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Pearl’s Pharmacy, and the Blue Bonnet Restaurant. A voice-over said: “This is the bucolic community of Bensington, where the old rubs against the new.”
    The camera cut across the green to a bright backdrop of smart little shops selling gourmet foods, giftware, leisure equipment, and children’s designer clothes. The sunstruck plate glass of Roberta’s Ladies Shoppe looked like a slab of ice in which a svelte mannequin stood frozen in a summer frock. “It’s a growing town, population seven thousand, with the biggest influx during the Reagan years. It has become home to investment bankers, brokers, captains of commerce, and sports superstars. Natives living in old Victorians sit on their rose-trellised porches and watch the Audis and Jaguars go by.”
    Scenes shifted through pristine woodland butchered to accommodate mock mansions flourishing balconies and cupolas like statements of the owners’ worth. Ornamental ponds and swimming pools dimpled the grounds. “This is the exclusive section called Oakcrest Heights. Gerald Bowman, chief executive officer of the Bellmore Companies lives here. So does Crack Alexander of the Boston Red Sox.”
    The camera switched to the owner of the voice, Peter Mehegan, a veteran Boston journalist whose unassuming appearance made him look like a native of the town. An old-fashioned bell jangled overhead when he opened the door of Tuck’s General Store. Glancing back into the eye of the camera, he said, “This is not a town where killing is common.”
    Randolph Jackson, who had grown wealthy selling woodland to developers, watched the program to the end. Ensconced in an overstuffed chair, he thrilled to the emphatic sound of his voice when Peter Mehegan interviewed him. He heard himself say: “Either case, an accident or cold-blooded murder, we want the guilty person caught fast. If it was an accident, he should face the music like a man.”
    Doris Wetherfield watched the program while sewing new buttons on a blazer, and Meg O’Brien taped it on her VCR in the event that the chief missed it. Chief Morgan did indeed miss it. He had long since quit waiting for the Ray balls to come home and was having supper in the lounge of a restaurant in neighboring Andover. The television over the bar was tuned not to
Chronicle
but to the baseball game. While settling his bill, he glanced up and saw Crack Alexander strike out.
    Fred Fossey, who was wearing his VFW cap for no particular reason, tuned in when the images of Flo and Earl Lapham appeared on the screen. The Laphams were their younger selves, the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The editor of the local weekly had provided Peter Mehegan with the photograph. Fossey rose from his chair with eyes filled with feelings for Flo. Standing straight, he saluted Earl.
    Dr. Skinner, who had declared the Laphams dead, was watching a movie channel. He liked old dramas of foreign intrigue, in which people were obliged to show their papers.
    At the home of Lydia Lapham’s aunt, the television murmured to a vacant room. Lydia was restlessly asleep in an upstairs bedroom from a sedative she had given herself, and Miss Westerly was making tea in the kitchen. On the unseen screen Peter Mehegan was interviewing Lieutenant Bakinowski, whose hair had been wet-combed into a crest.
    “How is the investigation going, Lieutenant?”
    “I’m not without leads.”
    “Have you a suspect?”
    Bakinowski seemed to nod.
    “Is the suspect local?”
    “Yes.” Bakinowski’s eyes acquired a slight cast. “Beyond that, I can say no more.”
    • • •
    The headlights of the pickup plowed through the dark of the dirt drive. The high beams swarmed with moths, caught the eyes of an animal, and illuminated stumps, raspberry canes, and the skeletons of bicycles. Moonlight whittled holes in the pines. Papa Ray ball pulled up near the little house, killed the motor, and sat still. Peepers, nighttime birds, and frogs from the swamp made their noises.