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healthy for the mind?"
    "You know what a foot of beech board sells for?" the lieutenant asked. "Beeches are thousand-guilder notes."
    "A little grabby?" asked de Gier. "Our Douwe?"
    "To him it was all green," Lieutenant Sudema said sadly. "But he preferred the green of money." He grinned ferociously at his joke.
    "The tax detectives," Grijpstra said brightly, for he was now enjoying the walk; his slow-moving weight kept the others back. "Did they come up with some proof of evasion?"
    "Not yet," the lieutenant said. "Good for Douwe."
    "You've changed sides?" asked de Gier.
    "Tax"—the lieutenant spat the word—"is even worse than Douwe. I don't wish tax-hounds on the worst of us." He shivered. "The country's curse."
    "Right you are," said de Gier. "They clip my wages. Forty percent it was, last month." He shook a fist. "Must I be punished because I work? Must lazy officials in The Hague fatten on the spoils of my labor? Is it my fault that bums on welfare sneer at me through cafe windows while they swill beer at my expense?"
    "You must be Frisian," the lieutenant said with pleasure.
    "I'm Frisian," Grijpstra said. "He's a mere Dutchman. I'm in charge of this case. He's a mere tourist."
    "We detest taxes here," Lieutenant Sudema said, "and we always have. We prefer to be free of the greed of others. We pay for the foolishness of the other provinces. Are they ever grateful? Sales tax! Bah! Ever try to buy a tomato in a store? I exchange mine; barter is the only decent commerce. I swap my tomatoes for sole. My brother fishes from Midlum. We keep our profits here. Gjin sales tax, nit income tax." He blew a bubble of spittle.
    "I really like your language," said de Gier. "So you nit like us?"
    "Dutchmen have to be about, too," the lieutenant admitted, "but not at our cost."
    The sheep that had been running along with them on the other side of the moat had reached a fenced bridge and now pointed their long snouts through its boards. Grijpstra touched one of the woolly faces but pulled his hand back when a coarse tongue licked his fingers. "Filthy beast."
    "Do they belong to Douwe?" de Gier asked.
    "Douwe dealt in sheep," the lieutenant said. "He used to export cows, but all cows are registered now by computers. Sheep can't be identified, they look too much alike."
    "Look at that," Grijpstra said. The mansion was worth admiring. It stared back through large clear window-eyes, gazing over a majestic lawn protected by beeches reaching out their branches. A wide flight of stone stairs flowed easily up to freshly painted, oversized doors. Red bricks framed the large open windows, three on each side, with another row on the first floor, under a thick straw roof. Intricate latticework shielded a veranda that surrounded the house, adding color from blossoming vines. A bent-over old woman was raking the shiny gravel of a path around the lawn. She looked up.
    "Good mid dei, Mem" the lieutenant said.
    The woman tried to smile. "You bring bad news, don't you, Sjurd?" Her wooden clogs scratched across the gravel as she moved away from the three men; the rake fell from her hand.
    De Gier picked up the rake. Grijpstra introduced himself and the sergeant. Mem didn't see their outstretched hands. She pushed silver hairs away from her forehead as her light brown eyes receded between tightening wrinkles. Her gnarled hands plucked at her coarse skirt. "Is Douwe deal"
    "Perhaps," Lieutenant Sudema said, but his head nodded.
    De Gier produced his handkerchief, but Mrs. Scherjoen didn't cry.
    "Colleagues from Amsterdam," the lieutenant said.
    She took them inside and offered them coffee poured from a jug that had been waiting on the stove. The kitchen was spotlessly clean under low, blackened beams. "Mind your head," Mem said, but it was too late. De Gier robbed his curls. "Did you hurt yourself?" Mem asked softly.
    "No ma'am. You have children?"
    She poured coffee. "No."
    She lifted the lid of a cookie jar. "How did it happen?"
    "A shot," Grijpstra