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suspected I’d shot some footage before I got religion, and spent a bunch of Mr. Long’s money on a rocket scientist hacker? What if the genius found Mrs. Long and her fella romping between the electrons?
    I couldn’t trash it. Recycling’s very big up here, and a discarded video cartridge would be just the thing to catch the sanitation officer’s eye. I was getting a little paranoid, but having decided not to participate in the Long divorce, I did not want to blow it by accident. If I had had a big fire burning in the hearth I could have burned it, I suppose, but it would have stunk to high heaven. So I hid it. Compared to a cell, a big old house has more stash holes than a maze.
    I poured another drink and listened to my messages. No buyers had called, no brokers trolling Multiple Listings, not even an impatient New York detective. The only message was from Town Hall. Newbury’s first selectman, a young woman named Vicky McLachlan, had phoned a reality reminder:
    â€œA real estate broker who loses his driver’s license for speeding is like a crow with one wing.”
    Vicky and I had been what were called in my Aunt Connie’s day “dear friends.”
    We were two of the few single people in town in our age range and who liked each other’s looks. Our mutual interest extended to my respect and admiration for her achievements and ambition and her slight awe of my multifaceted past. I think deep in her heart she regarded me as an interesting pet, the sort you’d keep in the barn. But her bio-clock was ticking and cast on me an unnatural glow, like the dark red blush from a bedside alarm that made me look better than I was.
    I kept telling her that bright young politicians with a shot at the state legislature, and maybe governor by age forty, ought not to be seen hanging out with convicted felons, jailbirds, and other such riffraff. My noble sacrifice for the sake of good government had apparently had its effect. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks.
    But Mrs. Long and her happy fella had left me a little unsettled. In fact, I felt lonely, which was not usually my way. So I limped out of the house and up Main Street and stood outside Town Hall awhile, thinking, Well, maybe no harm in saying hello. Persuaded, I slipped in the unlocked side door, crossed the dark lobby, stuck my head in the first selectman’s office, and rapped on the door frame.
    â€œGot your message. Good to hear your voice.”
    Vicky looked up from her heaped desk. She was a small and angular fine-featured woman whose enormous, curliqued thicket of chestnut hair made her seem bigger than she was. It caught the light in many hues of gold and brown and stood her handsomely in photographs; nor did she ever go unnoticed on the campaign trail. Pinned to her bulletin board under a sign that read “About Time” was a newspaper photo of the president’s wife lobbying three femininely dressed U.S. Representatives.
    â€œYou know darned well you can’t afford to pay your ticket.”
    â€œAny chance of working it off with some community service?”
    She said, “I’m too tired and hungry,” but she said it with a smile. If Vicky’s hair got her noticed, her smile won her votes. It was warm and quick and straight from the heart, a smile that seemed to promise each and every voter, I am hardworking and honest and the only difference between us is that you don’t have the time to run the government, so I’ll do it for you. A seductive smile.
    â€œHow about I cook you an omelet?”
    â€œI don’t want an omelet.”
    â€œWelsh rarebit and beer?”
    I knew my woman. She practically rolled over and kicked her feet in the air.
    â€œCome here. Let me look at you.”
    I did.
    â€œYou’re limping,” she said.
    â€œHurt my knee.”
    â€œYou look like hell. You look like you’ve been sleeping in the woods. There’s pine needles in