The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [60]
“Gunther,” he answered.
“Joe, it’s Beverly Hillstrom.”
He smiled at the familiar formal tone combined with the use of his first name.
It had been several fast-moving days since his encounter with the now free-falling Floyd Freeman, and Joe and Hillstrom had spoken several times, as much exchanging information as working out a new middle ground in their relationship. There was no question of their ever repeating what had happened that one night. They both knew that without discussion. But at the same time, referring to each other as “Dr. Hillstrom” and “Agent Gunther,” as they had for decades, now seemed childish. Always the diplomat, however, he’d left it to her to set the new ground rules. He’d been flattered and touched by her choice to stick with first names.
Nevertheless, he knew he shouldn’t get carried away, and thus kept to business. “Hi,” he said, “you got something for me?”
“I think so,” she told him. “Since my hands have been untied, I ordered the extra tests on Michelle Fisher. In fact,” she added with a touch of vindictiveness, “I ordered a five hundred test panel on her, plus a few others for safety’s sake. Good thing, too, because what came up wouldn’t have appeared short of that.”
“And what is it?” Joe asked, allowing her some theatrical buildup.
“Volatiles in the bloodstream—through the roof,” she answered him simply. “I’ve faxed the lab results to your office, but from my experience, I’d look at that gas stove again.”
Joe didn’t respond, his brain fogged in a tangle of new calculations.
“You there?” she finally asked.
“She died of a propane overdose?” he finally asked.
“That would be consistent,” she answered carefully.
“Wow,” he said softly. “I guess that’s what they mean by hearing the other shoe drop.”
“It couldn’t have been accidental?” she asked. “It’s been known to happen.”
Although sitting alone in his car, Joe shook his head at the phone. “The stove was off, the furnace, too, and all the windows were open. Plus, she would’ve smelled it. She wasn’t sleeping.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” she mused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It’s like a suicide that isn’t,” he said.
“Which officially makes it a homicide,” she agreed.
“At long last,” he murmured, reflecting on the path he’d taken to reach it. “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard just to get to the starting block.”
She laughed gently in his ear. “Personally, I’m glad you did.”
After he’d left Freeman, all but sure of the man’s fate—certainly in terms of his hold over Hillstrom—Joe had visited her at her office to break the news. There, with the door closed, she’d given him what they both knew would be a final kiss—something to savor in the future.
“So am I,” he told her, and resumed driving toward Brattleboro.
Chapter 12
They weren’t in bed, weren’t naked, hadn’t even kissed since Nancy’s arrival. Which was a first as far as Ellis could remember. So far, their affair had been so torrid that sex had been the prelude to every meeting, as if nothing could proceed without it—like gulping air before plunging underwater.
Not this time, though, which was just as well. He doubted he could have performed, given his state of mind. And he wasn’t alone, ever since he’d told her what he’d witnessed.
“Jesus, Ellis,” she said, sitting on his sofa beside him with her legs tucked up beneath her. “What did you do with the body?”
“Buried it.”
Her eyes grew even wider. “Where? With what?”
“Right there, by the river. We got sticks and stuff—a piece of board I found in the mud—and dug a grave.”
“Are you crazy?” she asked. “That’s not going to work. A dog