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his
ad in the paper.”
    “ Did you ever see anyone coming
or going to his house?”
    “ No, sir. I can’t see what
goes on at Marty’s house from the carriage house.”
    “ Were you ever concerned for
your safety?”
    Was I? The day I rented the
place, it occurred to me I had signed a lease to live next to an
ax-wielding landlord who lived in a remote house, five winding miles
from the nearest town. “No sir, I can’t say that I was. Nothing
untoward has ever happened in the time I have lived there.” I felt
fidgety, for some reason, and drummed my fingernails on the table.
    Shaw stared at them and seemed to
lose his train of thought. “You’re a photographer, I understand.”
    “ Yes. I make my living selling
the photographs I take.” I shifted in my chair.
    “ Doesn’t that involve
carrying heavy equipment?”
    “ Sometimes.”
    Shaw rose from the chair and
paced back and forth in the tight space. The dust from the chair
clung to his black sheriff-uniform slacks, outlining his skeletal
buttocks. I forced myself not to giggle hysterically. “You must be
. . . shall we say . . . a strong lady, to haul all that equipment on
a regular basis.”
    I glanced up at him to gauge his
intention with such a question. His gaze raked across my body. “I’m
strong enough, I guess.”
    “ Do you do anything special and
deliberate . . . to keep fit?”
    “ I lift weights.”
    He scribbled a notation on his
clipboard and then, without warning, leaned over the table to stare
into my eyes. “How well did you know the deceased?”
    Taken aback by his closeness and
abrupt switch in subjects, I shrunk back in my chair. “Eric? I . .
. I knew him only on a professional basis.”
    “ Is that so. Hmm.” He was
silent for several seconds and then slowly lowered himself onto the
chair opposite me again, crossing one leg over the other with equally
slow deliberation. “Apparently, you knew him well enough to engage
in a rather strident argument at the Rendezvous.”
    I bit back
a defensive retort. It finally dawned on me that Sheriff Shaw was
treating me like a suspect. Should I refuse to answer his questions?
Or would that look like I had something to do with the crime? I
felt like a character in a gangster movie. Make that a gangster
cartoon . . . Simpsons-style. I was in a windowless basement bomb
shelter being grilled by a brusque-speaking sheriff’s deputy.
Ironically, the scene even included the ubiquitous light bulb
dangling from the ceiling.
    “ Did you or did you not
threaten Mr. Hartfield with bodily harm, Miss Cassidy?” The
deputy’s jaw muscles worked overtime in his hairless baby face.
    “ I’m sorry. I . . . I’m not
sure what you’re talking about.” I squirmed on my chair.
    “ Of course you do. Several
witnesses heard you say you would harm Mr. Hartfield, if you ever saw
him again.”
    I
was momentarily speechless, as my shouting match with Eric returned
in vivid memory. It was merely the kind of stuff angry people say in
a moment of passion. It wasn’t real, but evidently when a murder
has been committed only minutes later, chitchat takes on a life of
its own.
    Shaw was becoming impatient.
    “ Well . . . what would you say, if someone told you to ‘watch your back’?”
    “ I ask the questions, Miss Cassidy, and I’m waiting for your reply.”
    I lowered my head and stroked the
scar on my neck. Before I could utter another word,
    the
door opened. “Excuse me, sir, there’s someone here
to see Miss Cassidy.” A uniformed policeman gestured toward my
interrogator. “ Sheriff ,
if you please, you may wait out here.”
    Sheriff Shaw stalked out of the
room, and a slender man dressed in a dark blue-striped business suit
entered to take his place. He shut the door, took in the room at one
quick glance, smoothed down his thin mustache that matched a full
head of striking white hair, and finally smiled at me. Probably in
his late sixties, he didn’t appear frustrated by the surroundings.
He