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it,’ Lyon said.
    â€˜Not at this point,’ Rocco replied. ‘Let me get the TV guys off the property.’ He moved quickly down the drive toward the television station’s van.
    Lyon walked along the edge of the house and glanced up at the gutters. He reversed direction and moved a dozen feet away from the corner of the house nearest the drive and stooped to pick up the severed ends of telephone lines. ‘I knew it had to be cut outside the house,’ he told her. They walked back to the corner of the building where the phone lines had entered the dwelling. He stood on the seat of a wrought-iron bench near the wall and found that he could reach up to the port where the line went into the building. ‘Easy enough, huh? Anyone could have cut it. All of us were either in the kitchen, study, or the far side on the rear patio by the parapet. It would have taken only seconds for someone to come around the house, hop on the bench and reach up to cut the lines.’
    â€˜It could have been done by someone not at the party,’ Bea said. ‘You wouldn’t have noticed anyone coming up the drive or across the lawn.’
    Lyon nodded. ‘True.’
    They were silent as they looked down the drive toward the entrance, where Rocco was arguing with the television crew. It was obvious that he had prevailed, as they were beginning to repack their equipment.
    â€˜Until last night our biggest problem was Camelot over there,’ Bea said as she looked toward a high-rise building under construction on the corner of the promontory. Three floors of steel superstructure had already topped the tallest pine trees. A large crane squatting next to the building lifted steel girders to waiting iron workers who nonchalantly walked the narrow high beams.
    They knew that the construction was a pricy, trendy condominium. Each unit would come equipped with a spectacular river view. The extra proposed amenities took up half a page in their brochure, and included bridle paths, tennis and paddle courts, a health club and indoor pool.
    As the nearest and largest property owners in the area, the town knew they opposed the project. They beat it back twice. The developers knew they’d fight it to death at future public hearings.
    The builder waited patiently for two years until the Wentworths took an extended trip to Europe and then rammed a variance through the Zoning Board.
    Rocco stood at the bottom of the patio steps with an end of the cut telephone lines. ‘Let’s recreate your story,’ he said. ‘A person, who you cannot identify, threatened you with a sword.’
    Lyon pointed to a stand of pine trees that began fifty yards from the side of the house. ‘It happened over there.’
    Bea Wentworth watched the two men walk across the lawn toward the tree line. Lyon had to look up to speak to the taller Rocco. A breeze unexpectedly swirled in off the river and ruffled Lyon’s hair. She automatically brushed the edge of a hand across her own forehead in an exact duplication of the gesture her husband performed two dozen yards away. Her tight smile reflected a nostalgic wistfulness. She knew him so intimately that even his small unconscious gestures and the other nuances that create a unique person were familiar.
    At the tree line, Lyon looked over his shoulder and saw his wife enter the house. It was apparent that she’d remained outside to watch them cross the field. He wondered what she’d been thinking.
    â€˜Are you with me, Lyon?’ Rocco said.
    Lyon refocused his thoughts. ‘Yes, sorry. Last night, I was returning to the house after helping someone remove a car from a ditch when this thing came out of nowhere. It was dark, but in the moonlight I could see light refractions from the sword blade. I fell.’
    â€˜Let’s back up from that point,’ Rocco said. ‘Start with the early evening and tell me exactly what happened. Include every detail you can