so help me, you’ll walk back to L.A. tonight!”

“Jon!” Eleanor started a scold, but he ignored her.

“I’m warning you—act weird and by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll need surgery! Got it?”

“Yes, Jonno,” meekly.

“Then go get shaved and changed—and get that confounded grease out from under your fingernails!”

“Yes, Jonno.”

Dexter viewed this unnerving submissiveness with grave suspicion. “Vastarnyi,” he said warningly, “I’m not bluffing. One foot out of line, one wrong word—or look—and you’ll bounce back here on your tail-bone.”

“Yes, Jonno. May I leave the table now, please?”

Eleanor waited until the door had closed behind him before turning on her son. “Jon, how could you? As if he—”

“Mother, before you leap to his defense, just remember that I know him a whole lot better than you do. He’s completely unpredictable—he doesn’t know himself half the time how he’s going to react to any given situation, and an evening like one of Lollie’s could bring out the worst in him. All you can be sure of is that as long as he stays sane, he won’t do a thing that’ll reflect adversely on you. Me he’ll happily drop in the shi—manure—from a great height, but not you, Mom. So just pray that he stays sane.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head and made for the door. “I’d better go and make sure he picks the right kind of clothes.”

Vastarnyi was in the bathroom, shaving to his own vocal accompaniment, so Dexter selected pants and roll-neck sweater for him and put them on the bed, together with a reasonably new and presentable cord jacket, then hurried along to his own bedroom to shower and shave. By the time he’d finished that, he heard Vas bounding down the stairs, so grabbed the nearest clean clothes to hand and raced after him, catching up at the foot of the stairs.

“Hold it!” he commanded, grabbing the corduroy collar.

Vastarnyi obediently froze. “Is this a bust? You want I should assume the position, officer?” he asked nervously.

Dexter took no notice. He inspected fingernails, hands, neck, and ears, brought out his comb and dragged it through the dark tangle of curls a few times, and finally demanded: “Handkerchief?”

Vastarnyi produced a neatly folded square.

“Spare?”

He produced a second.

“Clean socks? Shorts?”

“Yes, Jonno.”

Behind Dexter, Frank Reiland leaned against the wall and choked his mirth behind a coughing fit.

“Okay. Remember, no Bohunking. Go sit in the car.”

“Yes, Jonno.”

“Jon,” Frank gasped. “You’ll make someone a wonderful mother…”

“Or a keeper for the local funny-farm.” He grinned, unabashed. “Or more likely an inmate. You don’t know what he can do when he lets rip, Frank.”

“I can guess. C’mon, son, Eleanor’s in the car as well, and we better not keep her waiting.”

As Dexter climbed into the front seat beside Frank, he wondered at the reproachful glance he received from his mother.

Vastarnyi, immaculate, polished to within an inch of his life, tut-tutted and shook his head.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dexter growled.

“With me, nothing, viragam,” he replied, virtue in face and voice.

“Thank goodness Lollie’s an old friend.” Eleanor sighed. “She’ll understand, I hope.”

“What?” Dexter demanded, and Vastarnyi reached between the seats and lifted the comb from his pocket.

“Comb your hair, for God’s sake. You look like a ravaged emu,” he said sternly.

“Huh?” said Dexter.

Wordlessly, Eleanor took her compact out of her purse, flipped it open and held the small mirror up in front of him.

Dexter got a brief glimpse of his reflection and hastily raked his hair smooth. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s a pity it’s too late to do anything about your clothes,” she said. “Really, Jonathan, you should practice what you preach.”

“Yes,” agreed Vastarnyi, smugly.

Dexter looked down at himself and his color rose. In his haste to get to his partner and prevent any indiscretion or eccentricities of dress, he had taken little heed of what he had donned himself. Consequently, he was going to a semi-formal cocktail-and-music evening in sun-bleached Levis and an old blue work shirt somewhat faded across the shoulders.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and hoped the blush wouldn’t last.

In the event, Dexter was given scant opportunity to brood. He was well-known to most of the twenty or so people gathered at the Stevens’ house, and was given a warm welcome. The same welcome was extended to the Vastarnyi, who, Frank was fascinated to note, was not only on his best behavior, but appeared to have lost the L.A. backstreets drawl. Dexter caught his eye and mouthed ‘chameleon’, and Frank suddenly realized what was going on. Vastarnyi was acting the part of the sophisticated society-type with an easy confidence born of unerring observation and attention to detail. Even faced with Burt Rhinefeld’s knowing grin, the facade did not waver. He returned the grin, gave a slow wink, and continued the light, inconsequential conversation he was having with Rhinefeld’s wife and daughter.

Celia Burnett greeted both young men with a hug, blinking a little at the change in Vastarnyi from the afternoon.

Bob Wyatts came up and shook hands vigorously, hissed a warning to Dexter that Pearl had brought her violin, and disappeared at a tangent to greet Eleanor and Frank.

“OhmyGod!” Dexter moaned.

“That’s bad, huh?” Vastarnyi guessed.

“Yes. Wish Tess could have been here—she had a line in vaudeville songs that used to set these functions alight.”

“Tend to get kinda highbrow, do they?”

“Yes—remember, no Bohunking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Hey, Jonno—us ‘n’ the Rhinefeld kid are the youngest here, you know that?”

“I know it—thank God! Come and meet Vin Tallis,” and made a bee-line for the new arrivals.

Tallis was a tall, lean young man of their own age-group, his thin face topped by straight brown hair, with brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, and his greeting for Dexter was compounded with relief, as well as pleasure at meeting him again. He introduced his girlfriend, Peg Donnelly, and the four of them gravitated over to form a group around Celia Burnett. Karen Rhinefeld joined them, a maid brought a tray of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, and the musical soiree got under way.

After a while, Bob Wyatts drifted over and, while he talked fishing and sport with Dexter, the two girls and Celia discussing Peg’s gown for the forthcoming Medieval Banquet, Vastarnyi concentrated on Tallis. He was, he discovered, assistant manager at the local bank, with a keen interest in politics ancient and modern. He admitted a strong feeling of admiration for Henry VII as a man who knew what he wanted and went out to get it with a neat deviousness that appealed to Tallis.

“After all, any guy who dates his assumption to the throne the day before his winning battle so’s he can declare all those who fought for the defeated king to be traitors on that score, and grab their estates, was near genius.” He grinned. “He had to have a lot going for him.”

“True—but he couldn’t make it stick, could he?” Vastarnyi pointed out. “Parliament wouldn’t swallow it.”

“No, but it was a beautiful idea,” Tallis chuckled. “The Tudors were quite a family. Devious as left-handed corkscrews, every one.”

“They must have been Hungarian,” Dexter interjected smoothly, and resumed the discussion on fishing.

Vastarnyi gave the broad shoulders a glare. “But no style,” he objected. “Oh, Henry Eight came near it on occasion, so did Elizabeth, once in a while—but for real panache, they couldn’t beat the Plantagenets.”

“Ah-ha! A White Rose.”

“Complete with thorns. You better believe it.”

“If you two are going to re-fight the Wars of the Roses, I’ll declare World War III,” Peg grumbled, breaking off from hennins and wimples. “Are you and Jon coming to the Banquet, David?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” he said dolefully. ‘”S sure to be way past my bedtime. What’s on the menu?”

“Thought that would occur to you,” Celia chuckled. “Did you eat all your dinner tonight?”

“Sure I did, nagyneni.” He grinned.

“And then some,” Dexter added. “I think he ended up with two helpings of Steak Diane.”

“Marj is a great cook. What’ve you got to look forward to in the 15th century? Uh—I guess peacock and swan are out?”

“Definitely. But we have venison—” Celia ticked items off on her fingers. “Goose, salmon—”

“Whoa,” said Dexter.

“No, you mean Wow!” Vastarnyi grinned. “How do I get an invite?”

“He calls his tapeworm Igor,” Dexter informed them. “The pair of them are eating Mom out of house and home. It’s getting so that Red counts the horses morn and night.”

“That’s downright slanderous,” Vastarnyi growled into the burst of group laughter.

“Hush, children,” Celia cut in. “You mustn’t laugh when Lollie’s about to sing.”

A powerful contralto voice with a lot of vibrato broke in on the end of her sentence, and they listened in dutiful silence while their hostess sang an aria from Tosca.

Dexter watched Vastarnyi like a hawk, but the mask remained serene.

The violin solo of Pearl Krantz bored Dexter, though he struggled to show polite interest. She was an indifferent player at best, but a very gentle person, so everyone applauded with spurious enthusiasm.

Eleanor was the next to be ushered into the center of attention, sang something French in a pleasant soprano to Frank’s piano accompaniment, and while more justified applause filled the room, Lollie descended on Dexter.

“Jon,” she beamed, kissing him. “Come and play something for us.”

The piano was a Steinway Grand—he’d always loved it, and felt now that he ought to be in white tie and tails to approach it, as if Levis and open-necked shirt were a desecration. But he couldn’t back out—wouldn’t even if Eleanor hadn’t been smiling proudly at him, because that damned Magyar was sprawled back there, smirking. He’d show him.

He sat down.

“Debussy. Reflections,” he announced briefly, and began to play. It was a favorite piece, not particularly difficult technically, but showy enough, and he could play it from memory, which was even more impressive. When he had finished, the applause was a surprise, since as usual he had lost himself in the music. He felt his color rising.

Then a delighted Eleanor, to Dexter’s great pleasure, said: “Davie? How about you?”

“I don’t play keyboard,” he said, a smile quirking his mouth, and Lollie pounced on him as she had on Dexter.

“Nonsense. You can play something, surely?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“Jew’s harp?” Vastarnyi ventured, and she gave a ripple of laughter, being susceptible to darkly-handsome young men.

“If you can’t think of anything better.” She smiled.

“Come on, Davie,” Eleanor coaxed.

“For you—anything,” he responded with a martyred sigh. “Jonno—stay put.” He walked to the piano to lean over Dexter’s shoulder, leafing through the sheaf of music. “Nice touch you got, Dex-baby,” he whispered, sotto voce. “Holy Mary, what a selection! Jazz ‘n country’s more my line… This’ll do. Here y’go. You take the tenor line from—let’s see—uh, here, okay?”

Dexter stared at the score placed on the rest in front of his eyes.

“You can’t!” he hissed, horrified. “No way! I’m not making any more of an idiot of myself—”

 “Can’t you do it, J.D.?”

“I can. But you—”

“Trust me, Jonno,” came the wicked grin. “Hit it, Blue Eyes.”

Taking a deep breath, regretting ever agreeing to it, and wishing himself elsewhere, Dexter played the introduction. And was so astonished that he almost missed his cue when Vastarnyi’s voice lifted in the baritone part of the superb duet from Bizet’s ‘The Pearl Fishers’, ‘Au fond du temple saint’. Effortless, flawless, even the accent impeccable, Vastarnyi sang the duet with his partner as if they had been rehearsing it for weeks, with more than a technical feeling for the role detailed. He sang it with emotion, with all the confidence of the born actor, a confidence Dexter had never achieved, and somehow, he lifted Dexter with him, so that his natural diffidence was lost and tenor rang out on a level with the baritone. Because Vastarnyi wasn’t performing only for the audience: he was singing with Jonno, and enjoying himself.

“A pair of dark horses!” Eleanor crowed, and hugged them both.

“Hey, you sing pretty good,” Tallis greeted them as they returned to the group, Dexter feeling slightly weak at the knees with surprise that they had been able to carry it off. “Founder members of the Harvard Glee Club, I guess.”

“Davie didn’t go to Harvard,” Celia said before either of them could reply.

“No,” said Vas. “We don’t talk about my Alma Mater.”

“Oh,” said Tallis wisely. “Yale.”

From the corner of his eye, Wyatts caught Eleanor’s slight signal, and left the group to join her.

“You must be very proud of them.” He smiled. “Davie has a real fine voice. So’s Jon,” he hastened to add.

“But not quite in Davie’s class,” she admitted. “I didn’t know myself that he could sing like that. Jon’s still a little too reserved to give it his all, yet. But they did just fine together, didn’t they? Bob, I didn’t call you over here to talk about my boys. Let’s go out on the patio.”

“Sure, Ellie,” he agreed cheerfully, and escorted her out into the night. Behind them, Liszt became muted as she closed the doors. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem, dear. Just the opposite,” she said quietly. “You know I was going to ask Jon—and Davie, if he came—to look into Tess’ murder. Well, Jon, I’m ashamed to say, is as stubbornly blind as everyone else about it, but not Davie. He’s been investigating, and he’s finding things out. He’s working on Harry’s death right now, and though he won’t tell me what he’s found out, he did say he’s sure it’s murder. And he’ll be concentrating on Tess, soon.”

He stared at her, face pale in the light of the patio lamps. “He’s—sure?” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes.” She laid a hand on his arm. “You were another who didn’t believe, I know, in spite of your humoring me,” she went on gently. “Davie will hunt out who killed Harry, and who killed Tess, and who tried to kill you. Don’t worry, Bob. I know he gives the impression of happy idiocy at times, but he can be quite ruthless, and extremely tenacious.”

He sat down abruptly on the ornamental wall. “Yes,” he said after a while. “I’m sorry—you’re right, Ellie, I didn’t believe it was murder. Like everyone else, I figured it was accidental, all three times. It’s a hell of a shock.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’d better go in now—I thought you ought to know. Had a right to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Ellie.”

“Don’t worry, Davie will catch him—oh! Tom! You startled me!”

“Uh, sorry, Eleanor—I figured I’d—uh—sneak in the back way since I’m late.” Thomas Croome mopped his sweating forehead, nervously. “Car broke down—well, it wouldn’t start—and it took me a while to get going.” He circled round them and ducked into the house.

Eleanor stared after him, and shivered in spite of the warmth of the night. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “Something’s got to be done soon about poor Tom.

“I’m sure your Davie will see to it,” he said huskily. “Come on, Ellie, let’s go get a drink. I think we both need one.”

 

Chapter 4

“Hey,” said Peg, “Davie and Jon could come along to the Banquet as minstrels.”

“‘S a good idea!” Vastarnyi grinned. “Songs of your choice for a goblet of malmsey an’ a tankard of ale—”

“You’d be legless inside an hour,” Dexter said scornfully. “And reduced to Hungarian dialects, to the exclusion of what passes with you for the English language.”

Vastarnyi studied him measuringly. “Tell you what I’ll do, Jonno Three,” he said kindly. “You just sit there in the corner like a good boy and get on with your knitting; I’ll go phone Dimitri. Or d’you want I should let out the Bohunk?”

“Have some canapes,” Dexter suggested with considerable speed, acquiring a trayful from a startled maid. “Igor may perish from lack of nourishment.”

“Thoughtful of you, citrom…” Vas helped himself with a wide grin.

“What’s the bohunk?” Karen demanded. “Sounds like a pet dog.”

“The Bohunk is unspeakable,” Dexter told her. “And not for polite conversation.”

“Dimitri, on the other hand,” said Vastarnyi, “is remarkable. He—”

“Try some caviar.”

“Hey,” Vastarnyi was sidetracked. “Didn’t Tom Lehrer do a song about the virgin sturgeon? Or was it someone else?”

“Someone else,” Tallis said. “Don’t ask me who. But the song I do know—” He hummed a few bars, but Lollie Stevens launched into an aria from Madame Butterfly, and the virgin sturgeon died a natural death. Then Tallis spotted Croome by the door and waved him over. “Hey, Tom.” He smiled. “Come and grab some morsels before the scavengers polish them all off.”

The older man hesitated before joining them with noticeable reluctance, and nodded a vague greeting to Dexter. “Uh, good evening, Jonathan,” he said patting his brow with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry I—er—missed your duet. Lollie says it was remarkable.”

“She’s being polite, I think. How are you, Tom?”

“Oh, uh, can’t complain.” He turned myopic eyes on Vastarnyi, who smiled with all his teeth.

“This is Dave Vastarnyi, my partner,” Dexter said.

“Oh, uh, the baritone….”

“You’ll get on well with Dave, Tom. He’s for the White Rose as well.” Tallis chuckled.

A spark of animation showed in the pale face. “Really?”

“Really,” Vastarnyi said solemnly. “I’ll drink damnation to the Tydder and all who hang around his skirts.” And raised his glass to Tallis. “Here’s to low-born Welsh by-blows—may they find their just desserts.”

“Amen,” said Croome, and touched glasses hard enough to splash the contents over the sides.

“Steady there,” said Wyatts at Vastarnyi’s shoulder. “Lollie won’t thank you if her carpet gets soaked in alcohol.”

“It kills the moths.” Vas grinned. “Here y’go, Tom, have a cana—hey! Who wolfed the last of the lox? Had my eye on that, I did.”

“You’re too late.” Peg laughed. “I had it! Take your pick, Tom, and make it fast. Dave has hollow legs and a tapeworm.”

“Called Igor,” Tallis finished.

“Who’s called Igor?” demanded Eleanor, bringing a tray of fresh drinks for the group. “Do we know any Igors, Bob?”

“Dave’s tapeworm.” A small chorus.

“Then I don’t want to be introduced. Here you are, kids. Celia, don’t let them get out of hand, will you? Bob, come and persuade Pearl to play again; she’ll be terribly hurt if no one does.”

“Okay, if you insist,” he said ruefully, and allowed himself to be led away through the crowd. “Celia’s been telling us what an appetite Dave’s got,” he went on, a note of light envy in his voice. “If I ate like that, I’d end up like a tub of lard.”

“Me, too.” She smiled. “He must be one of those people with a high metabolic rate or something. Jon says he’s got to have at least two cookie jars at home, and a padlock on his freezer—Dave raids them regularly. And Marj has threatened to lock away all our foodstuffs, including the fruit bowl. He can’t pass anything edible without sampling it.” Her chuckle was indulgent, without any genuine exasperation.

“He’s certainly a ball of energy.” Wyatts smiled. “Caught a glimpse of him this afternoon, on that dapple-grey of yours, riding like Geronimo was on his tail.”

“Knowing Davie, he was being Geronimo on somebody else’s tail,” she corrected him. “He always rides with a lot of dash—but he knows horses. Would you believe he was taught to ride by a full-blood Apache called Red Wolf?”

“I wouldn’t believe anything less unlikely,” Bob said fervently.

Back at the group, Karen and Vastarnyi were bickering over the last of the caviar, while Tallis engaged Croome in conversation, and refused to let him escape. Dexter joined in, guessing correctly that Vin had been made aware of Eleanor’s theories and had no belief in them—but was making sure that in the unlikely event that Croome had heard them as well, he would know that no one else—least of all his supposed victim—placed any credence in them.

After a while, Karen and Vastarnyi declared a truce, shared the spoils, and leaped into the conversation. It had somehow got around to police-work—as it is, and how it is portrayed on the small screen, and Dexter was becoming eloquent. It often irritated him, the way television dealt with crime and those associated with it, on both sides of the fence.

Karen, with plans of her own regarding the Force, endorsed him with encouraging noises, turned to Vastarnyi, and said: “Pop said you were digging into the ways Harry and Tess died, and you’d come up with something. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” he said, and only Dexter caught the fractional pause and the annoyance hidden beneath a studied casualness.

“Is that all you can say? C’mon, Dave, tell me more?” she wheedled prettily, but he was impervious.

“No deal, Blue Eyes,” he Bogarted. “This is man’s work.” A deliberate provocation that won its object.

“You chauvinist!” Karen gasped. “Oh, you wait! I’ll show you—”

“Yeah? When you’re Commissioner of Police, I guess?”

The sting of his remark was neatly drawn by Vin Tallis. “Ah,” he said lugubriously, “but a Policeman’s Lot is Not an’ ‘Appy One.” And as there was a lull in the entertainment, the subsequent impromptu chorus of Gilbert and Sullivan got a good reception. Even Croome joined in, Rhinefeld allied his bass with the baritone, three tenors and two sopranos, others were caught up, and the last chorus involved the whole assembly, lifting the roof. After that, the higher-flown heights of Grand Opera were abandoned, and the rest of the evening was taken up with the perennial favorites from Gilbert and Sullivan.

***

It had been, Eleanor stated from the back seat of the car, a most enjoyable evening, and Davie must tell her where he had learned to sing like that.

“Don’t ask,” Dexter said. “Because when he says La Scala, Milan, you’d believe him.”

“Jonno,” Vas said, wounded. “Would I lie to Momma D?”

“If you thought you could get away with it, yes.”

“Okay. Would you believe the Met? The Grand Old Opry? The Sunday School Choir?”

“You were a choirboy?” Dexter gulped unwisely, and Vastarnyi treated him to a soulful rendition of “Faith of Our Fathers” to convince him. “Uncle! I believe you!”

“Yeah. I was an altar-boy, too. That was when I was goin’ to be a priest—” He got no further—Dexter folded up, howling with helpless laughter, and Vastarnyi glared at him, huffily.

“I don’t think I believe that, either, Davie,” Eleanor confided, smiling.

“Just goes to show, don’t it?” he sighed. “When I tell the truth, no one believes me. ‘S true. I had this crush on Sister Teresa, y’see—she taught Art Appreciation—an’ I figured if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Hell, I was only thirteen at the time.”

“So what changed your mind, Dave?” Frank asked, intrigued. “The priesthood being celibate?”

“No. It was all the forgiving they have to do. I knew I’d never manage that.” He shot a broodingly malevolent look at Dexter, who was still hiccupping, but it had no effect—from then on until they reached the house, Dexter would be ambushed by the idea of Vastarnyi getting religion, and would collapse into snickering mirth at the thought. He had calmed down, however, by the time they reached home, and all four gravitated to the lounge piano by unspoken agreement.

Dexter sat down, shot his cuffs, and started to perform a few five-finger exercises while he decided what to play.

“And now,” announced Vastarnyi with a flourish. “L.A.s answer to Oscar Petersen. Hit it, Dex-buddy. Lay it on me.”

“I’ll lay one on you, all right.” Dexter grinned. “Hey. D’you know this one?” He played a romping, folksy introduction—Vastarnyi frowned, then grinned widely, and launched into the Tom Lehrer classic “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.”

From the stack of sheet-music in the bottom of the cabinet, Frank obligingly produced the Tom Lehrer Songbook, and Vas sang the more restrained numbers with much verve and feeling.

“Bright College Days” capped it for Dexter, who choked over “Sliding Down the Razor-Blade of Life,” and had to pause for liquid refreshment.

This enforced interval provided his partner with the opportunity to rifle through the stack, and, with a crow of delight, wave a score in front of Dexter’s eyes. “Beaux Gendarmes!” he yelped. “C’mon, Jonno—let’s give it a try.”

They gave it a try. Eleanor sat and wept with laughter—they hammed it up, clowning with happy exuberance, and it was so good to see Jon relaxed and enjoying himself so much. From there they made a duet of the “Weiner Schnitzel Waltz.”

“I drank some champagne from your shoe—” Vas caroled, rolling his eyes in abandon, “I was drunk before I was through—’cause I didn’t know, when I started to sup—it had taken three bottles to fill the thing up—”

“I drank wine,” Dexter retorted, “you drank chocolate malt—and we both turned quite green, to the strains of the Weiner Schnitzel Waltz….”

Frank applauded.

Flushed with success, Dexter went on to the verse which relates what happened when the singer trod on his partner’s dress—”The skirts came right off, I confess—revealing for all of the others to see, exactly the things that endeared you to me—”

At which Vastarnyi choked, howled, and draped himself feebly over the piano, bringing the song to a halt.

Vastarnyi had to get revenge. He found it in “Fight Fiercely, Harvard,” which Dexter refused point-blank to play for him, sitting arms folded and jaw jutting.

So Frank played it instead, joining in with an improbable falsetto, and the sight of Vastarnyi prancing, limp-wristed, in front of Jon’s affronted gaze—”Won’t it be peachy, if we win the game?” reduced Eleanor to total hysteria, and she had to go to bed.

Her influence removed, the songs grew wilder—ditties from college days, jock-doggerel loaded with innuendo—and as a finale, the infamous “Masochism Tango” sung as a “trio for three voices” as Vas put it. And since none of them could think of anything to cap that, they called it a night.

***

Vastarnyi lay awake, gazing at the bedroom ceiling. It looked as if it had been papered with a kind of silk brocade in pale gold: it had that kind of sheen in the early morning light.

He stretched luxuriantly. In spite of the late night, he felt wide awake, full of zest and bonhomie. Maybe he should go wake Jonno up and drop him in the pool again. On second thought, maybe not. That was no longer original enough. Still, it was a shame to waste such a fantastic morning. He bounced out of bed, ambled to the French doors, and swept back the drapes.

Beyond the pool, the formality of the rose-garden breathed perfume into the air, and off to one side was the orchard-paddock and the stables. An idea occurred, and he glanced at his watch. Quarter after five, more or less. Too early for Red? He hoped so. He pounced on his clothes, dragged on undershorts, Levis, and sneakers, shrugging into his shirt as he left the room.

Minutes later, he swung back the upper door of the loose-box and leaned on the lower, inspecting the horse within. Major Blue was a tall rangy roan, with breeding and intelligence in his head, and a large, gentle eye. He came over to investigate the human, touched a velvet nose to Vastarnyi’s face and blew softly in his hair. Vastarnyi, politely, blew back.

“You sure don’t look crazy,” he said, rubbing that certain spot behind the ear. “Why don’t you ‘n me get acquainted, Blue-baby?”

Vastarnyi was not totally foolhardy. He spent fifteen minutes in the loose-box with the horse, alert for anything untoward, but the big gelding was placid, well-mannered, and didn’t twitch a muscle as the human crawled all over him. Eventually he fetched a bridle, buckled it on the white-blazed head, and led the horse into the paddock, where he spent another ten minutes with Major Blue on a lunge-rein, circling him at a walk, trot, and canter. The big horse moved well, ears pricked, muscles working smoothly under the sleek hide, obviously relishing the exercise, but too much the gentleman to be over-exuberant.

Finally, Vastarnyi reined him in, unclipped the lunge, and swung up onto the powerful back. Slowly they moved round the orchard, Major Blue obedient to the slightest signal of rein and heel, circling it twice. Puzzled, Vastarnyi slid to the ground and inspected the horse thoroughly again. He showed no signs of insanity, no incipient onset of homicidal frenzy—he wasn’t even sweated up.

Vastarnyi scratched his head. He could ride just about anything with four legs, knew enough of horses to look after one and its harness, but his knowledge was superficial compared to that of the late Red Wolf, Connors, and probably, Dexter. But whatever was wrong with this horse had no symptoms that he could see. He mounted again and started an easy, collected canter that took them on a weaving path through the fruit trees. Major Blue responded with a pleased eagerness that showed he was not often allowed this comparative freedom, tucked his chin into his chest, arched his tail, and passaged among the trees like a dancing-master. Vastarnyi was enjoying himself as much as the horse, and got little warning when things started to go wrong.

Suddenly the horse’s head was bearing heavily on the bit, the canter lost its smooth elasticity but did not slow, and when Vastarnyi hauled on the rein with increasing pressure, though his head came sluggishly round Major Blue did not turn, carried straight on, and cannoned into a tree. The horse took the impact solidly on the shoulder, was knocked to the ground, and Vastarnyi was catapulted from his back. He rolled like a tumbler, came to his feet, and scrambled to the motionless horse.

Major Blue’s eyes were rolled back until only the whites showed, and his breath whistled in his throat. More by instinct than knowledge, Vastarnyi pulled the horse’s tongue forward, and sat in the grass, the roan head cradled in lap and arms.

***

Dexter woke up with a jerk to find bedclothes and pillows on the floor and himself about to join them. He rolled over to safety and squinted at the sun glowing through the closed drapes, then at his watch. Five-thirty. He groaned, closed his eyes, groped for a pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. It was a forlorn hope, but stubbornly he refused to admit it, pretending to himself that he was drowsy and any time now he’d doze. Finally, he admitted defeat and sat up, yawning, and scrubbing his fingers through his hair. It was another beautiful day—just right for throwing Bohunks in pools—or maybe he’d take him up into the hills and drop him in a lake. The water in those high mountain lakes tends to be very cold.

Humming a verse of the Masochism Tango, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, shedding pajamas as he went. Then the insidious sound he’d been hearing but not registering got through—the faint beat of hooves, from the orchard. Red exercising one of the horses? Now that was an idea. A ride down to the lake before breakfast would be a real appetite awakener.

Shortly afterwards, he walked towards the trees, a swing to his shoulders and something of a bounce to his stride. He could no longer hear the hoofbeats, and there was no movement in the orchard, just a bright patch of color that was someone’s red shirt—Vastarnyi’s red shirt, and he was on the ground, crouched over a prostrate horse.

Dexter broke into a run, sprinting for the still group as Red appeared, hand-vaulting the paddock gate. Dexter reached them first, throwing himself to his knees beside Vastarnyi, who was cradling Major Blue’s head on his lap.

He raised anguished eyes to Dexter’s face. “I think I’ve killed him,” he whispered.

“No, you ain’t,” Red said crisply. He checked the horse’s heart and nodded with approval. “Good thinkin’. A horse can choke on his tongue when he’s out.”

“What happened, Vas?” Dexter put his arm across the bowed shoulders.

“I don’t know. He just cut out on me. Red, check his shoulder, he hit the tree pretty hard.”

“Ran into it?”

“Yeah, like he was blind. They’re not gonna put him down, are they? He’s not crazy, Jonno, just sick.”

“Take it easy,” Dexter calmed.

“He’s okay, just scraped his hide some,” Red reported. “C’mon, Duke, snap out of it. He’ll be cornin’ around soon.”

“What’s wrong with him? What did I do to him?”

“Didn’t do nothin’, son,” Red said quietly. “Don’t know for sure what’s wrong, but it’s probably a blood-vessel goin’ in the brain. The vet’ll be out this afternoon to look at him.”

“And?” Dexter asked, when Vastarnyi could not.

Red shrugged. “‘S likely he’ll be put down,” he said with a matter-of-factness that did not quite cover his regret.”

“No,” said Vastarnyi.

“There has to be another way,” Dexter protested.

A quiver ran through the horse’s frame then, the sightless eyes closed, opened, and Major Blue surged to his feet. He shook himself, looked about, then dropped his head to blow down Vastarnyi’s neck, lipping at his hair.

Red shrugged again. “Depends on the vet,” he said.

Vastarnyi put his face in his hands.

“Don’t go blamin’ yourself, Duke,” Red went on, his voice roughly gentle. “I lunge Blue coupla times a week, an’ as often as not he gets one of his fits. Either carries on ’til he hits somethin’, draggin’ me with him, or more usually tangles his legs an’ goes down.” He caught the trailing reins. “I’ll take care of him,” he said to Dexter, and led the horse away.

“Come on, Vas.” Dexter got a hand under his elbow, hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go get some coffee, huh?”

“I can’t.”

“Hey, Vas, c’mon,” said Dexter gently. “It’s not that bad—”

“My legs have gone numb. Won’t work too well. Blue’s head was kinda heavy.”

“Oh.” He hooked one hand into Vastarnyi’s belt, got the his arm over his shoulder, and half-carried him back to the house.

It took a long time for the usually ebullient Vastarnyi to regain anything approaching his normal bounce, and Dexter, having found out what time the vet was due, made plans to keep Vastarnyi and himself out of the way. A surreptitious phone call to Karen Rhinefeld solved the problem—she would contact an unattached girlfriend, Vin and Peg, and they’d spend the afternoon on the lake, sailing, swimming, and fishing. And have a barbeque. How did that grab him? Dexter vowed his undying devotion, and hurried back to the kitchen to give a slightly altered version of Karen’s invitation.

Vastarnyi was not enthusiastic. He wanted to wait for the vet’s visit, and the brooding blue glare fixed on Dexter’s face told clearly enough he knew who was attempting to be devious and why.

“There’s going to be a barbeque, Vas,” he wheedled. “Marj’ll fix something special, won’t you, Marj?”

“Sure.” She rose to the occasion like her pioneer ancestors. She had been told of the situation and recognized it as an emergency—after all, the young maniac was liable to declare war on the vet and the whole household if the horse had to go. “Uh, morello cherry cheesecake, quiche Lorraine with sweetcorn ‘ n mushrooms, home-made root-beer, fresh peaches—”

He gazed at her, wounded and despondent.

Then Dexter played his master-stroke. “Hey, Vas,” he said earnestly. “D’you really think Mom would let Major Blue be put away so long as he’s not suffering? And it’s pretty obvious he isn’t.”

“Oh,” said Vastarnyi. “Will you pack some of your almond cookies for me, Marj?”

***

The hamper that Marj put together as their contribution to the barbeque was enough to provision a young army. Vin and Peg had brought a like amount, plus quantities of southern fried chicken, while Karen and Diane provided steaks, home-brewed cider, cooking equipment, and as many sauces, spices, pickles, and relishes as they could lay their hands on. Combined with fresh-caught trout from the lake, it was quite a feast, but not enough to defeat six healthy appetites.

Though Vastarnyi swore he couldn’t face food—he was too worried to eat—he somehow managed to demolish more than his share, while all the time insisting he just wasn’t hungry. But Igor was.

Dexter began to regret the invention of Igor.

By the time they got back to the house it was nearing midnight and the place was in darkness. But propped against the telephone in the hall was a folded note. Vastarnyi pounced on it, and Dexter read his mother’s writing over his shoulder.

“Blue has epilepsy, but there is medication to control it. Hope you had a good day.”

Vastarnyi took a deep breath, and Dexter clamped his hand over the exuberant whoop before it could escape, so Vastarnyi gave him a rib-cracking bearhug instead, and had to be forcibly prevented from heading straight for the stables.

“You can see him in the morning,” Dexter hissed, manhandling him away from the door. “For God’s sake, Vas, it’s midnight!”

“So what? I wanna see—”

“No! First thing in the morning, okay. I’ll wake you up when I go fishing.”

“Fishing?” Wall-eyed, Vastarnyi stared at him. “Figured you’d have had enough of that this afternoon.”

“Uh-uh,” Dexter grinned. He had had a run of catches that had supplied grilled trout for the barbeque, and enough over for everyone to take home for the freezer. “I got me a winning streak, and I don’t aim to pass it up. You’re just sore because you didn’t catch anything.”

Vastarnyi snickered. “Didn’t I? While you were hookin’ fish, viragam, I was hookin’ more interestin’ game. Who wants trout when there’s girls around?”

“You’re shameless. How did you manage to get that barb in Karen’s bikini top?”

“Trade secret. ‘Kay, you can give me a call when you get up. If you get up. Think I’m hungry. Wonder if Marj left us any supper?”

“You can’t be! You’ve done little else but eat since three-thirty onwards!”

“That was Igor, not me. Now it’s me that’s hungry. See you in the morning, J.D.” and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dexter groaned and went to bed.

***

His alarm woke him up in pre-dawn gloom, and it took Dexter a few minutes to remember why he had set it for such an unearthly hour. He wished he hadn’t. But having said he intended to go fishing at dawn, and that he would wake the Vastarnyi, he would do both. He just hoped that the Vastarnyi would not appreciate it.

Dexter was disappointed. Vastarnyi came awake at the second prod, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as if he had had a solid ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. Dexter loathed him, and told him so in words of one syllable. But Vastarnyi laughed, bounced out of bed, delivered a swift bearhug before he could fend it away, and disappeared into his en suite bathroom, laughing insanely.

Dexter’s hatred reached new depths, and he retreated downstairs to the kitchen where quantities of black coffee began to sweeten his disposition somewhat. By the time Vastarnyi arrived, fixed a quick breakfast for them both, and showed an intelligent interest in matters piscatorial, Dexter was able to love the world again, and they went their separate ways—Dexter to the river, Vastarnyi to the stable block and Major Blue.

For two successful hours, Dexter fished, thigh-deep in waders, with the sounds of the water surging around him and the singing hum of line and reel as he fought with some of the largest trout he’d seen in several years. He didn’t manage to land all of them—and inevitably, those that got away were the record-breakers—but the ones that ended up in his creel were by no means dwarves.

Gradually, however, outside influences began to weaken the total concentration of the dedicated angler, and Dexter became aware of the scent of the woodsmoke that was drifting in faint blue skeins over the water. He glanced towards the bank, saw a familiar figure crouched among the slender stems of larch and birch a few yards away from the river, and smiled to himself. Was this second breakfast for the Vastarnyi, or Igor?

“Hi,” he called, reeling in the line. “How’s Blue?”

“Just fine. Red says he reckons those pills are workin’ already. Got any fish big enough to grill?”

“You bet I have!” Dexter snorted. “Red’s up earlier than usual. Maybe he figured you’d pull another fool stunt like yesterday.”

There was a short, embarrassed silence. “Yeah, well, he said somethin’ about waitin’ for the early delivery truck,” Vastarnyi said gruffly. “You wanna pass some of them minnows over? I’ll clean ’em for you.”

“Okay.” He waded to the bank and climbed out, handing over the keep-net. Then, while he divested himself of the waders, Vastarnyi neatly gutted and cleaned four of the larger trout.

Soon the smell of their cooking joined with the woodsmoke, and Dexter found himself more than ready for a second breakfast, washed down with a can of beer.

“What you got planned for today?” Vastarnyi asked, leaning against a tree, temporarily replete.

“Uh, nothing much. Why?”

“Figured I’d go up an’ pay a visit to Aunt Celia. Maybe Burnett Junior’s turned up an’ we can talk about the Mercedes.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dexter grinned. “After all, you don’t want to neglect it, I guess. That would hurt its feelings and its pistons might waste away.”

“You tryin’ to be funny, Dexter?” Vastarnyi growled.

“Who? Me?” he exclaimed, wide-eyed and innocent.

Vastarnyi sighed, got to his feet and hitched up his jeans, and without further warning leaped on Dexter, attempting to hustle him towards the river. But the bigger man was half-prepared for some kind of attack, and extra height and weight turned the tide to his advantage, so that Vastarnyi had to break free and sprint for it, or end up head-first in the water.

Dexter’s grin of triumph came close to being a smirk. There had been a time, in the early days, when their weights had been pretty well matched, and he had found it virtually impossible to get a winning advantage. But now he had some ten to fifteen pounds of muscle over his slighter partner and a comprehensive knowledge of his unorthodox tactics, and unless he was taken completely by surprise, he could usually manage to come out of their brawls the victor. More or less.

While he was packing together his fishing equipment, Vastarnyi bounced back into the clearing and damped down the small fire, stamping the cut turf back into place. Dexter released the remainder of his catch, put away the keep-net, and they headed back towards the house, half a mile away.

They made a detour to the stable-block where Vastarnyi caught Dexter off-guard and emptied a water-bucket over him, liberally splashing Red in the process. With two wrathful bellows echoing in his ears, Vastarnyi sprinted for the house, vaulting the orchard fence, and dodging through the trees. Dexter was close on his heels, but might not have caught him had he not stumbled over raised roots. However, catching Vastarnyi and hauling him back to the horse-trough for justified retribution were two different things.

By mutual and unspoken agreement, battle ceased, and they sprawled relaxed on the grass, gazing up at the pattern of branches and sky.

“‘M thirsty,” Vastarnyi said suddenly. “An’ that’s an apple-tree.” He squinted up at the fruit showing between the leaves.

“Yes,” said Dexter. “Think maybe I’ll shin up and get some.”

“Yeah?” the Vastarnyi jeered. “The only thing you can climb is a ladder in a girl’s panty-hose.”

“Hah! Listen, you cross-grained, addle-brained delinquent, you may look like a Neanderthal ape, but I’ll bet I can climb more trees than you,” he finished with a rush of adolescence to the brain.

“Betcha you can’t,” Vastarnyi responded in kind.

“Betcha five bucks.”

“Done,” said Dexter, and as Vastarnyi scrambled for the nearest tree hauled him back by his belt. “Whoa, Bohunk_v We’re gonna do this properly. We’ll start—”

“Like hell!” whooped the maniac, kicked him on the knee, and was out of reach up the apple-tree before Dexter could grab him again.

Red, on his way through the orchard to the kitchen, sighed and shook his head despairingly. Insanity was obviously contagious; he just hoped he wouldn’t catch it. It had been years since he had last climbed a tree. He stamped on the faint yearning, and quickened his stride. What he needed right now was a dry shirt and a cup of coffee.

Since he had climbed these particular trees a great deal during his early teens, Dexter had a distinct advantage as the memory of the best climbing routes came back to aid him. Vastarnyi’s initial lead was rapidly cut back, and before long the blond man was a tree ahead. But it did not last. A desperate hand clutched his ankle, Vastarnyi swung his full weight on the limb, and the branch that Dexter clung to snapped with a pistol-crack. Sitting on Vastarnyi’s stomach, Dexter claimed the victory, and Vas was too winded to protest.

But the contest had not netted any fruit to assuage the thirst they both possessed by now, and they headed once more for the kitchen and supply of beer cans in Marj’s giant ice-box. They passed Red, dourly shifting cartons of groceries, trays of fruit, and cases of fresh vegetables, and Dexter, on his way past, was seduced by the peaches. Full and flushed ripely golden-pink, they beckoned the eye like an inviting glance from a girl. He chose two at random, ignoring Red’s growled warning threat about peach-rustlin’, and took a healthy bite of the succulent flesh.

“Hey, Vas,” he said, swallowing the juicy mouthful, “try one of these, they’re real—” he choked abruptly, both fruit falling from his hands. “Vas—” he said, a startled expression on his face, then choked again as if he couldn’t get his breath. His knees started to fold, he grabbed for the nearest support—the fence—but could not hold on, slipping to all fours.

“Warned you about gobblin’ peaches like that, Jonno,” Vas said chidingly, about to slap him helpfully between the shoulder blades. “Whadja do, swallow the pit?” Then he saw Dexter’s eyes.

He snatched up the partially-eaten fruit, sniffed at it. Underlying the rich peach-smell was another odor. Bitter almonds. Sweet Christ.

Red was astonished when Vastarnyi exploded into the kitchen, thrust him aside with vicious, uncaring strength, and snatched the bottle of peroxide from its shelf. He dumped the contents into a jug, diluted it two to one with water, and hurtled out again. Red followed him, angry and puzzled, and halted at the door to see him kneeling beside the collapsed Dexter, who was prone now and starting to convulse. Vastarnyi hauled him up, supporting head and shoulders.

“Drink it, Jon,” he commanded, tipping the liquid into him. “C’mon, swallow! All of it!”

Dexter had no choice but to swallow—it was that or drown—but before it was all gone, he wrenched himself away and retched, convulsing now for a different reason as his stomach rebelled and everything came up. He was distantly, vaguely aware of Vastarnyi holding him as he vomited, steadying him, his voice quietly telling him to get it all out; and finally, empty and weak, he leaned back against that support, shivering.

“What the hell…?” he croaked.

“Not sure,” Vastarnyi said. “But we’re taking no chances. Red, gimme a hand, huh? Help me get him into the Dodge.”

“What gives?” demanded Red.

“Don’t know. But don’t let anyone touch those peaches.”

Dexter was manhandled into the passenger seat, Vastarnyi slid behind the wheel, and Dexter was driven at a speed that would normally have put his hair on end. They reached the town in a time that the late Harry Burnett would have been proud of, and Vastarnyi braked to a halt at the Emergency entrance of the small local hospital, half-carrying his partner inside and demanding instant attention for him, his I.D. making doubly sure he got it.

Dexter spent an exceedingly uncomfortable half-hour with a tube down his throat, having his stomach washed out, and he wasn’t in any state to be aware of anything but his own misery until, when doctors and nursing staff had left him, he saw Vastarnyi hovering uncertainly by the door of the cubicle.

“Vas.” He got that syllable past the rawness of his throat. “What hit me?”

“Poison.” Vas came to his bedside, looking pale, shaken; reaction was fast catching up with him. “On the peaches. The doc reckons an O.D. of insecticide. Had a couple of cases earlier this week. But that’s bullshit. It was cyanide.”

“Jesus.” Dexter carefully pushed himself to a sitting position. “Don’t tell Mom—”

“Don’t be stupid. Stay put.”

“Like hell. If we don’t get back, she’ll worry, and we’ve got to get rid of those peaches before anyone else eats one—” Under the light tan his skin was the color of milk, his lips bloodless.

Vastarnyi put his hands on his shoulders, pushed him back to the pillow. “Jonno, for God’s sake lie down. They’re gonna keep you in for overnight observation. The doc reckons I got it out of you in time, but they want to be sure.”

“No deal! I’m discharging myself. Does Mom know where we are?”

“Guess not. Red wouldn’t tell her ’til he heard from me. Jonno, why not stay, huh? We can fake something for your Mom.”

“No.”

Vastarnyi looked at him for a long moment. “Okay,” he said.

It was not easy to disguise Dexter’s condition from his mother’s sharp eyes. He finally explained it away as a stomach upset, and the Vastarnyi reminisced on the time he’d had the Toltec Trots while taxi-driving in Tijuana—an extremely improbable tale that succeeded in diverting her attention from her son.

The missing tray of peaches Red had reported as not being delivered, the supplier promising arrival by the next morning, but though there was nothing to make her suspicious or overly concerned, she guessed they were keeping something from her. Until Vastarnyi took her to one side and earnestly explained that Jonno was worried because he figured a relative of Igor’s had decided to move in, and his All-American system was putting up a valiant fight against an Eastern Bloc tapeworm. That last statement was the clincher that convinced her that all was under control, and she did her best not to fuss.

Later that evening Vastarnyi had a phone call, and returned from taking it with an expression on his face that Dexter had seen before. When Vas announced his intention of going to say goodnight to Smoke and Major Blue, Dexter went with him, and as soon as they were clear of the house, he said: “What was that about?”

“Analyst’s lab,” said Vastarnyi tersely. “Jonno, there was more than enough potassium cyanide in that damn bite of peach to kill you. Pretty tough insects you got up here, good buddy.”

Dexter stared at him, his stomach uneasy. “How many cases did the hospital say there’d been?”

“Three in the last week, but yours was potentially the worst. Jonno, I don’t know much about fruit-farming—do they use a cyanide-based spray?”

“I don’t know. Should think it’d be illegal. Some fruit-farmer must have got his marbles shifted.”

“Yeah, I guess. Damn—if I’d thought, I’d have made sure Red kept hold of the peaches, instead of dumping the whole consignment in the incinerator.”

“Vas, what’re you thinking?”

“Me?” Vastarnyi looked at him, eyes almost remote. “I’m thinkin’ you’re pretty lucky, J.D.”

“Yes, inasmuch as you knew what to do. You guessed it was cyanide?”

“Yeah, the peach reeked of almonds. Dex, we gotta talk with Burt.”

“Are you going to get neurotic about this? Fit it into Mom’s pattern?”

“Nope. Not without a whole lot more evidence. Though there couldn’t have been many additives to that stuff. Must have been pretty near neat.”

“It was an accident, Vas. Like those other cases.”

“Yeah. How’re you feeling? An’ no heroics.”

“Lousy.”

“We better keep you out of Momma D’s way tomorrow. Aunt Celia’ll be our best bet. I’ll tuck you up on her front porch with milk ‘n’ cookies, an’ I’ll go see Burt.”

Dexter did not argue. Nor did he make more than a token protest when Vastarnyi delivered him up to Celia Burnett, who already had a houseful of visiting relatives it seemed. But she welcomed them with open arms and warm commiserations, and with the more-than-willing assistance of her two youngest grand-nieces she established Dexter on the cane lounger on her front porch, surrounding him with cushions and light, restorative snacks.

Vastarnyi abandoned him to his fate, his last glimpse of Dexter’s face gazing wall-eyed at his two jean-clad juvenile ministering angels giving him something to smile about, however briefly.

***

He met Burt Rhinefeld on the sidewalk outside the sheriff’s office, and the big man’s expression was grim. “Was cornin’ up to see you two,” he said. “How’s Jon?”

“Not too bad. He’s up at the Burnett place.”

“He’s crazy. He should have stayed in the hospital.”

Vastarnyi looked at him levelly. “Jonno knows what he’s doing,” he said, an edge of hostility unmistakable in his voice.

“Yeah? Never mind. Come inside, son. I got quite a few questions I want answers to.”

“You ‘n’ me both,” Vastarnyi snapped. “You got the full report from the lab?”

“Yeah. Cool off and back off, boy. Or I’ll bounce you on your tail. We’re both on the same side, remember. Tracey, two coffees in my office, at the double. Davie, you just make believe I’m your lieutenant, an’ give me your report. You got a statement from Red?”

“Yes. You’re no way like my looey,” he added, a wry grin taking some of the grimness from his face. “Startin’ from the top—we got up around dawn, went fishing, headed back to the house a couple of hours later. Red was unpackin’ the regular grocery delivery, and Jonno lifted a couple of peaches from a full tray of—uh—two dozen or so—” He kept it concise and detailed, giving all Red Connors’ information on the delivery, the truck driver, the peach-farm owner—who else he delivered to, where and at what times. He had done some phoning around—only the one tray had been sprayed.

Rhinefeld sat silent for a while at the end of it, sipping at his scalding coffee. “The Analyst’s report,” he said finally, “said that peach must have been sprayed with a solution of potassium cyanide in water. No trace of other additives. The previous cases were of regular insecticide poisoning—each one had been affected by the same proprietary brand. It’s either the same freak graduating onto the stronger stuff, or a separate incident. Odds are it’s the same guy. It’s his M.O. anyway. I suppose Eleanor is gonna pin this on her pet murderer?”

“No. She don’t know about it. Me ‘n Red gave her a snow-job. As far as she’s concerned, Jonno’s caught some kinda bug. You any nearer catching your freak?”

“Near enough. Don’t poach, son.”

“I’m not aimin’ to. But if I stumble across him first, that’s your bad luck.” Vastarnyi eyed him coldly. “If it is your freak that got him.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m keeping an open mind. Don’t forget Eleanor’s theory—she’s been sounding off about it loud and clear for quite a while now, along with the fact that her son the cop is coming on vacation and he won’t laugh like everyone else. Most folk have been humoring her like she was suffering from delusions, but Jonno caught a lethal dose of cyanide. If he hadn’t touched that peach, you could have had half a dozen bodies to investigate—Marj was fixing Peach Melba for dessert.”

Rhinefeld studied the fiercely aggressive young face across the desk. “So what have you found out that you haven’t reported?” he demanded.

“I told you all I found out—a dead dog and its home address. Why don’t you take it from there, Sheriff?” And he got to his feet, heading for the door.

“Vastarnyi,” Rhinefeld growled. “Siddown, boy.”

“An’ I ain’t your ‘boy’! You back off, mister! You’re the local law, so make like it!”

“You want I should declare Open Season on L.A. cops? Siddown!”

“Maskor,” said the Vastarnyi, coldly. “Jo reggelt.” And left.

Rhinefeld scratched his head, wondering briefly if it was worth hauling him back and bouncing him a few times, then looked up the address of the truck driver who delivered to the Reilands’. The roads at that time of day were not exactly over-crowded, and it was likely he’d remember who he’d seen about.

At the site of Harry Burnett’s crash, Vastarnyi leaned against a tree, staring unseeingly about him. It had suddenly occurred to him that there was possibly another reason behind Dexter’s poisoning. He, Vastarnyi, was the one doing all the asking around on Burnett’s death; he was getting too close, and the peaches had been aimed at him? So what had he got on Burnett’s death? Damn all, and nothing that pointed at any one person. Abruptly he returned to the car, accelerating along the curving mountain road to the ranch house. Dexter was going to have to use his brain, whether he wanted to or not.

***

Dexter was asleep as he approached the recliner, and he studied him critically. Under the heavy blond forelock his face had regained most of his healthy color, though there were dark shadows around his eyes. He leaned closer. Dexter wasn’t asleep. He was faking it.

“Hi, Jonno,” he said.

“Hi, Vas,” came the immediate response.

“What’s with the Rip Van Winkle scene?”

“If they think I’m asleep, they don’t hover.” Dexter opened his eyes warily. “God preserve me from infant nurses.”

“How’re you feeling?”

Dexter considered this. “Not bad,” he discovered, sounding surprised. “Don’t know what Aunt Celia’s been stuffing into me, but it’s stayed where it’s put, without protesting. What did Burt come up with?”

“His insecticide freak. Same M.O., different concoction. His guy uses one regular brand of fly-spray. But our guy used a solution of potassium cyanide in water.”

“Our guy? But if it’s the same M.O. Vas—”

“The local papers have been giving this weirdo some spread. His M.O. can be picked up from any one of three-four articles.”

“A copy-cat?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, Christ! You’re not gonna hang this on poor old Tom, are you?”

“Nope. I don’t buy him for the murderer, anyhow. The way I see it, there’s two ways it could be, so shut up and hear me out before you start in.”

“I’m listening.”

“Forget about personalities, names, and identities; look at the facts. A man is killed in a car crash, a woman drowns in her pool. Both accidents. Another woman, friends with them both, shouts to the housetops it’s murder. No one believes her, but she also spreads it around that her son the cop will look into it when he comes up on vacation. Within days of arriving, son nearly O.D.s on insecticide. Or, how about this—picture as before—son on vacation, doesn’t want to know, so it’s his buddy, also a cop, who starts snooping around, concentrating on the first death. Those peaches could have been meant for me. And whoever doctored them, didn’t much care who else he killed. So what does that suggest about the original ‘accidents’?”

“Which theory do you buy?” Dexter asked quietly.

“The last one.”

“I’ll buy that as well. Tell me again what you’ve got on Harry’s crash.” Vastarnyi repeated it, and he listened, a frown of concentration on his face. “Nothing there,” he sighed. “You could well have the method dead to rights, but there’s nothing to indicate who, apart from knowledge of Harry’s habits, or why.”

“Doesn’t have to be a why. A guy who’s prepared to wipe out a household to hit one man could well be working the random-pattern M.O.”

“Yes. Vas, how the hell can we narrow the field? Who knows how much you’ve got on Harry?”

“Uh—you, Red, Marj, maybe Burt Rhinefeld.”

“That’s all?”

“Yup. An’ guess who had the best chance to coat the peaches?”

“No! That I don’t buy! Never in a million years!” Dexter came bolt upright and grabbed a handful of shirt. “Listen, maniac, Red is—“

‘”S okay.” Vastarnyi grinned. “Neither do I. What’s the matter? Did I give you a relapse?”

“Pretty damn near.” Dexter let him go and subsided to his cushions again. “We better have a closer look at Tess’ death, and Bob’s near-miss.”

“Yeah, well, I can. You better ride easy for a few days.”

“I’m okay now. Be back to normal by tomorrow. Vas,” he added suddenly, “if he’s tried for one of us once, and failed, could be he’ll try again.”

“Yeah, I know. I think maybe we should move out, in case he tries for another over-kill. D’you know of anyone with a camper they’ll loan us?” /

“I’ll ask around.”

“Fine. While you’re doing that, I’ll get back to the house and take Smoke out. I want to check on the two delivery stops before Frank’s place, then I’ll go talk to Bob.”

“Why not take the car?”

“I’ll leave it for you. Anyhow, I can cut across country on Smoke, be damn near as fast as the Dodge.”

“Huh,” said Dexter. He had the feeling that Vastarnyi wasn’t being complimentary to his car. “Burt’ll be covering that—don’t step on his toes, Vas.”

“Okay, I won’t, unless he leaves his feet lyin’ around in my way,” Vastarnyi said, an edge to his voice.

“Oh, no, you’ve not managed to climb Burt’s back, have you?” Dexter groaned.

“We-ell,” said the Vastarnyi defensively. “Say, I think I better start makin’ tracks. Hang loose, Jonno.” And bounced from the porch.

In the event he did not have to walk back to the Reiland place. Adam Burnett dropped him at the side-gate, and he was able to slip into the stable-yard without being seen from the house. Red Connors was grooming Major Blue, and Vastarnyi joined him in the loose-box.

“How’s Dexter?” he asked.

“Not too bad, an’ gettin’ better.”

“Damn lucky is what he is. If I catch that nut with the fly-spray I’ll lynch the bastard.”

“Weren’t him,” Vastarnyi said grimly, feeding the horse a somewhat furred piece of candy from his pocket.

“Huh?” demanded Red, pausing, and glaring across the blue roan rump. “Whadja mean?”

“It’s a different guy.”

“Judas Priest! You mean we got two freaks in the valley?”

“Nope.”

“Then—hold on—” and he broke off, staring at him, slack-jawed.

“Red, can you back-track some? How many deliveries does that truck make on one load?”

“Twelve,” Red said promptly.

“An’ it’s an open-backed Ford pick-up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He always loads up the same way, so’s you’d know which was the Reiland’s order and which the Wyatts’?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. So how many stops back would the Reiland’s stuff be exposed?”

“Uh—it’d be at the Stevens’, I guess. After them it’s the Johnson’s, then us, then Wyatts and the Burnetts. But the fresh fruit and vegetables are always covered with a tarp.”

“Which can be lifted up for a quick spray underneath. All it needs is one of those hand sprayers you use on the greenfly; fill it with water, and cyanide, shake it up and you’re all set.”

“Cyanide?” Red whispered. “Not fly killer? Judas!”

“I’m gonna take Smoke out, do some investigatin’. Anyone asks around, I’m just out ridin’, an’ you don’t know where, okay?”

“Okay,” Red agreed grimly. “Who’s likely to be doin’ the askin’?”

“Burt Rhinefeld, maybe.” Vastarnyi gave him a jaunty grin, slapped Blue’s neck, and ducked quickly out of the loose-box. Abruptly his dark head re-appeared. “Hey, Red. Don’t spread it around about the cyanide, huh?”

“No way.”

***

By mid-afternoon, Vastarnyi had drawn a solid blank at both the Stevens’ house and the Johnson’s. The staff he talked to had seen no one around other than the truck driver, so, with complaints from his empty stomach, he headed across country to the Burnett’s and reported to Dexter.

“We seem to be hitting nothing but dead-ends,” Dexter said irritably, watching the Vastarnyi wolf the remains of a chicken salad he hadn’t felt able to finish.

Celia bustled out, hearing the voice, exclaimed over his obvious need for food, and herded him into the kitchen for a quick meal. Dexter followed, sat opposite, and helped himself to the occasional tidbit.

Vastarnyi pushed the plate of semi-demolished quiche nearer to him. “So now I’m gonna work on Bob,” he said. “See what we can work out on his T.V. fire, an’ go over Tess’ last evening as well—”

“Uh-uh.” Dexter shook his head. “I phoned about an hour ago. His cook said he’d gone into town, won’t be back until about six, then he’s got some guys coming over for a poker game at nine.”

“Damn. Oh well, it’ll give Smoke a breather. Blast it, Jon, someone must have seen something! The bastard can’t be invisible!”

“Easy,” Dexter soothed, with a warning glance towards Celia’s back. “We’ll get him—or Burt will.”

Vastarnyi grunted, scooped the last of the quiche onto his plate, and reached for the rice salad again. “Can’t be soon enough,” he growled. “I want a vacation, goddammit.”

Dexter choked on a piece of cheese.

Shortly afterwards, stomach filled and Igor pacified, Vastarnyi disappeared into the barn that housed the Mercedes, towing a somewhat bemused Adam Burnett and preceded by an enthusiastic, stocky nine-year-old with a shock of red hair and a pugnacious face. Harry Burnett’s grandson, Dexter reflected with a grin, was going to grow up the spit and image of the old man.

 

Chapter 5

Vastarnyi reined in on a high, treeless ridge about the Wyatt’s place. From there he had a perfect view of the house and grounds, the pool showing as a bright blue oval between the short wings of the house.

Thinking back to Wyatt’s account of his wife’s death, Vastarnyi came to the conclusion that it was an accident, unconnected with Burnett’s murder and the poisoning attempt. In his book, to go swimming on a hot, close night after a heavy meal was virtual suicide—cramps had hit, and that was that, exit Tess Wyatts. He’d reserve judgement on the television fire until he’d heard all the details. There were ways, he knew, of making television sets explode, ways that left no traces to be found by the insurance investigators or fire department. He’d heard rumors of at least two pimps who had been removed by opposition hit-men using television fires to incinerate their victims, and nothing had been proved since there was a complete lack of evidence.

He heeled Smoke down the slope, and approached the house at a steady canter. On the forecourt, Wyatts was unloading packs of beer cans from the trunk of his car, and he looked up at the sound of hooves, easing his back with a grin of relief.

“Hi, Davie,” he called. “Tie the horse up to the rose-trellis and come on in for a drink.”

“Thanks.” He swung down from the saddle, looped the reins through the birch-wood slats, and ambled over to the car. “Getting stocked up?” he asked, smiling.

“Got some friends coming over for a few hands of poker,” Wyatts said. “D’you play?”

“Yeah, sometimes when I need some cash I fleece it off Jonno. He ain’t caught me card-sharpin’ yet.”

“Care to sit in tonight?”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I only play with J.D., an’ a few real old friends. That way I can cheat with a clear conscience.” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Hey Bob, can you spare me a minute or two?”

“Sure thing. Come on in the house.” He led the way into the spacious lounge, waved his guest into a deep armchair and disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with two brimming glasses of beer, condensation misting the sides. “There y’go,” he said, setting one down beside his guest and sitting opposite. “What’s your problem, Davie?”

“That Mrs. Reiland’s theory may not be such a crazy one,” Vastarnyi said. “Would you mind if we went over your wife’s death again, and the T.V. fire?”

“Of course not, but I don’t see how either could be deliberate.”

“You’d be surprised. Human nature is devious.”

“Yes, I guess so. What decided you, can you tell me? Harry’s death?”

“Yeah, he’d been forced off the road. The killer had thrown a dog in front of him, he crashed trying to avoid it. Trouble was, our guy had picked a home-lovin’ dog from too far away to make it credible. There’s no apparent motive for Harry’s death, so it could be a cover-up killing. The main target all along could have been Tess, or you, or someone not hit at yet. Get the picture?”

“Yes.” Wyatt’s voice was husky, almost a croak. “It must be me, then, or someone else, because no one could want Tess dead. And I’m damned if I can think of anyone who hates me enough to kill me.”

“Doesn’t have to be hate—simply a matter of convenience. Care to go over it all again?” Vastarnyi suggested carefully.

“Of course.” It was an automatic response, and Wyatts sat silent for a while, head bowed. Finally, he looked up, his face rather pale under the deep tan. “I’m sorry—I was trying to remember if I missed anything. But I don’t think so.” And told again the short, tragically simple account of Tess’ drowning.

Vastarnyi did not ask questions, and after a slight falter, Wyatts went on to the television fire. Which was equally short. He’d watched the late-late show, switched off and gone to bed. Then been woken up by choking smoke some hours later and had found the lounge in flames. The fire service had dealt with it, smoothly and efficiently, and no major damage had been done. The cause was put down as spontaneous combustion, a known phenomenon.

“Who else was in the house that night?” Vastarnyi asked.

Wyatts scrubbed his fingers through his dark red hair. “No one. Mrs. Cox, my daily help, comes in from eight to seven.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around? Hear any strange noises?”

“No, nothing.”

“Anyone you hadn’t seen in a while contacted you around that time?”

Wyatts gazed at him, sudden interest in his eyes. “Funny you should ask that,” he said. “As a matter of fact—hey, your glass is empty. I’ll get refills,” and went into the kitchen.

There was a brief silence, then Vastarnyi heard voices, a woman’s chuckle, and glass chinking on glass. He got to his feet and wandered to the open piano, found middle C and hit it. Then the photographs on the top caught his eye—a woman in a straw picture hat, dark-haired and beautiful, the slight misting of the studio shot and the muted colors giving it an ethereal, old-fashioned air. The inscription had been written in a strong scrawl: “To Bob, my love for you always, Tess.” And the date was a few years back.

Beside it was another photo, Bob Wyatts and the dark-haired woman side-by-side beneath a magnolia in full flower. Vastarnyi picked it up and studied it more closely, then looked again at the studio portrait and gave a mental salute to the photographer. He had at first put Tess’ age in the early thirties. On the evidence of the second photo, he was nearly twenty years out. But she had still been a strikingly handsome woman. He replaced the snapshot, picked up the portrait. Yes, quite a beauty.

“That was taken on our first wedding anniversary,” Wyatts said, holding out the refilled glass. “Sorry I took so long—had to sort out some menus with Mrs. Cox, and keep her sweet with a beer,” he added ruefully. “She can be a little cross-grained at times. Skol.” He smiled, raising his glass.

“Egeszegere,” Vastarnyi responded, taking a healthy swallow. “Riding cross-country is thirsty work.” He grinned. “Who contacted you, Bob?”

“A guy I used to know from way back,” he said, sprawling in to the chair. “He was head of production when I was a design engineer for Cleveland Synthetics. He’d left the firm under a cloud of some kind about—uh—ten years ago, I guess. Well, we’d never been what you might call friends—nor enemies neither. Just didn’t get on too well. Avoided each other as much as we could, in fact. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi. He was feeling somewhat strange—kind of heavy- limbed, and slightly unco-ordinated. He made it back to his chair, sat down—legless on two beers? Impossible! “Bob—” he started, heard his voice make a slurred sound, then a wave of heavy velvet folded around him, thick and dark and suffocating.

The fire took hold with frightening speed, filling the large room with smoke and fumes, while leaping tongues of red-gold reached out along runnels of kerosene to consume fresh fuel. Wyatts staggered in from the kitchen, eyes streaming and almost blind, made a dash for the kerosene can and hurled it through the window to the patio beyond. In the draught from the shattered pane, the flames surged up to new heights, forcing him back. He ran, stumbling, for the kitchen, scooped up his glass on the way and drained it, and pounced on the limp body of Mrs. Cox, dragging her out into the back yard, well away from the burning house. Air rushed in through the open doors, roaring like a furnace.

Wyatts fell to his knees beside the woman’s body, the drug in the beer hitting him and leaving him without strength. He tried to focus on his watch face, made out the time to be ten after seven. No one was due to arrive until nine, and it was an isolated house. Above the dull rumble of the flames, a deeper sound filtered through to him. A car, he realized, was approaching fast, and he summoned up from somewhere the co-ordination to start the crawl back towards the kitchen door. He did not get very far.

***

Dexter extricated himself from Celia Burnett’s ministering care with great difficulty and by exercising his own brand of gentle stubbornness. Whether or not she suspected it was something more than a disturbed stomach that had afflicted him, she was reluctant to let him go. Adam, too, stressed that he was welcome to stay—maybe it would be better if he did stay—and Dexter guessed that Vastarnyi had told him part of the story, at least.

But finally he was driving down the narrow road, half of his mind worrying at the partial body of the case in hand. There was so much that was missing, virtually nothing to link any of the pieces together. Why had Tess Wyatts died? Was Harry’s death connected with hers? Had he died because he knew something that would put the finger on Tess’ killer? If she had been killed, and not died accidentally. But then why had Harry died?

He found his mind was hunting in circles like a hound chasing its own tail, and put the problem to one side. He needed Vastarnyi’s head to bounce ideas off, see what kind of tangents they could come up with.

He turned into the drive, left the Dodge on the forecourt, and wandered through the house.

He found Frank reading a technical journal on the patio, a large tankard of lager at his elbow. “Hi, son. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty fair.” Dexter smiled. “Where’s Mom?”

“Out on Cloud. Care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, when we know ourselves,” he said defensively. “Right now, all we’ve got is dead-ends.”

“Ah-huh.” Frank put the magazine down, fixed the rather embarrassed and guilty face above him with an astute, granite-eyed stare. “Guess Eleanor wasn’t shooting at the moon after all. What was on the peaches?”

“Uh, cyanide.”

“Good grief. Where’s Dave?”

“Talking to Bob, getting the details on his T.V. fire and going over Tess’ death again. But I don’t know that he’ll find anything. They could quite easily be pure accidents. But Harry’s death wasn’t.”

“Let’s hope you get this guy before he kills again,” Frank said grimly. “Is it likely he will?”

“It’s on the cards. And as he’s started on Vas and me, we’re going to move out for a while. When I think how many people those peaches could have wiped out, I get a glacier sliding down my spine. Can you find someone with a camper or a cabin up-country? We could hole up in the woods, and as far as anyone else is concerned, I’m showing Vas the moose or the grizzlies or whatever indigenous wildlife you can think of. Thing is, we need to move in tomorrow at the very latest. Preferably tonight.”

“That’s cutting it too fine, and if you spring it on your Mom as suddenly as that, on top of your illness, she’s gonna get real suspicious. Leave it to me. I’ll come up with something.”

“‘Kay. Thanks, Frank.”

“Don’t mention it. I suppose it’s a waste of time telling you two to take care?”

Dexter chuckled. “We do take care, most times.” He smiled. “We’re not quite suicidal, and any risks we take are mostly calculated.”

“Yeah, mostly,” Frank drawled wryly. “Burt’s got a cabin up on Squaw Ridge.”

“Lord, yes, I’d forgotten about that. If he’d lend it to us for a while, it’d be ideal.”

“No sweat. You want I should call him?”

“No, I’ll see to it, thanks. How’s Blue getting on?”

“Fine. Wouldn’t know there’s a thing wrong with him. Red rode him out after lunch—no problems at all.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, how do I keep your Mom off him?”

“If those pills are 100% foolproof, there’s no way you can.” He laughed. “I think I’ll go say hello to him.”

The big gelding was grazing in the orchard, and came over to have his ears pulled and accept a piece of apple. After a while, Dexter drifted over to the stables, gave Corruna the remainder of the apple, and tripped over the stable cat as it threw itself on its back at his feet in abandonment. He rubbed the black and white stomach presented for attention, then looked up as his mother called his name.

Beyond the stable-yard and the gate, the ground rose up in a sweeping ridge, lined with trees along its rim. The gradient was variable, and the main trail down followed the gentlest slope. It had originally been the only path, but of late it had been joined by another. Vastarnyi and Smoke had cut a track of their own—a straight-cut slither down the steepest part of the ridge, usually taken at speed. On the rare occasion when Smoke was reined towards the regular track, he became distinctly mulish, having gained a taste for the Vastarnyi style of riding. Others used the short-cut once in a while, at a more sober pace, and Eleanor edged Cloud towards it now.

“Jon,” she called again. “How are you? What on earth caused—oh, come on, drat you!” and thumped her heels home into the reluctant gelding’s ribs. Ears back, he tucked his tail into his rump and picked his way cautiously down, but he was not going fast enough for his rider, and another hearty kick speeded the descent.

A few yards from the bottom, he suddenly tripped, stumbled to his knees, pitching Eleanor over his shoulder. She landed heavily, and Dexter reached her in a matter of seconds.

“Mom, take it easy—” he started, as she pushed herself groggily into a sitting position.

“It’s okay—I’m not hurt,” she said breathlessly. “Just winded, maybe bruised. Poor Cloud, is he hurt? He’s not damaged his knees again?”

“No, he’s sound enough. Come on, Mom, let’s get you back to the house, then I’ll check out his legs.”

“I’m all right, Jon—Jon! Put me down! My legs are perfectly all right!”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, striding for the house.

Frank saw them coming through the orchard, hurried to meet them.

“Don’t fuss!” Elenor called. “Anyone would think I’m made of porcelain! Will you tell this hulking son of mine to put me down!”

“What happened?” Frank demanded.

“Cloud missed his footing, tipped Mom out of the saddle. She’s a little shaken up.”

“I’m not! Will someone please check Cloud?”

“Okay, okay,” Dexter soothed. “Will you take her, Frank?”

“Sure thing. Come on, honey.”

“Please, Frank. I can walk, truly.”

“Sure you can. But not right now.”

“Frank!”

“Hush up!” He grinned.

With his mother’s querulous grumbles fading in his ears, Dexter headed back to the stables. Cloud was standing patiently outside his own loose-box, the bright scarlet of fresh blood showing vividly against his white legs. Dexter took the reins, led him up and down a few times. The horse, though moving a little stiffly, was not noticeably lame, but there were deep gashes just below each knee. Puzzled, Dexter examined the wounds, unable to see how they had been caused. There were no branches or snags across that trail. Then realization hit, and with anger building up inside him, he ran from the yard to where Cloud had stumbled.

Snapped by the impact with the horse’s legs, the release of tension had hurled the nylon-covered cord back behind its tree-stump anchor. It was light in color, all-but invisible in strong sunlight, and if Cloud had been travelling any faster, then Eleanor Reiland would have received worse than a shaking up. If it had been Vastarnyi and Smoke taking the trail in their usual fashion, Dexter knew that one or both necks would have been broken. First the cyanide, now this.

For the first time in his life, behind a red mist of blind fury, Jon Dexter wanted to kill slowly with his bare hands, until some sane and civilized part of himself stood up to show him what was happening to him. He struggled for self-control, a tall, motionless figure alone on the hillside. Fought a battle in his head that ended in victory, leaving him in ice-cold command of himself again. He became aware of pain in his hands. The nylon-covered rope had been twisted tight about his palms, and was cutting into the flesh. He unwrapped it, left it carefully as he had found it, and returned to the horse.

Red was crouched by the animal’s forelegs, cleaning the wounds with gentle efficiency.

“Red,” Dexter said, voice quiet, almost a whisper. “Leave the horse. Go guard that trail. Don’t let anyone go near it. Take a shotgun with you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Red, and sprinted for the tack room and his gun.

Dexter went on into the house past Frank, who got out half a question before he saw his eyes, and picked up the phone. In the same cold, quiet voice he told Rhinefeld to come at once to the house, then rang off and punched out the Wyatts’ number. The ringing tone buzzed for some time before he replaced the receiver and headed out to the Dodge.

The plume of smoke was visible long before he came in sight of the house and realized where it was coming from, and from then on things weren’t too clear in his head. The big car skidded to a halt on the forecourt, and he raced round to the rear of the house, saw an unconscious woman on the paving and Wyatts crawling, stubbornly and without co-ordination, back towards the conflagration.

Even as Dexter saw him, he collapsed. Reaching his side, the blond man hauled him up, and Bob’s eyes flickered open. “Davie—” he croaked. “Inside. Lounge…”

Dexter dropped him and lunged for the smoke-belching doorway into the kitchen. The heat, smoke, and fumes hit him like a solid wall, and common-sense and training took over. He dropped to the floor and snaked under where some oxygen still lingered, and gained the lounge. With his eyes streaming, he was almost blind, the roar of the flames battering at his ears, his throat and chest seared raw. Then his hands found a shoulder, a tangle of hair; he grabbed both and backed for the door, dragging the Vastarnyi with him.

Dexter hauled him as far as Wyatts, then headed back into the kitchen. Coughing, choking on the fire-reek, he groped for and found the phone, wheezed out a demand for fire-service and ambulance, then got out as a beam crashed down in the room beyond. He fell to his knees beside Vastarnyi, the air rasping and painful as he gasped it into his lungs, aware of the man’s harsh breathing and thanking every God he could lay name to for it.

“Davie—Vas,” he croaked at the still face. “Vas—wake up, damn you!” He got a double handful of singed shirt, hauled his shoulders off the ground, shaking him until his head lolled like something lifeless. “Come on! You asinine, ham-fisted, bungling cretin, will you wake up? Please?” And choked on a fit of coughing.

The fact that Vas did not wake up, nor did Wyatts or the cook, was not queried by Dexter until later, when the fire-service truck and ambulance followed closely by Rhinefeld in his patrol car, had arrived and taken over.

***

“Barbiturates,” said Rhinefeld quietly, standing outside the Emergency Room. Dexter looked at him, but did not speak, and under the freezing ice-blue gaze, the sheriff almost found himself forced to go on. “Wyatts, Mrs. Cox, and Davie, they all had some. Especially Davie.” He gave a jerk of the head towards the closed door. “The doc reckons there’s enough in his system to keep him out for another six hours plus. Mrs. Cox is halfway conscious, but I’ve got a statement from Bob.”

“Well?” demanded Dexter.

Somewhat startled, Rhinefeld stared at him. He was not used to that tone of voice being used on him, and certainly not from a kid he’d known since the age of fourteen.

“Jon, cool off,” he advised. “Just take it easy.”

“I am cool,” Dexter said, voice silk-soft. “I am taking it easy. The statement, sheriff.”

Rhinefeld sighed. “Davie turned up, they talked some, had a beer each, talked some more, Bob got more beer from the kitchen, gave the Cox woman a glass, came back in with fill-ups for himself and the kid. He says he was feeing woozy, kind of sleepy—heard a crash, like Mrs. Cox had dropped something, got out to the kitchen, and found her slumped over the table. His knees gave out then. He sat down, thinks he must have blacked out, woke up coughing on smoke, got back to the lounge. There was a sheet of flame in there, and a can of kerosene. He picked it up, felt there was still liquid in it, and hurled it through the window in case the fire got to it and it exploded. He looked around for Davie, couldn’t see him, figured he’d got out somehow, and headed out himself, taking Mrs. Cox with him. By then the dope was really getting to him, because he doesn’t remember you turning up, or anything else.”

“Did you get my message? Did you see Red?”

“Yeah. I’m getting the picture okay, son. I may have lived out in the sticks most of my life, but I do know where it’s at. Let’s have it right from the start, huh? Come on down to the office and we’ll talk it over.”

“Okay. After I’ve called Mom.”

***

With a scowl of concentration on his face, the tip of his tongue wedged in the corner of his mouth, Vastarnyi completed the last ring and sat back, the scowl becoming a grin of satisfaction, albeit a fierce one.

“There y’go,” he said aloud, pulled the tee-shirt over his head and tugged it straight. It was a new one, and in blood-red Magic Marker he had drawn four concentric circles on front and back.

“That is not funny,” Dexter snapped.

Vastarnyi gave him an exasperated look. “Not meant to be,” he explained. “This guy’s a born loser—his misses are kinda messy. This way he’s got a good clear target to aim for.”

“Your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Yeah, a lot of people have admired it,” Vastarnyi agreed, happily. “Think maybe I should put an ad in the paper as well? In case he doesn’t know we’re here.”

“You do, and I move out.”

“You can’t do that!” Consternation warred with the grin. “You gotta guard my body.”

“Who,” demanded Dexter, “is going to guard your overrated immigrant carcass from me?”

“Uh, let’s not get physical about this….” Vastarnyi backed hastily for the door. “Beware of unbridled passion, viragam—” and dived out as Dexter lunged at him, slamming the door in his face.

“Hey!” Dexter wrenched the door open. “You can’t go out alone—”

“Why not? Afraid I might meet up with Big Foot? The only Big Foot round here has a pointy blond head.”

“And there’s a turkey out there aiming to waste you!” he blazed. “Will you behave, Bohunk!”

“Don’t think he’ll be that fussy.” Vastarnyi grinned. “He’ll be happy with both of us. Okay, pajtasam, you can come along an’ hold my hand if you like.” Extending his right hand, coyly. That was a mistake.

Dexter grabbed the wrist, flipped him with a judo-throw, and held him down with an arm-lock. They were up on the mountain-shoulder in Rhinefeld’s ancient cabin, ostensibly for the fishing and hunting. There were deputies staking out the approach roads, and in the cabin was a C.B. radio linking them to the Sheriff’s office, which would be manned twenty-four hours a day. Dexter need not have been so jumpy, but he was. Paradoxically, he would have felt safer in the crowded streets of downtown L.A. than out here in the wild with no human being in sight barring his partner. Not that the Vastarnyi could be classed as human. Not when he was Bohunking. And this was no place for Bohunking, not when there was someone out there wanting them dead.

“Hey,” said the Bohunk, “I’m hungry. What’s in the ice-box?”

Dexter got off his stomach and hauled him to his feet. “You should have drawn that target on your belly,” he grumbled. “That way he takes out Igor as well.”

“That’s an awful mean thing to say.” Vastarnyi paused in the doorway, injured. “I was gonna leave him to you in my will. T’keep Ivanovitch company.”

“Ivan—who?”

“Igor’s cousin.”

“Who?”

“Your tapeworm, dummy.”

“OhmyGod!”

“Well, I had to tell Momma D something! Couldn’t tell her it was cyanide, could I?”

“I guess not—but—did it have to be a cousin of Igor’s?”

“Sure, it did. Gotta keep these things in the family.”

Which rendered Dexter completely speechless while he puzzled that one out. How the hell could he be affected by one of Igor’s relatives?

“Vas,” he said, “how the hell could I acquire one of Igor’s relatives?”

The wicked grin should have warned him. “One of two ways, dummy, you work it out. Just hope your mom don’t use her imagination any.”

“My Mom doesn’t have that kind of imagination,” Dexter said grimly. “Watch it, or I’ll give Ivanovitch back to you. The hard way.”

“Yeah, well, before you try it, we better check in with Burt, let him know we’re here okay and settled in.”

“Settled in? You have to be joking. I feel about as settled as a cat on a hot tin roof.” He sighed, joining Vastarnyi at the ice-box.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me, too.” He took out a plate of ham. Then put it back. “Wish we were in L.A. I prefer brick walls around me, not trees. You can’t sneak up on a guy through a brick wall.”

“If you’re not hungry, I am,” Dexter said. “Move your butt out of the way.”

“S’Ivanovitch,” Vastarnyi said, dolefully, helping himself to a can of beer and trailing over to the bunks. Dexter had already laid claim to the lower one, so Vas hauled himself up to the top, sprawling out untidily. “Jonno, who the hell is pullin’ these stunts? Bob didn’t see or hear anyone, neither did Mrs. Cox, an’ I sure as hell didn’t. Was he trying for me, or Bob, or both of us?”

“I don’t know. Burt’s working on it,” he added brightly.

“Wish I was. Beats hell outa makin’ like a target at a rifle-shoot.”

“I was pretty good at skeet-shooting,” Dexter said reminiscently. “Anyhow, that doesn’t fit his M.O. so far. They’ve all been rigged to look like accidents, or set-ups that leave him in the clear and miles away.”

“Leave who in the clear? And have you noticed, you dumb blond, how many trees there are around here? They can be rigged to fall on us—the generator can be fixed to blow apart—the cabin could be set on fire—our water contaminated—”

“If you don’t shut up,” Dexter bellowed, “I’m going to kick you out of here and he can take you out for starters! Gift-wrapped!”

“Okay, okay! Don’t pop your corn…”

***

No trees fell on them, neither cabin nor generator went up in flames, and the drinking water remained pure. But when, four days later, Rhinefeld drove up to the place, he was greeted by two very jumpy young men who were fervently pleased to see him.

“Have you got him?” Vastarnyi demanded. “What—?”

“No,” Rhinefeld said easily. He liked the banner of bravado displayed in the eye-catching scarlet target drawn on the kid’s tee-shirt, in spite of the fact that he was plainly scared shitless. “But we got the other one.”

“Who?” Dexter demanded blankly.

Another scared kid, the sheriff noted, and smiled with wry affection. “The original insecticide freak. He’s in hospital. Got hit by a truck the day before you ate the cyanide.”

“Why was he doing it?” Dexter wanted to know, temporarily side-tracked. 5

“He’s an itinerant field-worker, in his fifties. No one round here would take him on. So he stole some insecticide and started spraying it around. Figured everyone would blame the owners, and they’d go out of business, which would serve ’em right for not hiring him. He’s got a history of mental illness.”

“You’re not kidding,” Dexter sighed. “But how about Harry’s killer? The guy who’s been trying for us?”

“No real lead yet,” Rhinefeld said. “But we’ve narrowed the field down some. How’re you two kids feeling? D’you want to sit it out for a while longer and see if he takes the bait?”

“Not out here,” Vastarnyi said positively. “Daniel Boone is not my middle name. ‘Sides, he’s not made a move at us since we’ve been here. How’s Momma Dex?”

“Fine. Kind of stiff, but it’s wearing off. She wants the pair of you home.”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads. “No deal,” they said in total unison.

“That’s what I said,” Rhinefeld smiled. “So what do I do? Take you into protective custody?”

“Hell, no!” Vastarnyi snorted.

“Wait a minute,” said Dexter. “Did you tell Mom why not?”

“Yup. Don’t reckon on pussy-footin’ around with these things when they reach this stage. She understood, took it pretty well. Said you must do whatever you think best. She’s quite a lady, Eleanor. But the house-plants are gonna suffer again. She was already starting in on the hibiscus when I left.”

“Poor Mom.”

“Yeah, well, it goes with the badge,” the sheriff said quietly. “When do you kids go back to L.A.?”

“A week next Sunday,” Vastarnyi answered.

“Ah-huh. ‘Til then you move in with me. I can’t put you in a cell, but you can bunk in our spare-room. He’ll find it kinda daunting to try for a hit in a cop’s house.”

“But what about Ginny and Karen?” Dexter protested. “If anything—”

“Their idea.” He grinned. “Karen wants to pin you two in a corner and find out about the Academy training.”

“Oh.”

“You aim to keep us under house-arrest?” Vastarnyi demanded, with something of a bristle.

“Nope. What you do in the daytime is up to you. But nights you spend under my roof—or it will be the cells. With the key thrown away.”

They looked at each other.

“Okay,” said Dexter. “Thanks, Burt.”

“All part of the service. Go get packed up, kids.” They obeyed, throwing items into backpacks and hold-alls with fevered relief.

***

In the familiarity of a town environment, their nerves became less edgy and the tensions were able to release themselves with mutual sniping and back-stabbing. Gone was the bond of affection seen at the Stevens’ musical evening—in its place, to the Rhinefeld ladies’ amazement, was the active loathing, hatred, and disrespect of born enemies.

“This could end in divorce,” Karen announced darkly on the second evening when Rhinefeld had to use his bulk between them to prevent physical violence.

“Karen!” admonished her mother. “I wish you’d watch your tongue.”

“Hey, c’mon, Momma. Dad, which one is the Bohunk?”

Dexter wrapped the remains of his dignity around him like a tattered cloak, moved to the other side of the room and watched the television in icy silence for the rest of the evening. Vastarnyi glowered at him, but refused to speak. Since the sheriff did not seem to see anything untoward in the antipathy, neither Ginny nor Karen commented further upon it. Rhinefeld, however, was keeping a close eye on them, and was gauging the situation. He knew all about the stress and tension of police-work, and if you can’t kick your partner, who the hell can you kick? It looked to him as if they’d got their horns pretty well locked together at the moment. He would probably have to take a hand or they’d still be sitting there in the morning.

Ginny and Karen eventually left the room, announcing their intention of going to bed.

Rhinefeld gave it another hour, then: “C’mon, kids. Time to call it a night.” He stood by the open door, waiting.

Vastarnyi and Dexter glared at each other, neither willing to make the first move. Until an idea occurred to Dexter.

“Sure, Burt,” he said virtuously. “Goodnight.” And went out. His last backward glance was for the Vastarnyi, a slight smirk that said clearly as words— “It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it. I’m no sulky kid.” Then went up the stairs four at a time and shut himself in the bathroom with his victory. Rhinefeld, he knew, had an en suite bathroom in the master-bedroom. He aimed to stay in this one as long as possible, hoping that the Vastarnyi was crossing his legs outside and would not think to go looking for the downstairs John.

All told, a shower, shave, and teeth-cleaning took him three quarters of an hour, and he padded back to the bedroom in his toweling bathrobe, all senses alert for the battle he knew awaited. Nor was he disappointed, though he made sure of it by opening the next round of hostilities himself.

Vastarnyi was in bed as he walked in, a mound under the light quilt.

“Aren’t you going to take a shower?” he asked, tone of voice saying everything the words did not.

His room-mate rolled over, sat up, and bent a brooding, malevolent gaze on him. “I cleaned up all I needed downstairs,” he snarled. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Blue eyes raked Dexter from bare feet to tousled hair. “But your date must be a real heavy one, the way you’re all prettied up an’ perfumed. Or are you just going to bed with yourself?”

Dexter gritted his teeth, refusing to react to the implied suggestion of nameless and solitary vices, hung up his bathrobe, put on his pajamas, climbed into bed, and picked up a book and his hornrims.

Vastarnyi bit back a groan of disgust, but Dexter heard the slight sound and snickered. “Is the light keeping you awake?” he queried with saccharin concern, settling the glasses on his nose. Vastarnyi growled something in Hungarian and Dexter did not have to be a linguist to know it was obscene. He snickered again. “You should read this,” he said. “Patterns of Criminal Homicide, by Wolfgang. If you take it a page at a time, you should be able to understand it, more or less.”

There was an icy silence from the other bed—it was Vastarnyi’s turn to grit his teeth. The silence continued for about five minutes, with Dexter, less than half his mind on the book, thinking up new goads to sink into his partner’s flesh.

But it was Vastarnyi who spoke first. “If that overweight country-hick cop hadn’t shoved his big belly in front of you, I’d have licked you good.”

“Like hell! Who says?” Dexter’s response was immediate. “I can lick you anytime. And I have. Frequently.”

“Hah! The only time you ever licked me was in Academy—”

Dexter dropped his book, a kind of unbelieving ecstasy in his head. Was the maniac finally, after all this time, going to admit that he had been defeated in that epic conflict under the cypress trees?

“—An’ that was on the rifle-range, by three points! An’ you the original kewpie doll!”

Dexter sat bolt-upright and snatched off his hornrims. “Listen, you! The only thing you can lick is a popsicle! And then it dribbles down your chin!”

Vastarnyi gave a wordless yell of rage, and scrambled out of bed, lunging across the room. Dexter met him halfway, blocking the punch to his stomach, but before he could grab the Vastarnyi’s left wrist and twist it up in an armlock, his pajama jacket had been jerked off his shoulders to elbow level and a hard ram-head butted him in the solar plexus. He staggered, started to go down, then ducked under Vastarnyi’s next swing, caught him about the knees and stood up, throwing the smaller man over his shoulder. He landed half on the bed with an almighty crash, and Dexter used the brief respite to get rid of his jacket. It was too easily used as an aid against him, and he was giving away no advantages.

In the dim glow from the sidelight, Vastarnyi’s face was a mask of concentrated hate and determination under the tangle of dark hair, his expression mirroring Dexter’s. They fought in silence, the only sounds being the scuff of bare feet and the thud of blows landing, with the occasional grunt of forcibly emptied lungs when a good one connected with its target.

At last, Dexter caught a heel on the rucked-up rug, stumbled, and Vastarnyi’s flying weight put them both on the floor with enough force to rattle the furniture and bounce the lamp from the bedside table. One knee in Dexter’s stomach, right hand clutched on a handful of pale blond hair, holding his head still for the coup de grace from the poised left fist, Vastarnyi heard the door behind him open and the main light clicked on. He glanced over his shoulder and froze, momentarily. It was not Burt Rhinefeld.

“Well,” said Karen, leaning against the door-jamb, as Vastarnyi half-fell, half-rolled off his victim. “Daddy told me I’d see some pretty strange sights in the police-force.”

Dexter came out of his shock, snatched up his pajama jacket and fig-leafed Vastarnyi with it. “Hi, Karen,” he wheezed.

“Hi, Jon.” She smiled fondly at him. “Don’t you think it’s kind of late for that?”

“Not me, dummy, you!” Vastarnyi hissed, and Dexter realized in total horror that somewhere along the line he’d lost his pants as well.

“I’ve never seen anyone blush all over before,” Karen said wonderingly as he scrambled for the lost apparel.

“Will you get out of here?” he screamed in a whisper.

“Hey, if she wants to join in—” the Vastarnyi gasped, folded over with breathless laughter.

“Vastarnyi, her father is the sheriff!”

“Oh. Yeah. G’night, Karen…” shuffling on his backside in retreat for his own bed.

“Goodnight, kids,” she crooned. “Don’t make any more noise, huh? You’re damaging the ceiling plaster in the living-room. And you,” she added, fixing the still-scarlet Dexter with a glare, “are a party-pooper.” She switched out the light, and left.

“I think I’m in love!” Vastarnyi crowed, and collapsed, helpless with mirth.

Dexter crept into bed, threw a pillow at the hiccupping maniac across the room, rescued the bedside lamp and put it out. “Vastarnyi,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know how much I loathe and despise you?”

“Yeah.” A breathless wheeze of delight. “The feeling’s mutual, good buddy.”

“I’m gonna kill you tomorrow.”

“Manana never comes. G’night, Jonno.”

“G’night, Vas…”

 

Chapter 6

Come morning, a bewildered Ginny Rhinefeld, who had been kept awake by the sounds of battle the previous night, discovered that the camaraderie was back between her guests as if it had never been away. Her husband grunted a greeting, unmoved by the change—he would have been more surprised if it had not occurred—and helped himself to more toast.

Vastarnyi and Dexter took their places at the breakfast table, one serenely at peace with his world, the other full of bouncing vitality, as Karen trailed in, wearing a brilliant green and blue kimono.

“Hi,” she said. And “Hi, boys,” added with a coy giggle.

Dexter flushed as she knew he would.

Vastarnyi leaned forward. “Did you sleep okay last night?” he queried with a wicked grin.

“Mmm,” she said. “After last night, I reckon we’re engaged.”

“To both of us?” he demanded, noting that Dexter’s blush had deepened to crimson.

“Why not?” Karen countered. “Sure isn’t any more of either of you I’ve yet to see….”

“Vastarnyi,” said Rhinefeld heavily. “Pass the marmalade, son.”

“Sure, Dad—uh—sir,” he grinned.

Dexter rose to his feet. “Excuse us a moment, Ginny,” he said quietly, took a handful of denim collar and hair, and hauled Vastarnyi to his feet. “Out!” The screen door swung shut behind them.

From the yard came querulous questions, a low-voiced fierce whisper from Dexter, a series of thuds and muffled squawks and giggles from Vastarnyi. More of the fierce hiss, then a somewhat chastened and subdued Vastarnyi came back in and meekly resumed his seat.

“Sorry about that,” said Dexter. “Just had to sort out a few things.”

Karen bent her head over her toast and sobbed with laughter, and the phone saved Ginny from having to find something to say.

It was Eleanor, asking could she please have her boys back for an hour or so—they’d been avoiding her for days, and she understood why, but Armageddon couldn’t strike in an hour. So please would Ginny send them home. Anytime would do, and she wouldn’t keep them long.

“Did she say what it was about?” asked Dexter cautiously, when Ginny had relayed the message.

“No, dear.”

“Oh.” He met Vastarnyi’s eyes, and he gave an infinitesimal shrug. “Well, I guess it’ll be okay. Burt, have you found any leads yet?” ‘

“Nope,” Rhinefeld said easily. “But I don’t think you need to worry about Eleanor and Frank for an hour or so.”

“We’ll call in at the office on the way back,” Dexter said, finishing his coffee and standing up. “We may as well get on over there.” He felt vaguely dissatisfied, but could not work out why until they were heading out of town in the Dodge.

“He’s holdin’ out on us,” said Vastarnyi, a grim certainty in his voice. “He’s on to something, damn him, but he’s not saying anything.”

“You’re sure?”

“You bet your ass. I put it to him straight out last night when you’d locked yourself in the john. All he’d say was what we didn’t know wouldn’t do us any harm, and that way we couldn’t declare World War III on possibly innocent citizens.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” growled the Vastarnyi. “Oh.”

“We must have missed something—or not asked the right questions,” Dexter said, discontent in his voice. “It’s no joke trying to function as a cop when you’re completely cut off from information, R&I, backup—“

“Hey, c’mon J.D. Don’t flunk out on me. We do okay moonlightin’ in L.A.”

“Sure we do. With our own network of informants, and official records lifted from R&I. Out here, if Burt won’t talk, we’re stymied.”

“No problem. If he won’t give, maybe that pretty brunette in his office will. One or both of us could sweet-talk her and find out what Burt ain’t tellin’.”

“That’s true.” Dexter brightened up considerably. “If we can find out who’s he’s been interviewing, we can go ask questions of our own.”

“Right. C’mon, Boy Wonder, get the lead out. Hey, have you figured out a way yet to tell Momma D we’re both all but engaged to Karen?”

“No!” he snapped, red-faced. “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a lousy sense of humor?”

“Now you come to mention it, I think one or two people have.” He grinned. “Nem, viragam! Don’t hit me!”

“Bloody-minded Bohunk,” Dexter growled. “Should have been smothered at birth. That tape-worm of yours is better house-trained than you are. I’ll talk to Gilly. You can corner the delivery-driver, see if he’s remembered anything.”

“Huh,” Vastarnyi grunted, disappointed. “He ain’t my type. It’d better be the other way around—you’re practically a native of these parts, he’ll be more likely to talk to you. I’ll attend to Gilly.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will too. Hell, Dexter, you ain’t got no technique.”

“I—? Listen, you snake-tongued apology for a ten-buck gigolo—”

“Hey, how did you know?”

“Know what?” Diverted from his tirade. “I was a gigolo.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. In Miami.” Vastarnyi leaned back in the seat, a smug and reminiscent smile on his face. “I was—uh—nineteen, an’—”

“I don’t believe it,” Dexter said flatly. “I’ve never met anyone with such a wacky imagination. You’re fodder for the psycho-analyst, you are, d’you know that?”

“You’re just jealous.” He laughed. “Don’t need to be. You’d do real good as a playboy, Jonno, you’re awful pretty.”

“Vastarnyi—”

“Don’t sweat. You’ll grow out of it, sooner or later, viragam. One day your face will have that lived-in look, an’ you’ll give your right arm to be twenty-whatever again.”

“Vastarnyi—”

“Step on it, buddy. Don’t want to keep Momma D waiting, do we?”

Eleanor was waiting for them on the forecourt when the Dodge pulled up, and pounced on them both with an exuberant delight that Dexter considered a little excessive.

“Take it easy, Mom,” he protested, disengaging himself from her arms. “We haven’t been away that long.”

“No, but it feels like it,” she said, embracing Vas, who had no inhibitions and hugged back with enthusiasm. “Come on inside. I’ve got something to show you both.”

“Can you spare us five minutes?” Dexter asked quickly. “We want a name and address from Red—”

“No. That can wait. Come on.” She took a hold on a wrist each, towed them into the house and up the stairs. “There,” she said, halting in the doorway of the master bedroom. The floor-space, extensive though it was, was almost hidden by large flat boxes and mounds of tissue paper, and on the bed was carefully laid a medieval gown of midnight brocade trimmed with silver- grey fur, and a hennin of the same material with a cloud of fine silver veiling. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she said. “It’s for the banquet. I feel like a teenager again, going to my first Senior Prom.”

“You just like playing dress up, you mean.” Dexter chuckled, squeezing her hand.

“Yes,” she said happily. “Wait ’til you see Frank—but you’ll have to convince him that Richard, Duke of York, did not smoke a pipe. Frank? Where are you? Frank—will you come out of that dressing-room?”

He emerged, sheepish and reluctant, in a floor-length houppelande made in a deep burgundy red velvet. Neck, sleeves, and hem were trimmed in a rich black fur, and a wide, tooled leather belt completed an impressive ensemble. It would have been doubly effective if its wearer had not also worn an expression of total embarrassment.

“Frank, you look great,” Dexter said, with a kind of awed sincerity that took some of the agony from his step-father’s face.

“Yeah, fantastic,” Vas grinned. “C’mon, Momma D, let’s see yours on.”

“Sure. I won’t be long. Frank, I may need help with the fasteners—”

“Okay, honey,” he sighed, and followed her into the dressing-room.

It took a while for her to re-emerge, but Vastarnyi had found the sword that was meant to accompany the Duke of York’s belt, and was cheerfully menacing the rapidly exasperated Dexter with it.

“How do I look?” Eleanor demanded, and they turned.

“Wow,” breathed the Vastarnyi.

She was an impressive figure—not a tall woman by any means, but she had the carriage, the inherent grace and pride to wear the somber magnificence with style.

Frank joined her, comfortable in ancient slacks and shirt again, a fond smile on his mouth. “Quite something, ain’t she?” he drawled.

“Yes,” said Dexter with simple conviction. “You’ll both look incredible tonight.”

“Yeah, well, at least I won’t be the only sucker makin’ a fool of himself,” Frank said, and nudged Eleanor gently. “Go on, honey. Hit the poor kid between the eyes.”

“Franklin, don’t fool around. Jon dear,” she went on, scooping tissue from a large box. “This one’s yours.”

“Mine?” he gasped, horrified. “But—”

“Yes, dear. You’re Edward. Edward IV.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes!” crowed Vastarnyi, wrenching the box open and hauling out the garment. Golden brocade. A short, heavy-sleeved, full-bodied tunic. “Wow,” said Vastarnyi again.

“I’m not wearing that!” Dexter yelled, voice high. “It’s a dress! A mini-dress!”

“It’s a journade,” Vastarnyi corrected, rooting around in the box again. He came up with a white lawn shirt, a crimson doublet with the sleeves separate, then a cloak of the same crimson, velvet lined with brocade. Finally, and deliberately so, he held up the last item. A pair of hose, golden in color, complete with codpiece, and a pair of soft calf boots.

Dexter, gazing at the hose, became white and speechless with bemused horror.

Vastarnyi dropped the garments on the bed. “Frank, you deal with his pants,” he ordered, and started unbuttoning Dexter’s shirt. “You can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he told the victim, who was finding it difficult fending off two determined assailants with his mother watching with amusement and iron resolve. “You can put these on yourself, or me ‘n’ Frank’ll do it for you. What’ll it be, pajtasam?”

“Okay! Okay!” he yelped, backed into a corner both literally and figuratively. “—It’s broken, this red vest—”

“Uh-uh,” Vastarnyi shook his head. “It’s a doublet, an’ the sleeves are tied on to the shoulders here an’ here with points—laces—it goes on over this shirt. Then the journade goes on top of all that, an’ you put your arms out of these slashings here, not out of the cuffs. G’wan, pal. If Larry Olivier can wear that kind of outfit, so can you.”

“How come you know so much about it?” Frank asked, fascinated, as Dexter retreated into his dressing-room clutching a bundle of rich fabrics.

“Did some Shakespeare a few years back. U.C.L.A. ‘n a summer in a travelling theatre.” Vastarnyi grinned.

“Romeo and Juliet?” Eleanor sighed mistily.

“Yeah. I was Mercutio. Had a ball—he’s the best part in the play; gets all the good lines. Uh, what else did we do—Othello, Julius Caesar, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Macbeth, Richard III, Henry—”

“Were you Richard?” she asked, delighted.

“No, the First Murderer. I dunked Clarence in the malmsey butt. But I did understudy for him.”

“Oh, that’s good, because—well, never mind. Jon’s taking a long time. Hurry him up, Frank.”

“Give him a chance, honey. It’ll take him a while to work out those crazy detached sleeves,” he protested.

“C’mon, Lemon, get the lead out!” Vastarnyi called. “Y’don’t have to hide in the closet, ain’t no Vice Squad out here waitin’ for you!”

Goaded, Dexter exploded out of the dressing-room, advancing on the smaller man with grim determination, until he realized he had an audience, and embarrassment stopped him in his tracks.

Vastarnyi had not retreated, had remained where he was, an oddly stunned expression on his face.

Eleanor excavated another box from the wreckage about her, took out a plain, almost stylized gold crown, and held it out.

Vas shook himself slightly—produced a comb, raked it through Dexter’s hair, combing it forward over forehead and ears, then carefully set the circlet on the smooth blond cap. And stood back, awe and something else in his eyes. “Remek,” he whispered. “Vivat Edwardus, Rex Anglia—” and sketched a bow. “Ain’t he somethin’ else?” he grinned at Eleanor, reverence abruptly gone. “He’s gonna get raped at that shindig.”

Face nearly as crimson as the doublet-sleeves, Dexter glared at him. “I can’t wear this. It’s too short,” he complained.

“Isn’t,” Vastarnyi said. “That’s the length it should be. Is there a livery-collar to go with it, Momma-D?”

“Oh, yes, here. Oh Jon, you look magnificent, you really do. Doesn’t he, Frank?”

“Yeah, ‘fraid you do, son,” he drawled.

“Told you so.” Vastarnyi settled the heavy gold links about his shoulders, their width made more by the heavy gatherings of the sleeves. “You better move around, get used to the way it feels. That way you won’t feel so self-conscious come tonight. A few shots of rye could help, too…”

“Vas, I can’t wear this!” he repeated desperately.

“Yes, you can.” His voice was quiet, almost solemn. “What do you want me to say? You look like a sun-king—my leige-lord—’now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York’—Richard Three, Act One, Scene One. You’ll knock ’em dead, Jonno.”

“I don’t want to go,” he muttered miserably.

“Sure you do. You gotta bodyguard Vin. Just in case,” Vas said, inspired.

“You can both bodyguard Vin,” Eleanor cut in on Dexter’s incoherent protests. “This is yours, Davie.”

“Mine?” he echoed Dexter’s response, but the tone of voice was entirely different. “Oh, wow!” The style was identical to Dexter’s outfit, but the colors were dark—a black velvet journade over a deep-blue and silver brocade doublet and white shirt. The black cloak was left in the box as he scooped up the garments and bolted into the dressing-room, a huge grin splitting his face.

In half the time it had taken Dexter, he was back, bouncing out with irrepressible energy. “I’ll be your henchman, Jonno,” he announced. “No—King’s Champion! Where’s my sword! I gotta have a sword!”

“No way!” Dexter snapped. “You’re demoted, buddy, as of now.”

“Huh? Aw gee, Jonno! Let me be Champion, huh? Pretty please?”

“No!”

“Momma D—”

“Hush up and stand still! I want to look at you,” she scolded.

Obligingly, he froze, completely at ease in the outlandish, impressive clothes, wearing them with a panache that Dexter envied and hated him for.

“Splendid,” Eleanor sighed. “What a pair. You complement each other beautifully, don’t they, Frank?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, fishing out his pipe and groping for tobacco pouch. “Don’t see why he can’t be King’s Champion.”

“No!”

“I know—Gloucester!” Eleanor said suddenly. “Richard of Gloucester. Tom won’t mind, he’s Richard III, so it doesn’t really clash. Well, not much, anyhow.”

“Okay,” said Dexter, sensing a weapon ready for his hand. “He can be my kid-brother—what did they call him? Dickon. Little Dickon.” He placed unnecessary emphasis on the ‘Little’.

Vastarnyi glowered at him, then laughed. “Watch yourself. You know what happened to Big Ed, doncha?”

Subtly, the lean body twisted, right arm held awkwardly close to his chest, that shoulder lifted fractionally above the left, and when he spoke again, the backstreet drawl was gone, his voice was deeper, a silken baritone menace.

“‘Why I can smile, and murder whiles I smile;
And cry content to that which grieves my heart;
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;
I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor;
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could;
And like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colors to the chameleon;
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages;
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Were’t further off, I’ll pluck it down—'”

And twitched the bright crown from Dexter’s head and set it on his own.

Eleanor clapped, enthralled and delighted, and Dexter reclaimed his lost regalia.

“Chameleon is right.” He grinned. “Guess they had Bohunks in 15th century England as well. You look pretty good, Vas.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, swaggering his shoulders so that the wide, heavy sleeves flared about him. “I kinda go for these threads. Hey, I’m gonna show Smoke ‘n Red.” And was gone.

“He’s insane,” said Dexter.

“He’s gorgeous,” said Eleanor, laughing.

“There are adjectives for him, Mom, but that isn’t one of them,” her son growled. “Listen, I can’t go in this. It’s too short!” Tugging the journade down over buttocks and crotch.

“Davie said it wasn’t,” Frank said judicially. “Don’t see what you’re complaining about, son. After all,” inspecting the long muscular limbs with a critical stare, secure in the thought of his own floor-length robe, “you show a hell of a lot more of your anatomy in your shorts—if you can call ’em shorts—than you do in that outfit.”

“That’s different!” he protested. “I—”

“If Davie is happy to wear the style, you can too,” Eleanor said grimly. “Don’t make fuss, Jonathan.”

“Listen, that maniac is an exhibitionist over and beyond the point of decency!”

“And your shorts stop just short of indecent exposure!” Eleanor struck back. “Stop arguing, Jonathan, or I’ll box your ears!” By the glint in her eye, Dexter knew he dared not push the issue any further.

“Hey!” A wild shout from the garden beyond the pool, and they turned. Eleanor gave a cry of delight and rushed onto the balcony, her menfolk following in her wake. The dapple-grey gelding was dancing like a circus horse, rider sitting easy and relaxed on the bare back, the pair of them making a picture among the formality of the rose-beds that was poignantly anachronistic. “Hey!” yelled the medieval figure with the 20th century L.A. accent. “Which way to Bosworth?”

“First turning on the left!” Dexter yelled back before he remembered that he hated him. Then: “Dammit, look how that idiot horse is cutting up the turf—Vas, get him out of there! He’ll end up breaking down the bushes!”

The response he got did not smooth his ruffled hackles. Vastarnyi reeled back, free hand shading his eyes, then, with a dramatic gesture, began to declaim in ringing tones: “‘Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, borne with the air from heaven or blast from hell, be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou com’st in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee…'” And cupped hand to ear, leaning forward expectantly.

“Huh?” said Frank.

“Hamlet,” said Eleanor.

“I’ll kill him!” bellowed Dexter, and headed for the door. He collided with Frank who was running for his camera, but Eleanor ignored the brief flurry behind her.

“Stay where you are, Davie!” she called. “Frank’s gone for his Pentax!”

“‘But soft! What light from yonder window breaks?”‘ caroled up happily from the garden. “‘It is the east, and Juliet is the sun—'” He got no further. An irate Dexter hove into view, bearing down on him with long, wrathful strides.

Frank leaned beside Eleanor, the camera with telephoto lens at the ready. They could not hear what was said, but the overall expression did not need words. Too indignant to be self-conscious, Dexter stood at the gelding’s shoulder, one hand on the bridle, a tall, golden king of a man as much a part of the anachronism now as the vibrant, mercurial young barbarian on the grey.

“Go down and join ’em, honey,” Frank said. “Before he hauls Davie off that horse and breaks his neck.”

She laughed and went, dark skirts lifted high to let her run, but she joined the tableau in a more stately fashion, and Vastarnyi slid from Smoke’s back to greet her with medieval extravagance. From inside the hanging sleeve, he produced a white rose, presenting it with a flourish and a bow, and chuckling she placed it carefully in the breast of her gown.

Dexter must have made some remark, because the Vastarnyi threw back his head and laughed, reached up and tilted the crown over one blond eyebrow. Dexter lunged at him, he skipped out of reach—but Eleanor stepped between them, and the last shot for the family album was of the Duchess of York leading her two sons from the rose garden with an earlobe pinched firmly in each hand, leaving the grey horse grazing on Red’s once-immaculate turf.

By the time he had changed back into his Levis, however, Vastarnyi had completely sobered up, and was frowning.

“Don’t see how we can go tonight,” he said abruptly. “Not if some psycho’s gonna try to hit on one or other of us—or Bob Wyatts, if it comes to that. Maybe Jonno should go, an’ I’ll make like the Invisible Man outside, keepin’ an eye on things.”

But the regret was clear in his voice, and before Dexter could comment, Eleanor said: “That’s all right. I’ve cleared everything with Burt. He seems to think it’ll be a good idea for you both to go. You can stick close to Bob, he said, and he’ll send a deputy up as well.”

“Yeah?” Vastarnyi said suspiciously.

“We’re being taken for a ride,” Dexter said with certainty. “What the hell is that guy up to?”

“Jon!” Eleanor protested. “What is the-matter with the pair of you? I thought you’d have been pleased. I mean, Burt obviously thinks there’s no danger anymore.”

“Does he?” Vastarnyi said, almost sourly. “He’s a good cop after a murderer. He could be setting us up, like targets on a rifle-range.”

“Not with a crowd of people there?”

He paused. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. But he knew that a crowd was a safe place for a hitman to hide, up to and after he made his move. So did Dexter.

“Maybe it’s Mom and Frank who shouldn’t go,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted. “Burt feels it’s all safe, and that’s good enough for me. Can you boys be back here at seven-thirty to change?”

“I guess so,” Dexter said, reluctant, and not wholly at the thought of journade, hose, and codpiece. “I want to have a word with Burt first.”

“Yeah, an’ I want that name and address from Red. I’ll take Smoke back and see if I can find him. Hang loose, buddy.”

“Sure.”

Eleanor hung up Vastarnyi’s tunic in her wardrobe, and tutted as she held up the black hose. The seat and inside legs were covered with grey and white horse-hairs. “Marj and I are going to have our work cut out getting these cleaned up,” she sighed, then chuckled. “Crazy boy,” she said fondly. “Didn’t he look good, though? And I wish you’d realize how splendid you looked, too.”

“Sorry.” He smiled. “You never raised me to be an exhibitionist, Mom. I feel too uncomfortable—there’s too many draughts in that outfit. Where did you get them from?”

“Bob organized it, way back when we first decided on the banquet. He’s got connections with a theatre in San Fransisco—he did an awful lot of summer-stock before he married Tess.”

“Is that when you decided I was going to be Edward?” he demanded.

“Yes, dear.” She laughed, kissing him quickly. “We hoped you’d be here at the time, so you could come along, and what else could you be but Edward, since Frank and I are Duke and Duchess of York.”

“And you fitted Vas into the scheme as well?”

“Well, of course, when we found you were going to bring him along. If you’d brought a girlfriend, there was a gown put aside, too. You see, I thought of everything.” She busied herself with the hanging of her own costume. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a steady girl, have you?” It was said with studied casualness, but Dexter caught the thread of wistful worry in her voice.

“No, Mom,” he said. “Guess I’m still playing the field.”

“Do you see anything of Bernadette?”

“Sure. I take her out to dinner sometimes.”

“Oh.” His voice told her it was more of a kindness to someone he had known since childhood than a grand passion. “She’s such a sweet girl.”

“Sure. Bernie’s a great kid,” he agreed. “Mom, you don’t have to start your version of the Inquisition, you know. I haven’t got a steady, but I’m not living like a monk, either.”

“I should hope not! Besides, Davie wouldn’t let you,” she added with a shrewdness that startled him, and cost him his composure—he just prayed she never found out how true that was. “Yes, well, Vas knows a lot of ladies,” he said, “—but if I could meet one like Wei, I’d marry her like a shot.”

“Who? Oh, Hung’s wife—Davie’s marvelous Chinese family.”

“Yes. She’s a doll—a fragile, delicate creature who can rule the house with a steel fist. You’d love her, Mom. You and Wei have a lot in common.”

“I’ve been wanting to meet the Hungs ever since I first heard about them.” She laughed. “And the children—they sound charming. Don’t leave it too long to marry again, Jon. I don’t want to be too old to appreciate any grandchildren.” She bit her lip then—she had spoken without thinking, and was afraid to look at him and see the echo of old pain in his eyes. But it was not there.

He gave her a spontaneous hug, smiling into her hair. “You’ll spoil ’em beyond redemption.” He chuckled. “But I’ll keep it in mind. I promise you, whenever I get serious about a girl, I’ll bring her home and you can give her the onceover. Okay?”

“Okay.” She hugged him back, cherishing the whenever which could so easily have been if ever. It had taken many long months—years—but it looked as if her son was at last over the break-up of his short marriage and subsequent divorce.

“I hope you and Davie aren’t going to rush off right away? Marj has fixed coffee and cookies downstairs—”

“So that’s why he’s taken so long!” Dexter exclaimed. “If he ate all of them, I’ll take him apart!” And departed at a run.

Instinct had not been mistaken—Vastarnyi was sitting on the kitchen table sampling a varied selection of Marj’s more inventive smorgasbord.

“Hi, Jonno.” He grinned.

“Hi, Vas. Keeping body, soul, and Igor together?”

“Yup. Here, give some of these to Ivanovitch,” extending a plateful of choice morsels.

“I’m not wasting good food on him. Supposing I had him, which I don’t.”

“Wait ’til he sinks his teeth in,” Vastarnyi said. “What are the plans? We gonna home in on Burt, or split up an’ go for our original targets?”

“Burt first. He’s got something up his sleeve, and I want to know what it is.”

“Hell, it’s obvious!” Vastarnyi snorted. “We’re bein’ set up. And he ain’t sayin’ who’s maybe gonna make a hit on us—if he knows.”

“Yes, but on the other hand,” Dexter said, frowning, “he—”

“But nothing. Would you play it any different, if you were him?”

“I don’t know! It depends on what I—he—knows that we don’t. But I don’t think I’d keep the targets in the dark, if they were cops, too.”

“Yeah, well, I guess he still hasn’t gotten used to the idea you’re not the kid he taught trout-ticklin’ to. Thinks we’re still wet behind the ears an’ liable to go off half-cocked.”

“Are you telling me he’s wrong?” Marj interrupted, scornful. They had not noticed her come in, and both started guiltily.

“Hi, Marjie.” Vastarnyi’s smile was all charm, but she was not impressed.

“Seems to me, you can still be one jump ahead of Burt,” she said.

“How?” In unison.

“By knowin’ that you are targets, an’ lookin’ out for the guy who’s doing the aiming.”

“Marj, what do you think we’ve been doing since I got out of hospital?” Dexter said gently. “C’mon, Vas, let’s go pay Burt a visit.”

“‘Kay. Don’t take any notice of him, Marjie.” He grinned, kissing her cheek. “He’s buckin’ for Commissioner.”

“Buckin’ for a bust in the chops, more like,” floated after them as they left the kitchen and made for the Dodge.

Set-back number one came when the face behind the reception desk in the sheriff’s office was chocolate brown, sported a heavy moustache, and produced a deep bass voice.

“Mornin’. Can I help you?”

“Yes. The name’s Dexter, and we’d like to see Sheriff Rhinefeld if he can spare us a moment,” he said. “Uh, where’s Gilly today?”

“Long weekend vacation. Sheriff—” He pushed down the intercom button, “there’s a Mr. Dexter out here to see you—”

“Send him in, Roy.”

“Go right ahead, gentlemen.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey,” said Vastarnyi. “Was Gilly’s vacation kinda sudden?”

The deputy blinked. “Uh, yeah, the boss told her to take the time off when he got in this morning. Why?”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Leave it, Vas,” Dexter ordered, and took his elbow, towing him in his wake.

“So whaddya bet the big hulk was expectin’ us to drop in?” the Vastarnyi demanded, voice rising in anger.

“You bet your ass!” Rhinefeld bellowed. “Come on in and siddown. An’ you give me any lip, an’ you’ll sit out the rest of your vacation in my jail!”

“Burt—” Dexter started, gripping his partner’s arm tighter. “What’s with this banquet set-up—?”

“Siddown, and listen good, because I’m only gonna say this once. Sure, it’s a set-up, but only because there’s no other way, and even then I wouldn’t do it if I figured anyone else is in real danger. I’ve got a short-list of possibles, but no strong lead, and I’m hoping that the killer will take what is virtually his last chance to get at you.”

“What about Bob Wyatts?” Dexter asked.

“Yeah…. Him, too.” Rhinefeld smiled mirthlessly.

“Who are your suspects?” Vastarnyi wanted to know.

“You don’t have to know that.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Because,” the sheriff continued, unperturbed, “that way you can’t give anyone the tip-off that you’re on to them by acting suspicious and wary of them—if the killer is present. In case he’s gonna hit from outside, a couple of patrol cars’ll be cruisin’ around. Inside you’ll have Roy Benton. He’s a good, reliable, experienced officer.”

“Oh, sure he is,” Dexter said, disgusted. “And we’re not, I take it.”

“I didn’t say that, son.”

“No. Good day, sheriff.” And walked out of the office with an ice-cold mask covering his annoyance.

Vastarnyi paused in the doorway. “If anyone gets hurt tonight,” he said quietly, eyes holding Rhinefeld’s steady gaze, “there’ll be more than just the hit-artist who’ll have to pay for it.” And followed the blond man out.

That was set-back number two. Number three was the absence of the truck driver. He’d left work early and taken his wife and kids into ‘Frisco for the day, neighbors told them, but he’d be back come morning.

They also tried to find Mrs. Cox, but she was visiting with her son and daughter-in-law in Oakland. Wyatts was not around either. He was off fishing somewhere, and time was running too short to hunt him down. As a last resort, they headed back to Rhinefeld’s house to question Karen, but she was genuinely as much in the dark as they were. She had, she confessed, already tried more than once to pump her father, but getting information out of him was next to impossible. Couldn’t be done.

***

The banquet was being held in the Carleton Suite of the Snowline Country Club, a select establishment some fifteen miles from town on the shoulder of the mountain, and the Reiland entourage was the last to arrive.

This irritated Dexter’s already taut nerves, since he had wanted to get there early to give the place the once-over, but Eleanor intended to make a grand entrance, and would not be hurried. While his mood was one of cold, grim foreboding, the Vastarnyi’s was wild—a kind of insane recklessness had seized hold of him that no cautionary word could quell, and Dexter did not attempt it. Giving the crazy Magyar his head to create what mayhem he felt like could well trigger off something that would reveal the killer, and hopefully, he, Dexter, would be ready for it. Beneath the rich golden brocade of his journade was his shoulder-holster and Colt Python.

Vastarnyi was also armed 20th century-style, and his Bowie-knife was worn openly as a misericord behind his belt-pouch. He wore a sword as well, though that was little more than costume jewelry, an epee with a securely-buttoned tip, and if Dexter had had his way, it would have been left behind. It wasn’t.

Fortunately for Eleanor’s plans, her son was too busy thinking like a policeman to worry about what he was wearing, and the spectacle he was making of himself. Consequently, her entrance on the arm of a tall, impressively handsome young man with an unconscious dignity and a somewhat remote, grave courtesy adding to his regal appearance, was all that she could wish for. People weren’t to know that the remoteness was due to his mind being occupied elsewhere, checking over windows, exits, vantage points—he picked out the figure of the deputy seated in a corner. Someone had objected to the man’s anachronistic uniform so he was swathed in a rust-colored cloak. A wide white grin was on his dark face as he ambled over to greet Dexter when Eleanor was swept away by Lollie Stevens.

“Evening,” he drawled. “I’ve just been told I’m the Moorish Ambassador.”

“Yeah?” Vas grinned. “That was a neat bit of thinking.”

“Where’s Burt?” Dexter wanted to know.

“He’ll be around later. He reckons the time to worry about is after the shindig, on the way home. You can enjoy your evening, Mr. Dexter.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I’ll do my best.” He glanced round for Vastarnyi, but he was on the far side of the room now, talking to Vin Tallis and Peg Donelly.

“Hi, Jon.” Bob Wyatts clapped him on the shoulder. “Ellie’s sure turned you and Davie out looking the part.”

“Yes, she really went to town,” he said ruefully. “Who’re you supposed to be?”

“Sir Thomas Stanley, my liege, at your service.” Bob made a convincing bow. He looked barely more than Dexter’s age, in blue and silver with a gold stag’s head embroidered on the breast of his journade. “Hey, I hope you’re over your food-poisoning, there’s going to be quite a spread laid on.”

“What I can’t handle, Vas and Igor will.” He chuckled. “I’m okay now, thanks. So’s Vas. We wanted to talk to you this afternoon about the fire, but you’d gone out.”

“Fishing. Caught me a trout this long, over in Lake Teton. What did you want to know?”

“See if you’ve remembered anything helpful?”

“Sorry. Did you see the fire-chief’s report? Arson, he said, as if he was telling us something we didn’t know.” Disgust was strong in his voice. “D’you know, I get nauseous now every time I smell kerosene.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dexter said quietly. “But Burt’s taking no chances.” He nodded towards the cloaked figure of Deputy Benson.

“Our Moorish Ambassador? Good old Burt. Pity he couldn’t come himself—he’d make a fantastic Duke of Norfolk.”

“Jocky of Norfolk, be not so bold,” purred a mellifluous voice behind him, and he started nervously. “For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold. Hi, Bob.”

“Uh, hi, Davie.”

“Hi, Jonno, my liege. Have you met up with your Lady Queen yet? I’ve caused a problem.”

“So what else is new? What have you done now?”

“Well, it ain’t me so much as Momma D. By her insisting on me being Gloucester, they don’t know whether to pair Anne Neville off with me or Tom—Richard Three.”

“Huh?” said Dexter intelligently.

“So Momma said no sweat—I’m Gloucester pre-marriage, and bachelors go for free-livin’ ladies, so I’m sittin’ next to Jane Shore.”

“Who?”

“Iffen you don’t mind, that is, good buddy?”

“What’s it got to do with me?” Dexter asked plaintively, totally bewildered.

“Janie’s one of Big Ed’s mistresses. He was a real busy guy, spreadin’ it around. Momma D is trackin’ down the Woodville Wench for you now.”

“Good grief,” he groaned. “Vas, tell me something—does my mother strike you as being Hungarian?”

“All the way, Viragam-Kiralyam!” He laughed, and gave him a bear-hug. “She’s a real sweet lady. And here comes the Woodville—a silver-gilt beauty.”

“Jon, dear,” said Eleanor happily. “This is Nina Sloane. Nina, Jon—Edward, that is. And this is Davie, he’s Richard of Gloucester. Davie, come with me and meet Sally. She’s Jane Shore.” And Vas allowed her to steer him away.

“Uh, good evening…” Dexter ventured, and she smiled coolly at him.

“Good evening my liege.” She was a tall, statuesque girl, hair the same color as his own peeping out from beneath her green hennin.

“Are you Historical Society or Richard III Society?” he asked guardedly.

“Richard III,” she said. “You?”

“Uh, neither. To be honest, you could write what I know about history in general and Richard III in particular on the head of a thumb-tack,” he admitted, with a slightly guilty expression that made him look about ten–years-old. “I feel like a fraud.”

“Don’t worry.” She laughed, melting. “If any of the more ardent members get hold of you, I’ll feed you the right answers.”

“Thanks. What’s the form now?”

“Bob is being Master of Ceremonies; he’ll call us in by title, and we take our places at the two tables. You and I, Richard III and Anne Neville, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York all sit at the top table, the others in order of seniority. That’s really given Bob a headache! But he’s worked it out on the rank of the males, the chauvinist—so your brother Gloucester is sitting with Jane Shore, but opposite Margaret of Anjou. I hope he can take care of himself.”

“He can,” Dexter assured her with certainty. “Where’s the Moorish Ambassador sitting?”

“In a corner.” She chuckled. “Apparently his religion forbids him to eat with infidels. Lord knows why poor Roy is here at all—I suppose some insurance company got a bee in their bonnet—one or two of us must be wearing a small fortune in jewels.”

“You can’t be too careful,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?” And decided he could well enjoy this banquet after all.

 

Chapter 7

“Drat,” said Eleanor. “Where has the child gone? Davie, you will take care of Sally, won’t you? She’s rather a retiring little thing—and right now she seems to have retired clean out of sight! Ah, there she is. Sally, come and meet Richard of Gloucester. This is Davie.”

“Hi.” He smiled.

She smiled back, nervously. “Hi.” She was a small, slender girl, pretty in her amber gown, long dark hair loose under cream veiling, her eyes wide and apprehensive.

Vas thought she might be about seventeen, and a most un-Jane Shore-like young lady. “Are you a Society member?” he asked, placing her hand on his arm, and leading her away under Eleanor’s approving eye.

“No—I’m a guest—Aunt Lollie’s—”

“So’m I. The Reilands. Did you get railroaded, too?”

“Yes.” She blushed slightly. “I mean, the costumes are fabulous, but it’s kind of different from the disco.”

“And how,” he agreed, wryly. “A medieval bash is going to be something of a new experience for both of us, I guess.”

“Bash?” She looked at him doubtfully. “I mean, well, everyone looks awful good, but it’s going to be pretty slow, isn’t it?”

He grinned at her, pure devilment in his eyes. “Nope,” he said. “Party-poopers ain’t allowed in the 15th century. Vin said so, an’ he’s Henry Seven, so what he says goes.”

“What about King Edward and King Richard?”

“Tom’s in a world of his own, an’ once Jonno’s sunk a few goblets, he’ll be real easy. Don’t worry about him—I can handle that big blond beauty.”

She chuckled, turned it into a cough, and blushed. “He looks rather grave, doesn’t he?” she suggested shyly.

“Stock expression Number Three. He’s only got four,” he told her earnestly. “The saint, the martyr, the noble, and the bemused innocent. But he makes a fantastic recruiting poster, so they let him stay on the Force.”

“Air Force?”

“Police. I find the lost dogs; he helps old ladies across the road.”

“You’re putting me on.” Doubtfully.

“On my honor, I swear it,” he protested. “You want to see my impression of Dirty Harry? Steve McGarrett?”

Sally hiccupped, then laughed outright, and across the room Eleanor Reiland nodded to herself, well satisfied, then turned her attention away from the young couple, and looked around for her Duke of York.

She spotted him, and advanced purposefully. “Franklin! Put that pipe away!” she hissed.

***

Bob Wyatts called the assembly to order, and summoned them by title to the dining-room. All went smoothly barring a slight confusion when Kent Stevens forgot he was the Earl of Warwick, and Dexter led his lady by the hand to the top table. He saw Vastarnyi beside a pretty child with wide startled eyes, and wondered wryly whose idea it had been to throw that lamb to the wolf; picked out the dark figure of Benton sitting at ease in a corner near the door, and slowly ran his eyes over the rest of the company.

No one appeared on edge—most of the men looked self-conscious and vaguely uncomfortable, the exceptions being Vastarnyi—damn him!—Wyatts and Croome. The serving staff were smoothly competent, no signs of tension there, no sign of undue attention being paid to Vastarnyi, himself, or Wyatts….

“Hey.” A hard elbow dug into his ribs. “I said, prithee, my lord, will you pass the celery?” whispered Her Grace Queen Elizabeth Woodville.

“Uh, sorry, I was miles away.”

“Well, come back to the 15th century. Who’s the infant with that black wolf down there? She’s going to be eaten alive if she’s careful.”

“I don’t know her. How did they pick who’s who?”

“Pulled the names out of a hat—the older ones cheated and insisted on being paired with their partners, but the youngsters had to take pot luck. So poor Peg is stuck with Nutty Tom instead of Vin. Oh-oh—Tom’s looking. We’re supposed to stay in character. Anyone caught out being 20th century has to pay a forfeit.”

“OhmyGod,” Dexter groaned.

“So, prithee, my lord, will you pass the celery?”

“Whose bright idea was that? My lady?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“Lollie’s.” She chuckled. “And I think it’s going to bomb out. Everyone’s going to be too stilted.” She leaned back in her chair, beckoned to a waitress, and murmured something in her ear. The woman smiled and nodded, and moved away to pass the message on to Wyatts. Who also smiled and nodded, giving Nina a half-salute. Thereafter, as the meal progressed, the wine-goblets were kept full.

But there was no noticeable relaxation among the diners; they were mostly being studiously polite and medieval to each other, and Vastarnyi, who had been swopping Shakespearean quotes with an elderly Margaret of Anjou possessed of a basilisk eye and dislike of the White Rose, decided to liven up the proceedings. Medieval banquets, in his opinion, weren’t supposed to be a drag. He had kept his partner amused with his asides and running commentary until she was weak with laughter, and he saw no reason why the rest of the company shouldn’t be in on the slanders.

‘”Course,” he said, raising his voice, “I think the forfeit idea ought to be extended—why stop at speech? I’ll make book that nearly every guy here has cheated on his outfit—discounting our Moorish Ambassador.” There was a lull in the buzz of formal conversation, and with malicious delight he saw expressions of guilt crossing quite a few faces.

“Do you know,” he went on with awesome disapproval, ostensibly talking to the hiccupping girl at his side, “what the Duke of York is wearing under his gown? Hose, you may say. Yea, even unto the codpiece—but I say thee nay. He weareth the Levis he useth for gardening.”

“Franklin!” Eleanor gasped.

“Honey—” Frank began desperately, but the Magyar had found another victim.

“And Her Grace, my Lady Anne, modesty forbids that I mention what garment she doth wear beneath her gown, but they sure as heck didn’t cross their hearts that way in 1480 something.”

“Oh! You—toad!” Peg gasped, and hurled a chunk of bread at him. She was scarlet with suppressed laughter and embarrassment as a ripple of delighted mirth ran round the tables. “Kick him, somebody—Tom—Richard my lord, that unspeakable varlet has insulted your queen! Do something!”

Thomas Croome, dazed by wine and imagination, gazed owl-eyed at the Vastarnyi, and saw his alter-ego; this was how he knew himself to be, this handsome, powerful young man with a laughing devil in his eyes had all the fire and personality to be a Plantagenet—he was a Plantagenet—he was Richard of Gloucester—he was himself….

“Peace, my lady. You know that Dickon loves thee.”

“Strewth,” sighed Peg. “Edward, sweet coz—”

But Dexter was already on his feet, frowning. This time the Bohunk had gone too far. Unfortunately, standing up drew attention to himself.

“Let us not mock the Tydder,” Vastarnyi was well into his stride now, “even though he doth wear a quartz digital sundial upon his wrist, for lo, there riseth the noble Edward, truly the glorious sun of York—with Kleenex stuffed in his codpiece to give it better shape.”

Dexter sat down, fast, white to the lips with embarrassed horror before the blush caught up with him. If he did have Kleenex padding, he wouldn’t have minded so much—

“Edward, my lord,” Vin leaned across the bemused Croome. “My lady weeps with mirth, wilt thou lend her one of thy tissues?” And collapsed, howling, on his queen’s shoulder.

Dexter glared at him, then fixed the Vastarnyi with a brooding gaze that promised retribution—but his eye was caught by the wide-eyed child beside the Court Jester masquerading as Richard of Gloucester as she waved her hand to him.

“I’ve used Kleenex, too,” she confessed. “And Scotch tape. It’s given me a halfway decent cleavage—“

Dexter choked, and had to join in the general hilarity.

From then on, the banquet took off. It even became slightly bawdy—and the serving staff threw themselves into it with a whole-hearted enjoyment as well. It was over two hours later that the meal drew to a close, and the diners drifted into the ballroom for music, conversation and medieval dancing for those brave and/or high enough to attempt it.

Dexter was adamant in sitting it out on one of the six throne-like chairs provided for the crowned heads, but was not surprised to see the Vastarnyi coaxing a giggling Peg Donnelly onto the floor. The pair put up an impressive performance of a pavane, and a few other couples were tempted to join them.

Croome sat back in his chair, a happy, relaxed smile on his sweating face. He was a faintly absurd figure in a deep mulberry journade and hose, the wide padded shoulders and flaring sleeves emphasizing the thinness of his shanks. But his total unawareness of his appearance gave him a kind of dignity, and he was treated with an affectionate diffidence by revelers and staff alike.

Vastarnyi, after an energetic exhibition of la Volta that owed a certain something to the Hungarian czardas, returned Queen Anne to her lord’s side, and faded into the general melee, reappearing beside Benton in his corner. “Hi, Moorish Ambassador. How’y’doin’?”

“Fine. Wouldn’t have missed this for all the gold in Fort Knox.” He grinned. “Better than a movie.”

“Or a three-ring circus.” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Seen anything?”

“Uh-uh. Like I told you, the sheriff reckons the trip home is gonna be the tricky time.”

“Yeah, could be he’s right. Who’s he got his eye on, do you know?”

“He ain’t sayin’, Mr. Vastarnyi, so it’s more’n my hide’s worth to talk about it.”

“Ah-huh. ‘Kay Mr. Moor, I’ll leave it to you—hey, did you enjoy the banquet?”

“Enjoyed watching it—I got my own food, an’ a flask of coffee. Orders are against takin’ anything offered here.”

“Good thinking, but kinda hard on you.”

“Yeah, you better believe it. But I guess it goes with the badge.”

“Like a helluva lot of other hardships,” Vastarnyi sympathized, with a grin. “Stick it out, Dick Tracy.” And threaded his way back through groups of happy people towards the “thrones” at the far end of the room.

Bob Wyatts was leaning between Croome and Tallis, a lively conversation going on between the three of them, Tom looking more animated than Vastarnyi had seen him before, with something of a determined jut to the receding chin.

Vas politely made his courtesy to them, with his own subtle brand of mockery, and then fell to his knees at the feet of Nina Sloane, with a profligate grace. “Your Grace, behold a humble petitioner. Wilt thou dance with me?”

“What, does Gloucester bow his proud neck before the Woodville Queen?” she cooed sweetly. “Dissembler! Surely you would sooner see my children and I deposed?”

“Huh?” said Dexter.

“Nay, Lady. For my brother loves thee, and where my brother loves, there so do I. His love has made thee sacrosanct.”

“Neat! Very neat!” Nina reverted briefly to the 20th century. “Thou hast a honey tongue, Dickon—little Dickon—I will dance with thee if my lord permits—?” and turned demurely to Dexter.

“Uh, yeah, sure—”

“Get it right, J.D., Big Ed don’t talk like that,” Vastarnyi grumbled. “C’mon, Jonno, play the game too, huh?”

“Uh … ” Dexter stalled, mind a blank. “Thou hast my leave?” he offered tentatively, and collected a brilliant smile from the man on bended knee before him.

“Attaboy, kiralyam! Can’t leave you deserted, though, without a lady—” And he bounced to his feet, invaded the dance-floor, and tapped Frank on the shoulder as he danced with Sally Johnstone. “My lord Father,” he announced, relishing the wary, wall-eyed gaze he got from the older man, “Her Grace my lady Mother mislikes it well to see thee at sport with such a froward wench as Mistress Shore.”

“Are you cuttin’ me out, son?” Frank drawled.

“You better believe it, Pop.” Vastarnyi grinned, hooking an arm round the girl’s waist. “She’s gotta entertain a king.”

“I defer to higher authority,” Frank surrendered gracefully. “I will now go and heist my wife from the Earl of Warwick.”

“Good huntin’. C’mon, sweetness.”

“Davie,” Sally said, “I think you’re crazy.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of it about. Come an’ meet Jonno—he’s crazy too, but he likes to pretend he’s sane. Don’t let him fool you.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Good food, fine wine, and the attentions of a handsome man can boost the confidence of the most retiring girl, and Sally managed a magnificent curtsey before the equally handsome man in the large chair.

“I swear, my brother, thou hast been neglecting thy sweet Jane,” Vastarnyi chided, putting her hand in Dexter’s, then turned to Nina. “See how your lord scorns you by dallying with that wench? Come dance with me, Queen Bess.”

“You’re a sneaky so-and-so,” Nina said admiringly. “Shakespeare’s Gloucester couldn’t have done it better. How the devil do you get away with it?”

“The Devil,” said Dexter loudly, “looks after his own.”

Vastarnyi laughed and swept her towards the floor.

“Hey,” said Bob Wyatts, and they paused. “Enjoying yourselves, kids?”

“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, grinning. “It’s some party.”

“Mmm,” Nina agreed. “We’re going to have to do this more often.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Vin interrupted. “How about it, Bob?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“That sounds promising,” Nina drawled, and swayed into Vastarnyi’s arms. She was almost as tall as he was, and filled her gown to its limits. Vastarnyi happily ignored the fact that the music playing was again a pavane, and held her close. “Thanks,” she said into his ear.

“For what?”

“Waking up the proceedings back there. It could easily have turned into a bomb. Pity Tess wasn’t here—it’d have been a riot right from the start. I almost expected Bob to have the chutzpah to bring Carla along.”

“Who?”

“The girlfriend.” She gave a wry smile. “He can think himself lucky Tess never found out. She was as possessive as hell, and he’d have been in hot water.”

“No kiddin’?” he said, startled.

“No kiddin’. Never mind that—it belongs in the 20th century, and right now is the 15th. I have lots of Woodville relatives—to whom should I marry off the rich and noble Duke of Gloucester?”

“Don’t think you’ve got any left,” Vastarnyi said. “You passed ’em off round the whole of the aristocracy, remember?”

“Well, of course, what’s the good of being queen if you can’t have fun?” She giggled. “I caught the equally rich and noble Duke of Buckingham for—uh—sister Katherine, and nephew John for—oh lord, who was it? Yes, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. That was some marriage, wasn’t it? I don’t know who I feel most sorry for!”

“You’ve lost me,” Vastarnyi confessed.

“No, I haven’t. Jon said you know all about the 15th century. He was twenty and she was in her eighties. It was a terrible scandal, and that in a period not noted for being strait-laced.”

“Oh, yeah. And the Woodville faction went down to zero in the popularity stakes.”

“Folk don’t change much. Poor Tess got quite a few odd looks when she brought Bob home, and there are some old mossybacks who haven’t a word to say to him.”

“Sure, but—” Suddenly he froze, a stunned expression on an abruptly pale face.

“Dave?” she wondered. “Aren’t we dancing?”

But he did not hear her. Instead, it was Celia Burnett’s voice in his ears: “…there’s bound to be trouble, with such an age difference between husband and wife…” and the photos on Wyatt’s piano filled his eyes. Tess Wyatts, still strikingly attractive, but how old? Fifty? Sixty? Wyatts was in his early thirties.

Then another voice, one he hadn’t heard for months—Morino, lecturer at the Academy— “Now there’s one thing I want you guys to get into your heads. When you got a homicide, it ain’t always the butler did it. If the victim is found dead in a domestic situation, then you tag husband or wife as Suspect Number One. Check the statistics—of all the homicides committed in this County last year, cases where spouse or co-habitant is responsible account for—” Spouse or cohabitant. Suspect Number One.

“Holy Mother,” Vastarnyi whispered. Possessive Tess. What would she do if she caught him out? She’d gone through three husbands—would he be divorce number four? Tess was wealthy. Did Wyatts have money of his own? If she tossed him out, how would he stand, cash-wise?

“David,” Nina said ominously.

“Not now, honey.” He glanced around. There was no sign of Wyatts.

***

Thomas, Lord Stanley, chuckled quietly.

“You’re not going to let Vin—sorry—Henry get away with that, are you, my liege?” He smiled. “He virtually accused you of infanticide—” and when Croome started an angry retort, stepped back, out of the conversation. He looked around, spotting the Reilands near the bar, and moved over, got himself a Scotch, and emptied two capsules into it under cover of his wide sleeve. When the contents had dissolved, he joined the couple.

“Enjoying the evening?”

“It’s quite a party,” Frank said, and Eleanor smiled.

“Yes, Bob, very much.”

“It seems to have been a success—though everybody feels sorry for the Moorish Ambassador.”

“Poor Roy,” Eleanor sighed. “Won’t they let him join in?”

“He’s on duty,” Bob pointed out. “Anyhow, he’s got sandwiches and coffee—I guess he’s doing okay.”

“Sandwiches! Coffee!” she said scornfully. “He ought to have a drink, at the least! Frank—”

“Take mine,” Wyatts offered. “I just got it.”

“Thanks, Bob. Whatever the poor boy must think of us—” And she descended on the unsuspecting Benton.

What was said could not be heard, but it was obvious from the start that orders or none, the Deputy did not stand a chance. Wyatts watched until the man had drained the glass, then quietly moved away again. One last check-over before he left the room showed him Dexter talking to young Sally Johnstone, Vastarnyi dancing with Nina, then he closed the doors behind him.

Quickly, but without eye-catching haste, he left the club for the parking lot, found the ancient long raincoat he’d hidden previously, and pulled it on over his costume. Inconspicuous now, he slipped through the shadows cast by the two tall neon signs, and made for the Reiland’s car, taking tools from the pockets of his coat. It was the work of a few moments to nick the brake lines, letting out a thin trickle of hydraulic fluid—by the time the brakes had been used a few times, there’d be nothing left. And a crash from a high mountain road rarely left survivors. The four people in the car wouldn’t stand a chance.

He walked to the far end of the parking lot, stepped over the low wall, and gazed down into the blackness of the tree-filled ravine. With a grunt of effort, Wyatts hurled the tools out into space, heard faintly their descent through branches, then silence. The raincoat he buried in a garbage bin, and with a casual stealth he went back into the club, heading for the men’s room. He washed his hands, straightened his crumpled sleeves, and returned to the Carleton Suite, pausing with the door half-open to check on his intended victims.

Vastarnyi—the main target—was the first one he saw, and momentarily he forgot about the others. The young man was bending over the comatose Benton, checking pulse, lifting an eyelid—then carefully, wrapping the empty glass in a tissue and putting it in his belt-pouch. He removed the deputy’s gun, too, and slipped it out of sight under the journade. His face was in profile to Wyatts, and what he could see of his expression put a knot of fear into the watcher’s stomach. Vastarnyi knew.

But how could he? reasoned common-sense. Nobody could know, he had covered his tracks too well. But once Eleanor Reiland revealed that it had been his drink she had given to the Deputy? A phone-call would bring in Rhinefeld—and maybe this time Burt would not be as easily misled—he had to make sure. And he had to buy himself time. He turned on his heel and ran out to his car, to get the wire-cutters from his tool-kit.

***

“David,” Nina said, annoyance in her voice. “Are we supposed to be dancing, or playing statues?”

“Can it,” he said tersely, and left her there, walking quickly towards Benton. The man’s head was sunk on his chest—taking five, Vastarnyi thought, until he shook him, and the black head lolled. Pulse and eye confirmed it—the empty glass told its own story. Anger began to rise through him, the unheeding rage that had started and finished vendettas for centuries and generations on both sides of his assorted ancestry, and the fierceness of that emotion planed his features into a savage mask. With the tell-tale glass in his belt-pouch he strode across the dance-floor towards the thrones. He passed the angry Nina without even seeing her.

“David—” she began—then got a look at his face and forgot her tirade.

“Jon,” he said quietly, leaning casually over the back of the chair. “Wyatts.”

Dexter looked up, his glance questioning—met the hard blue gaze, and needed no more. Understanding was immediate, and his own face set into an implacable mask, his eyes raking the room. The blue journade was at the bar.

“Sally, honey, go seduce Henry Seven, will you?”

“Oh—sure…” she said uncertainly, glancing from one stone face to the other, and retreated from the two who had suddenly and inexplicably turned into total strangers.

Dexter did not ask ‘are you sure?’

“He could have a gun,” he pointed out. “We have to play it cool, or someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, “he is.”

“For Christ’s sake, ease up, will you? Benton’s been taken out?”

“Doped. The same way he tried for me. .Not carrying a CB, either—or if he is, I couldn’t find it.”

“Keep an eye on Wyatts. I’ll phone out.”

“‘Kay. You gonna trust me not to blast his skull wide open?”

“Yes,” Dexter said, levelly. “You’re too good a cop to be that stupid.”

“Don’t bet on it. We’ve been pretty damn stupid right along the line so far.”

“Besides which, Mom wouldn’t like it. Try to keep her out of the way.” He was gone only a few minutes. “Phones are out,” he reported briefly. “The Burnett place is the nearest. I’ll drive down there. Buy me time, if you have to.”

“Watch yourself, huh?” Vastarnyi said softly, and drifted with apparent aimlessness away from him.

Dexter caught Frank’s eye, and drew him to one side. “Lend me the keys, Frank. I have to use the car.”

“Sure—what’s up, son?”

“Wyatts is the man we want,” he said. “The phones have been cut. I’m going for Burt.”

“Good grief! Are you sure of this, Jon? I mean—”

“Frank, play it cool, okay? We don’t want him making a run for it, or panicking and maybe hurting someone.”

“Yeah. Sure. I get the picture. What about Benton?”

“Drugged. Vas has his gun. Don’t get involved, Frank. If he does make a break for it, and Vas can’t stop him, don’t play hero. He won’t get far.”

“All right.” Frank hooked out the keys, passed them over. “Take care, son.”

By the time he was taking the fourth bend, Dexter was aware that he had problems—by the sixth, his brakes were useless. He had already changed down the gears when he realized his danger, using the engine as a brake, but his speed was still way too high for some of these hairpin bends. The parking brake helped some, but he was going to need that at the end of his journey, with as much of the shoe left as possible—he stayed calm, though a part of him was screaming in panic.

Where the banks were suitable, he used them as a buffer, raking the side of the car along them, enough to slow him but not enough to throw the big car out of control across the road. The gradient was too steep for him to risk slamming the gears through neutral into reverse—and probably stripping Frank’s transmission into the bargain—and he still had to get to the Burnett place.

He made it, though he couldn’t quite believe that he’d made it, stopping the car with what was left of the parking-brake and with the aid of Celia’s rockery, the nose of the car ploughed deep into the ornamental bank. He sat behind the wheel wondering why he was shaking, while lights sprang up in the house. But the adrenalin of anger was still in him as he climbed out.

“What in hell—” Adam Burnett, tousled and in pajamas, stared at the anachronistic apparition on his front porch as if it were a ghost.

“Trick or treat,” said Dexter, without any humor whatsoever. “I need your phone.”

***

Vastarnyi sat on the arm of Croome’s throne, and watched Wyatts at the bar from the corner of his eye. He was involved in an intricate kind of quote-contest, siding with Croome against the needling from Tallis in his guise as Henry VII, and the older man was in desperate need of his support. Tallis, with his nimble wit and devious mind, was running rings around him, bewildering a man whose confusion was already a way of life, and Vas couldn’t let his alter suffer further defeat—besides, it was a good vantage point to watch Wyatts from.

Indecision ate at Wyatts’ nerves like acid. He had seen Dexter leave—knew he would take the car when he discovered the dead phones—knew he would take the Reiland’s car, so Dexter was as good as dead. He still had some time in hand before Rhinefeld could learn anything—at least an hour, before the dose of barbiturate he’d given Benton wore off. He should cut and run, he knew it, but first—first, he wanted revenge.

Vastarnyi had gone hunting, nosing around a case written off as accidental, and stirred up the investigation again.

Vastarnyi had worked out how Burnett had died. Maybe he knew how Tess had died, as well. Because of his interference, he had been forced to set the “accidental” fire at his own house—now, because of him, he was going to have to run like a hunted animal.

But before he did, he would make the bastard pay. Painfully.

Wyatts smiled slowly, hand resting lightly on the hilt of the dress-sword.

Vastarnyi had not yet spoken to Eleanor—so he couldn’t know who had been responsible for doping Benton—Dexter’s few words with Frank had been too brief to give or receive information. He could, if he was careful, maneuver Vastarnyi into a trap without him or anyone else suspecting. Until it was too late. He took a few deep breaths to control face and voice, and casually made his way to the group at the throne.

Was Vastarnyi watching him? No, he couldn’t be.

“Battle joined yet?” he smiled at Tallis.

“Nope,” Henry VII said, disgusted. “I’m being outflanked by the split personality of Richard III. They’re ganging up on me, Bob! C’mon, you’re Stanley—come and aid me, sirrah!”

“So Stanley turns his coat again,” Croome sneered. “The weathercock of England!”

“Pointing now to Lancaster’s victory,” Wyatts countered.

“Won through treason.” Vastarnyi, with the riposte. “An act conceived, born, and raised in treason, as was Harry Tydder.”

“Ouch,” Tallis winced. “That’s a sneaky one. See what I mean, Bob?”

But Wyatts met Vastarnyi’s eyes, coldly brilliant above his smile, and with a frisson of nerves, knew the man had him taped for the murderer. It made no difference. Merely turned what would have been a pleasure alone into necessity. He smiled back, returning the attack.

“That, coming from a family who made a career out of deceit and treachery, is pure hypocrisy. But what else would you expect from Richard?”

Vastarnyi leaned one hand on Croome’s shoulder, restraining him as the man half-rose from his seat.

“Methinks Stanley judges all by his own standards,” he said easily. “And so is blind as a hooded vagabond.”

“Stalemate!” Tallis groaned. “How the hell do we settle this debate? Call in a referee?”

“How about the old way?” Wyatts suggested softly.

“Hey, yeah!” Tallis whooped. “Richard Plantagenet, I challenge you to a duel!” And he thumped his elbow on the. arm of his throne, hand erect. “We’ll arm-wrestle for England’s crown!”

“Oh, brother!” said Peg Donnelly. “Bosworth was never like this.” Word of the contest ran like fire in tinder about the room, and within seconds they had an eager, happy audience.

“Do you accept the challenge, my liege?” Vastarnyi smiled down at Croome. “Your champion awaits.”

“Yes.” Croome blinked at him—Richard of Gloucester had fought many of Edward IV’s battles for him. “No enemy can stand against Gloucester.”

“Oh-oh,” said Tallis, eyeing Vastarnyi’s muscular shoulders and strong, long-fingered hands. “Stan-leee!”

“Okay—uh, I am at your command, my liege.” Wyatts laughed. “Hey, Davie, you know a lot of Shakespeare, have you been on the stage?”

“Some,” he admitted, cautiously.

“Any of the major roles?”

“A few. Mercutio. Iago. Mark Antony.”

“You can stage-fight? Why don’t we give ’em a real show, huh? I’ve done the Bard in summer-stock, so I know enough about it—and our swords are buttoned. How about it?”

Vastarnyi kept the smile intact. Wyatts could not know that they’d made him for the killer. With any luck, he could spin out this mock duel until Dex and Rhinefeld turned up. “Sure. Why not?”

A ripple of amusement passed through the audience, and the dance-floor was cleared quickly. Vastarnyi caught a glimpse of Eleanor’s laughing face, Frank’s anxious frown behind her, and gave them both a wry salute as he moved out onto the floor, and there waited poised and relaxed, sword still sheathed.

Behind Tallis’ throne, Wyatts drew his sword, set the point under his heel, gave a sharp pull and twist. The action took less than a second, and no one noticed the fractional pause before he joined Vastarnyi on the polished parquet floor.

“I haven’t done this for years,” he admitted, ruefully. “I’m a bit rusty, I’m afraid.”

“Me, too. You want to call the shots?”

“Okay—” A moment’s thought, then he reeled off a list of lunges, parries, and blocks.

“Got it. En garde, de Richelieu—hell, wrong century. ‘Our swords shall play the orators for us.'”

“‘So wise, so young, they say, do never live long,'” Wyatts countered smoothly.

The contest began—to the watchers it looked good, to the two protagonists it was a test of memory, muscle-control, and fast reactions—and Vastarnyi, feeling his oats, took up the gauntlet.

“‘Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?'”

“‘What wouldst thou have with me?”‘ Wyatts never missed a beat.

“‘Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives—'” Vastarnyi drove in, a good thrust in seconde, and Wyatts parried with casual ease.

“‘You but dally,”‘ he chided, smiling. ‘”I pray you, pass with your best violence: I am afeard you make a wanton of me—”‘ And there deviated from his announced plan, parried and thrust in octave, the naked point slicing through the fabric over his opponent’s right hip. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.'” He grinned, seeing the shock on Vastarnyi’s face as the sting of the graze registered. Wyatts was smiling, advancing and smiling, his movements still studied, but subtly different.

Stage-fighting, hell, Vastarnyi thought, this guy’s a fencer.

He circled away, wary and watching, eyes unwaveringly on the older man. Buy time, Jonno had said. Well, that wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought. He was facing a killer with a sword, without much idea of how to handle the situation. He had to make it look good, so no one got worried or suspicious before time. Above all, he must not do—or allow to happen—anything that might worry Eleanor.

A thrust in tierce—Vastarnyi parried that easily enough, but Wyatts must know by now that he was facing a rank amateur—enthusiastic, yes, but familiar with the sword only as a stage prop, where fights are carefully choreographed, and no one is meant to be hurt. All he could hope to do was defend himself—and the irony was that he was still carrying a gun. A gun he could not—must not—use.

Thrust and parry, attack and riposte—and again Vastarnyi felt the blade pierce velvet and brocade to bite, this time, into the muscles over his ribs. Don’t worry Eleanor. He concealed his automatic flinch, but became suddenly aware of the silence in the room. He parried again, desperately, retreating from the flashing blade, and Wyatts was smiling.

It was not a pleasant smile. He knew his lunge had found flesh.

“Bob!” Tallis yelled. “Your sword’s lost its button! Break it up, fellas—”

Wyatts lunged again, and Eleanor screamed as the blade sank into Vastarnyi’s thigh.

Nina Sloane drew in her breath, remembering abruptly the conversation that had frozen him, and took the same leap of intuition. “Tess …” she moaned. “Oh, God—Bob killed her—”

Frank, one arm firmly around Eleanor, took hold of her hand. “Easy,” he said evenly, through the hiss of horror and astonishment. “Jon’s gone for Rhinefeld. Kent, Vin—go stand by the doors. Everyone stay calm and quiet—”

Wyatts laughed, parried, and with contemptuous skill slid the epee into Vastarnyi’s left arm.

Vas was in grave trouble now, and knew it. None of the injuries were serious or particularly disabling, but he was hurting, and losing blood. Wyatts was playing games with him, cat-and-mouse. The knowledge pumped more adrenalin into his veins. This was the man who had poisoned Dexter with cyanide, who had nearly broken Eleanor’s neck with his rope trick. A glance had shown him her pale face, Frank’s arm around her.

Hold on, Frank, or she’ll be out here trying to claw Wyatts’ eyes out, and I’ve got problems enough. For Christ’s sake, Jonno, move it, willya? I don’t know how much longer I can stall this bastard.

Sweat was stinging in his eyes, his arm was aching, tiring, and he was in danger of slipping in his own blood. Any minute now, Scaramouche was going to tire of the game and run him clean through the guts, and Eleanor wasn’t going to like that. He had one last trick up his sleeve….

Wyatts advanced again, then, to his utter amazement, saw his adversary shift grip on the hilt of the sword, hurling it at him like a javelin. He dodged it easily, and, teeth showing in a victorious grin, he threw himself into a fleche attack for the coup.

Vastarnyi reacted on pure instinct. As the blade arrowed in, Wyatts at full extension, he caught it with his left hand, pivoted on his left foot, his right lashing out and up to catch Wyatts full on the jaw, dropping him like a broken doll.

He found himself standing there, shaking with reaction, the pain of the puncture-wounds growing with every second, with every indrawn breath. He looked down at his felled opponent, the babble of amazement and enquiry making no sense in his dazed head. One thing only was clear.

“I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular, as Eleanor rushed to him and clung around his neck. “I think I may have broken his jaw.” He swayed slightly, blood dribbling steadily from the fingers of his left hand. Eleanor was crying, he realized guiltily. Oh, God, Jonno was going to be mad at him. Jonno would take him apart—

“I’m going to trepan you! To see if there’s any brain inside that thick skull—or is it all goulash!” Dexter had both hands full of velvet journade, unwittingly holding Vastarnyi upright. Without that support, he would have been a legless heap on the floor, his knees having given out on him. “With a broken jaw, how is he going to talk?”

“Jonno, I said I’m sorry…” he objected vaguely, wondering where Eleanor had got to. Maybe she’d stop Jonno from dismembering him.

“You mindless, self-opinionated, over-confident, bone-headed moron! Who the hell do you think you are?”

“D’Artagnan?” Vastarnyi hazarded, as he paused for breath. Dexter’s furious blond features were losing focus. “Jonno? I don’t feel so good….”

“Oh my God,” Dexter said, abruptly aware of his partner’s increasingly hazy responses. “Vas—”

“I’ll get it right next time,” he promised earnestly, but fading.

“You are not going to pass out,” Dexter ordered grimly.

“Isten ments….” Vastarnyi agreed, glassy-eyed. “Whatever you say, citrom.”

“I mean it—if you cut out on me, Mom will have hysterics and I will kill you. Got it?”

“Sure, Jonno….”

“Okay? Burt’s here, wants to talk to you. Then we’ll get you to a doctor. Can you hold out?”

“Yeah. I guess so. But I think I have to sit down.”

***

The Vastarnyi was once again the center of attention, this time in the spacious lounge of the Reiland home, stretched out on the couch, supported by pillows, with Marj and Eleanor hovering solicitously. Beside him on a tray was his lunch, the meat neatly cut into fork-size pieces, double portions of his favorite vegetables, and a large bowlful of Marj’s patented peaches-in-brandy dessert.

Rhinefeld lounged in one armchair, Dexter sat in another, and Vastarnyi’s food was being neglected because the eyes of both young men were fixed on the Sheriff’s heavy features.

“Uh, Burt?” Dexter broke first. “What did you get out of him? Okay, so his jaw was busted, but his writing arm wasn’t.”

“Ah-huh,” Rhinefeld drawled. “Tell me somethin’, son. What do they teach you kids in the Academy these days? Seems like I can remember being told that the husband is always first on the list. The way I got it from you two, he wasn’t even mentioned down at the bottom.”

Slow flushes rose in their faces, and he grinned fondly. “Sure, I gotta admit I didn’t cotton on to him right away—he’s a plausible devil—but you two didn’t clue in until it was kinda shoved up your noses. And there was no need for your Errol Flynn act, either, kid—” this to the Vastarnyi, “—we were all set up an’ waiting to collar him when the party was over.”

“Okay,” said Dexter between his teeth. “We’re young, green, and wet behind the ears. Did he kill Burnett as well as Tess? And how?”

“Yeah,” he relented. “Seems Harry had seen him with the girlfriend, made a few snide remarks about it after Tess had died. Wyatts figured he was suspicious, and might pass it on, so he rigged the accident. You had that spot on, Dave. He’d killed Tess very nearly the way his account of the evening read out—only when she got cramp in that pool, he held her under for a time before he pulled her out. The rest I guess you can work out for yourselves.”

“Tess found out about the girlfriend?” Dexter asked.

“Yeah. Told him that was it. Tess wasn’t one for making terms—she always cut her losses. Told him she was cutting his allowance and starting divorce proceedings. That was on the afternoon of the night she died.”

“Poor Tess …” Eleanor whispered. “And Harry—”

“Yeah, well.” Rhinefeld got up to go. “Soon’s Wyatts is fit he’ll be up for the hearing. You two kids’ll be wanted for that—I’ll be in touch. Eleanor—Marj—I’ll be seein’ you. S’long kids. Keep your noses clean.” They heard his deep tones talking with Frank at the front door, then it closed behind him and Frank came back into the lounge.

“Your lunch is getting cold. Dave,” he said, smiling. “And don’t tell me you’ve lost your appetite, or I’ll have to call the doc back.”

“No need! I just got distracted!” And he started in on the food.

Dexter glared at him. Eleanor was scooping more lima beans on to his plate, Marj was ladling her piquant sauce over the sweetcorn, and Vastarnyi lay there, languishing like some Eastern potentate accepting their ministrations as his due.

“D’you know what you are?” Dexter said suddenly. “You are a greedy, gross cuckoo-chick, being fed by a couple of finches—having worms stuffed down your ever-open maw. You are—grotesque, Vastarnyi. D’you know that?”

The Oriental potentate grinned at him. “Quit bullyin’ me,” he protested, “I may have a relapse. Hey, Momma Dex—we got a few days yet before we go back to L.A. Got any more crime you want crushed?”

“Oh my God,” said Dexter, prayerfully.

“Be nice to me, citrom,” Vastarnyi cooed, eyes glinting. “Remember that call I haven’t made yet? To Dimitri? About your ears?”

“Oh my God,” Dexter repeated, on an entirely different note, and fled.