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“She’s a Wood Cree, and they are noted for their ferocity.”
    â€œAh,” said Hanna.
    â€œI was also thinking of his four children,” I added.
    â€œAh, ha,” she said.
    â€œTo say nothing of his fine and faithful Bassett Hound, Wordsworth.”
    Hanna turned to Joe. “You call your Bassett Hound Wordsworth?”
    â€œMy family objected to Longfellow,” he explained.
    So off they went, chatting and smiling and looking pleased as punch with each other, for a golf lesson, while I mooched back to the cottage, where there was another unpleasant sight waiting for me.

Chapter 9
    To wit, Thomas Heathcliffe Macklin, my managing editor. He was sitting amidst the debris in my living room, leafing through Billy Haldane’s magazines, which I had left out on top of the pile on the coffee table to remind me to take them around to him. Tommy looked up, briefly, then went on leafing. He was breathing rather strangely.
    â€œAh, Tommy,” I said. “Catching up on your reading?”
    â€œThis stuff is disgusting.”
    â€œThen you won’t mind putting it down while we chat. Unless you just came along to admire my housekeeping?”
    â€œIn a minute, in a minute.”
    I wandered back to the bedroom, doffed my clothes, went in and had the cooling shower Tommy needed, and came back out, refreshed, about ten minutes later. Tommy was still busy leafing.
    â€œReally disgusting,” he said, but he didn’t look up. “I’m surprised at you, Carlton.”
    â€œWe all have our weaknesses, Tommy. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about that you couldn’t raise over at the office?”
    He looked startled. “Sometimes you show an almost human intelligence, Carlton,” he said. “It’s about this golf-course thing. I read the story you filed this afternoon.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell . . .” He paused and looked down at the magazine again. “Do you suppose they’re real?”
    â€œSilicone implants,” I assured him. “You’re working yourself into a sweat over recent advances in the plastics industry. What about this golf-course thing?”
    Reluctantly, slowly, he closed the magazine and gave me his undivided attention. “I want you to get onto this development angle, Carlton, and keep on it. I want you especially to explore the business of what the old bustard’s—Flannery’s—will said about selling the golf course and anything that has to do with that.”
    â€œWhat about the murder?”
    He snorted. “We don’t do murders, Carlton. You know that.”
    â€œBut we do do developments. Fine,” I said. “First thing tomorrow I’ll go over to the Land Titles Office and check out the deed. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”
    â€œYou do that,” said Tommy. “Make sure you find out everything you can about that deed.”
    â€œHow do you see us handling this, Tommy?” I asked. “The legal-tangle-over-a-will angle, or the village of Bosky Dell pits itself against a big developer? Should we be looking for a series, or will we run one big feature?”
    â€œWe won’t run it at all.”
    â€œWe won’t run it at . . . Then why do you want me to work on it?”
    â€œConsider this a private project, Carlton. It’s not so much for the paper as for me. Your boss,” he added, in case I had forgotten. “And Mrs. Post.”
    â€œMrs. Post? What has the publisher got to do with this?”
    â€œThat’s not your concern. You just do your job.”
    â€œAw, come off that crap, Tommy. You’re onto something, and if you won’t tell me what it is, I can’t do my job.”
    He glowered at me. Tommy was happier in the good old days when the peons knew their place, but he really didn’t have much choice. His investigating staff consisted of myself and Billy Haldane,