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about kids drinking on the Lambert’s Cove beach. That’s top priority for me right now. Want to come with me?”
    Victoria, too, stood. “I don’t think so.”
    “If you’re going to freelance this murder, I’d advise against it, Victoria.”
    “Thank you for the advice.”
    “I’ll give you a ride home, if you’d like.”
    “I’d prefer to walk.”
    “Come off it, Victoria. You know policing. The state cops are in charge. We stay out of their way. I could use your company, checking out the drinking complaint.”
    “All right,” said Victoria, but she yielded grudgingly.
    *   *   *
    On his way home—Orion realized he was already thinking of his temporary dwelling place at Victoria Trumbull’s as home—he stopped at the pie place on State Road and bought a rhubarb-strawberry pie. He set the cardboard box on a newspaper on the front seat, the pie still hot from the oven. Ruby-red juice oozed out between the interlaced strips of golden brown crust.
    Victoria was in the cookroom. She looked up from her typewriter when Orion entered. Orion opened the box and she peered in. “My favorite.” She pushed her typewriter aside and started to get up.
    “You sit still, Victoria,” said Orion, feeling very much at home. “I’ll serve us.”
    “How’s your back?”
    “Much better, as long as I don’t think about it.”
    Two or three bites into the warm pie with appropriate comments about flavor and flaky crust, Victoria told him about Casey’s insistence that she stay off the case. “She had no information on what the state police are doing. Have you spoken to Sergeant Smalley?”
    Orion nodded. “He understood my situation and drove me to the funeral parlor to ID the body.” He paused. “Why call them parlors? As though it’s a place to entertain.”
    “Denial,” said Victoria. “What happened?”
    “I attested that I recognized the deceased as Angelo Vulpone of Vulpone Construction, Brooklyn, New York, and Smalley drove me back to the state police barracks.”
    “Did he tell you anything about the investigation?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Identifying the body must have been unpleasant.”
    “I’d already seen the body at the ball field and knew who he was. They’d cleaned him up a bit.” Orion leaned back in his chair. “It’s been a full day. Yesterday afternoon, I called my partner, Casper, and we talked about needing another investor now that Vulpone’s dead. The problem is, we don’t have much time.”
    “What about Dorothy Roche?”
    Orion smiled. “The woman you think is egotistical, self-satisfied, and a social climber?”
    Victoria frowned. “Those weren’t my words.”
    “She’s agreed to purchase the Ditch Witch directional drill in return for a share in the company.”
    “I assume you asked a lawyer other than that fraud on Circuit Avenue to look over the agreement,” said Victoria.
    “You mean Parnell Alsop?”
    Victoria looked directly at Orion. “Surely you didn’t trust him to draft anything?” At Orion’s expression, she added, “Why didn’t you ask me about him first?”
    “I hadn’t met you at the time. Don’t look so stricken, Victoria. I work with legal documents and contracts all the time. The contract he drafted was boilerplate.”
    Victoria looked unconvinced.
    “More pie?” asked Orion.
    *   *   *
    Later that evening, Orion returned from supper and found Victoria in the garden as the light faded. She was kneeling on a device that had handles to lift herself up. Orion noticed that the ends of the handles had red glass reflectors, as though Victoria might want to take the kneeler out on the highway some dark evening.
    “I got a call from Dorothy Roche,” he said. “The drill is being shipped over day after tomorrow on Ralph Packer’s barge. Would you like to—”
    Victoria didn’t let him finish. “Of course I would.” She struggled to her feet. “What time?”
    *   *   *
    On Wednesday morning, Victoria dressed in clean