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pad closer and checked the questions I wanted Maggie to explore:
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    Rosen-Voss case
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    Did anyone profit?
    Enemies?
    Quarrels?
    Ex-lovers?
    Competition?
    Why that particular night?
    What happened to Howard Rosen and Gail Voss on the day they died?
    Why Lovers’ Lane????
    Â 
    Candace Murdoch
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    Who else might have wanted Curt Murdoch dead?
    Previous connection between Angela Chavez and Candace Murdoch?
    Check Angel’s story.
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    Darryl Nugent
    Â 
    Get his appointments the day he disappeared.
    Love affair?
    Money missing?
    Family problems?
    Health problems?
    Talk to his secretary.
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    I finished my coffee and glanced at the clock. Forty past eight.
    Maggie was late.
    I reached for the phone, impatiently jabbed the numbers.
    â€œWinslow residence.”
    A male voice.
    Not Eric March was my first quick thought. And not another student. This was a man’s voice, deeper, harder, heavier.
    â€œMay I speak to Maggie Winslow, please.”
    â€œWho’s calling?”
    There was a brusqueness to the request that I didn’t like. But I wanted to talk to Maggie. “Henrietta Collins.”
    â€œHold on.”
    I heard the receiver being muffled.
    In a moment, a different man spoke.
    â€œLieutenant Urschel.” His voice was hoarse, raspy. “Derry Hills Police Department.”
    I didn’t need the identifying tag.
    Lieutenant Larry Urschel. His name was in my notes, the officer in charge of the investigation into the murders of Howard Rosen and Gail Voss.
    â€œLieutenant Urschel—” It was hard to talk, the words felt like pebbles in my throat. “Where’s Maggie?”
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    I drive fast. It’s always hard to keep my MG below the speed limit. This morning I didn’t try. I shot beneath a canopy of trees into the dimness of Lovers’ Lane and a half mile later slewed to a stop at the barricade. As I got out of the car, a young uniformed patrolman walked up.
    â€œMrs. Collins?”
    I nodded.
    This boy didn’t look old enough to be a movie usher, but his eyes already had the wary, careful look of a cop, checking out my hands, checking out my vehicle.
    I fastened my jacket. It was still cold, the winter-coming chill of a mid-November morning, even though it would soon warm into the sixties. Fog wreathed the trees, eddied in torn swaths over the road.
    â€œLieutenant Urschel is on his way, Mrs. Collins. He asked that you wait here for him.”
    â€œAll right.” I looked past the patrolman. I could hear movement and voices, but I couldn’t see around the bend where the barricade had been set up.
    I was familiar with the terrain. I’d attended an outdoor performance of Blithe Spirit at the University amphitheater last summer. It was heavily wooded here. Oaks, hickories, and feathery-branched pines fought for space. Oak limbs thick as my body locked above the road. The blacktop wound around several more hills before it reached the amphitheater on a rise overlooking Boone Lake. I doubted that Daniel Boone had ever set up camp by these waters, but it was a local legend highly prized by Derry Hills residents.
    â€œIt’s been a hell of a morning—”
    A dusty green Ford Bronco jolted to a stop beside my MG.
    The young patrolman broke off and stood tall and straight. He didn’t salute, but the effect was the same.
    The driver’s door slammed. The man who moved toward us had the broad shoulders and athletic certitude of an old football player. His stride was just this side of a swagger. His waist was still trim, though I pegged him to be in his mid-forties. His close-cropped brown hair was flecked with gray, and his bulldog-square face was heavily lined. He wore an inexpensive brown suit. The jacket was asize too small. Did he stubbornly refuse to acknowledge weight gain? Or was his salary stretched as tight as his suit coat?
    When we faced each other, combative eyes scanned me with the rapidity of a carnival barker