leaving the happily married Jackson and beautiful Trixie standing on the sidewalk.
There was something up with that guy, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Again, he didn’t strike me as a murderer. But what does a murderer look like? I decided that Max and I would have a lot to talk about on our drive to the play.
I managed to get home without running into any of the other undesirable people in my life. I walked through the back door, closed it, locked it, and rested my head against the cool granite counter. I was starting to think that perhaps I should join an online grocery service and teach my courses strictly on the Web. Leaving the house was presenting a whole new set of challenges.
I filled Max in on Terri’s story on our way to Boscobel. I finished with my account of running into Jackson on the street.
“The dog is the only one who doesn’t turn my stomach right now,” I said.
Max responded with just the right amount of indignation and disgust the story deserved. “She needs to stay away from you,” she said, making a right onto Route 9D in Garrison. We were about ten minutes from Boscobel and it had taken me nearly the entire ride to tell her my tale of woe. “But let’s think about this. I like Jackson as a suspect.”
It certainly made sense.
“Do you think he has the cojones to have killed Ray?” she asked, chewing the inside of her mouth.
“They’re in counseling, Max. He seems like the ‘let’s talk about this’ kind of guy, not the ‘I’ll cut you to bits with a chain saw’ kind of guy.” I looked out the window and studied the scenery for a few minutes. “Maybe she did it,” I said.
“Now that’s an interesting theory,” Max said. “She’s potentially setting him up for the fall by using you. Framing the husband. Interesting. Let’s ponder that.” She pursed her lips. “You know, we really need to Google this whole hands and feet thing. See where it comes from. It’s clearly not an accident that Ray lost a few appendages. Maybe we’ve got a dormant serial killer on the loose again.”
The thought of that made me queasy. I was more comfortable with a crime of passion committed by my graphic-designer neighbor than with a roving serial killer.
I turned and looked out the window, hoping to see the yellow sign indicating that Boscobel was approaching. I remembered that I hadn’t told her about seeing Gianna; her jaw fell open at that revelation. “And then she said this really weird thing, like ‘Peter says hello,’ but in a very creepy way.”
“Ewww,” Max said. “He kind of sniffed around you in college, though. Remember?”
I grimaced at the thought of it. “No,” I said emphatically. “We took a class together, but that was it.”
She shook her head. “Whatever. I’ve been thinking about this ever since he reappeared. I definitely remember him being just the wee bit interested in you,” she said. “Remember how he was always offering you rides in his Trans Am?”
“I guess,” I said. “So you think Gianna has been carrying some kind of grudge for all these years, Max? Hardly,” I said. “Plus, she’s gorgeous and he’s a troll. That guy should thank his lucky stars every day.”
The yellow sign appeared and Max maneuvered into the parking lot, putting the conversation to an end. She was directed to a spot close to the great lawn of Boscobel by a green-shirted employee of the estate. Max had sold her Jaguar and bought herself a very un-Max-like car: a silver Volkswagen Beetle. It was quirky and sporty, and unlike anything she had ever owned. She explained it away by saying the Jag was too “conspicuous.” I actually thought that was why she liked it. Whatever her excuse, I hadn’t seen her drive anything so small since the late eighties when we were both starting out in our careers and really couldn’t afford anything bigger or better than a tuna can with wheels.
We got out of the car and opened her trunk to remove the picnic basket that I had packed. In it was all of the food I had gotten from Tony and a delicious German Riesling that I had found in the wine shop in my neighborhood. I had also thrown in some grapes and a couple of apples that I had bought earlier in the week at the A&P. Max had an old comforter in the trunk and