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charges were dropped,” Rocco replied. “He married the girl.”
    â€œIt figures. The guy couldn’t keep his pants zipped and he was roving again. The wife knows the symptoms. She finds out what fluff he’s bouncing on and blows him away. Tidy and neat. These cases make a great record for the closure statistics since wifey usually feels so bad she’ll confess to killing anyone. We let her attorney plead it to manslaughter, and we have another quick conviction to take to the major.” He peeked into the small dining room to glance at the body slumped over the computer. He waved at the ME. “Gunshot wound, Happy?” he asked.
    â€œWhat’d you expect?” the ME replied with a chortle. “Although some around here would speak about a whiff of the grape?”
    â€œGrape? What kind of talk is that?” The State Police captain looked uncertain. “You mean poison?”
    Doctor Happy shrugged. “Minié balls I will not discuss with this guy,” he muttered. “Call it death by unknown projectile,” he said in his most authoritative manner.
    Norbert whispered to his standby corporal and Rocco. “God, he’s a horse’s ass. Who did you say was breaking down the wife?”
    â€œI didn’t say,” Rocco answered, “but Lyon Wentworth is the one talking to her.”
    Captain Norbert flushed red, which gradually deepened into a purplish hue. “Wentworth! I can’t believe you would leave a primary suspect with that liberal airhead! What kind of idiot are you?”
    The corporal and Rocco exchanged swift looks. The trooper’s grim lips curled into the slightest trace of an anticipatory grin. The captain’s subordinate was obviously going to relish the physical confrontation he expected to begin momentarily. “I can’t do a damn thing about this guy,” Rocco said to the corporal. “Captain Norbert’s my brother-in-law.”
    â€œI would like to point out that Wentworth is a civilian,” Norbert said.
    â€œA very perceptive one,” Rocco added.
    The bedroom was small, but as comfortable as the other rooms in the cottage. There was one narrow window near a canopied bed that had curtains which could be drawn to the floor on drafty nights. A small bedside table and an ornately carved wardrobe completed the remainder of the room’s furnishings. White walls with colorful cafe curtains gave a cheerful touch that lightened the room.
    When Rocco radioed for backup and the medical examiner, Loyce Swan had left the dining area and the body of her husband and climbed the stairs to the small bedroom. Now she lay fully dressed on the bed and stared up at the canopy.
    Lyon stood at the foot of the bed. She gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. “What happened?” he asked.
    There was a delay before she answered. “I don’t know.” Her voice was flat and devoid of feeling.
    â€œDid you kill him?”
    â€œNo. I often wanted to, but I didn’t.”
    â€œTell me about it,” he said.
    â€œI was in the garden. That’s in the side yard just outside the kitchen door. I heard voices arguing and then the shots. When I ran inside he was slumped over the computer like you found him. The front door was closed and no one else was there.”
    â€œWere the voices you heard male or female?”
    â€œI really couldn’t say. I could tell that one was Markham’s, of course. The other person could have been anyone. I was outside, beyond a heavy door, and they were in an interior room. I really didn’t see or hear anything.”
    â€œWhy did you want to kill him?”
    She sat up with an abrupt movement and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her gaze looked through him as if she were actually focusing on a spot just over his head. It was a look of fright, loss, and the bewilderment that precedes the horror of overwhelming acceptance. As she spoke, a