silver head. His face, ruddier from the cold, was tilted up at the fulllength portrait of Briggs Monmouth Cadmean that was hanging lavishly framed above the double doors to the courtroom, with a plaque below it saying he’d given Hillston the entire building. Our hollow footsteps on the marble startled Dollard. He turned, swinging the umbrella like a racquet and reminding me of the last time we’d played squash, when he’d slammed into the wall hard enough to slit open his cheek.
As soon as he saw us, he said, “Has he confessed? Pope?”
I shook my head and introduced Cuddy, who immediately said that in his opinion Preston Pope wasn’t responsible for the crime.
Rowell looked at me the whole time Cuddy was talking, but he turned to Cuddy when he stopped and said, “Then I hope you’ll find out who is.”
“I’m going to try, sir,” Cuddy answered. “I’ll be down in the lab, Justin.”
Dollard gave a small nod as Cuddy walked away. “Is he in on the case?”
I said, “Now.”
From his days as solicitor, Dollard knew this building and our procedures well; he’d followed our investigation the way he played squash, and Fulcher was terrified of his daily phone calls. Mother said Rowell’s involvement was his way of coping with what had happened to Cloris, that he would never forgive himself for losing her because he hadn’t been there to protect her, because he had never been able to convince her not to leave the house unlocked, not to trust strangers, not to realize that the world was dangerous. He insisted that only a stranger could have killed his wife, because no one who knew her could possibly want to hurt her. “Who in
God’s name
would kill Cloris? She had more friends than anyone I ever knew!”
About Cloris, Dollard was right: I had interviewed many of those friends, and by their testimony, Cloris Dollard had been the most amicable woman in Hillston. The friends were all certain, like her husband, that she had suffered by hideous chance at the hands of a transient madness. Not only had
they
not killed her, they couldn’t think of a single soul who might have, “unless he’d gone crazy.” And none of them knew anyone who might have gone even temporarily insane.
Everyone had liked Cloris. She’d liked everyone. I’d talked to a dozen members of First Presbyterian Church who’d spoken with her after services that Sunday morning, when she’d been “maybe a little quiet, but her same sunny self underneath.” I’d talked to her daughters, whom she’d called that afternoon in Phoenix and Baltimore; they said their conversations had been largely about grandchildren, and unremarkable. I’d talked to Mr. and Mrs. Dyer Fanshaw of the Fanshaw Paper Company, on whom she’d paid an ordinary afternoon call at their estate in North Hillston, two wooded meadows away from the Dollards’ own brick colonial. I’d seen her myself in the audience at the Hillston Playhouse during the second intermission of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, for she’d been chatting in the aisle with Susan Whetstone. Susan had said she couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, but it certainly wasn’t that Cloris expected to be murdered, although she had mentioned that her stomach was upset. I had in fact interviewed most of Hillston’s inner circle, and it had very politely informed me that no one in it was a burglar and a killer.
Although I hadn’t let Captain Fulcher know it, I had even checked out that Rowell Dollard had actually gone, as he’d said, to the suite he kept over in Raleigh for nights when he worked late during sessions of the state legislature. If Cloris had died no earlier than twelve, Rowell could conceivably have rushed back in the hour and a half it took to travel the unbanked, unlighted, two-lane road between Hillston and the state capital. He could have smothered Cloris, and then sped back to Raleigh.
But, so far, I could think of no motive. If Rowell Dollard secretly kept a mistress,
As soon as he saw us, he said, “Has he confessed? Pope?”
I shook my head and introduced Cuddy, who immediately said that in his opinion Preston Pope wasn’t responsible for the crime.
Rowell looked at me the whole time Cuddy was talking, but he turned to Cuddy when he stopped and said, “Then I hope you’ll find out who is.”
“I’m going to try, sir,” Cuddy answered. “I’ll be down in the lab, Justin.”
Dollard gave a small nod as Cuddy walked away. “Is he in on the case?”
I said, “Now.”
From his days as solicitor, Dollard knew this building and our procedures well; he’d followed our investigation the way he played squash, and Fulcher was terrified of his daily phone calls. Mother said Rowell’s involvement was his way of coping with what had happened to Cloris, that he would never forgive himself for losing her because he hadn’t been there to protect her, because he had never been able to convince her not to leave the house unlocked, not to trust strangers, not to realize that the world was dangerous. He insisted that only a stranger could have killed his wife, because no one who knew her could possibly want to hurt her. “Who in
God’s name
would kill Cloris? She had more friends than anyone I ever knew!”
About Cloris, Dollard was right: I had interviewed many of those friends, and by their testimony, Cloris Dollard had been the most amicable woman in Hillston. The friends were all certain, like her husband, that she had suffered by hideous chance at the hands of a transient madness. Not only had
they
not killed her, they couldn’t think of a single soul who might have, “unless he’d gone crazy.” And none of them knew anyone who might have gone even temporarily insane.
Everyone had liked Cloris. She’d liked everyone. I’d talked to a dozen members of First Presbyterian Church who’d spoken with her after services that Sunday morning, when she’d been “maybe a little quiet, but her same sunny self underneath.” I’d talked to her daughters, whom she’d called that afternoon in Phoenix and Baltimore; they said their conversations had been largely about grandchildren, and unremarkable. I’d talked to Mr. and Mrs. Dyer Fanshaw of the Fanshaw Paper Company, on whom she’d paid an ordinary afternoon call at their estate in North Hillston, two wooded meadows away from the Dollards’ own brick colonial. I’d seen her myself in the audience at the Hillston Playhouse during the second intermission of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, for she’d been chatting in the aisle with Susan Whetstone. Susan had said she couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, but it certainly wasn’t that Cloris expected to be murdered, although she had mentioned that her stomach was upset. I had in fact interviewed most of Hillston’s inner circle, and it had very politely informed me that no one in it was a burglar and a killer.
Although I hadn’t let Captain Fulcher know it, I had even checked out that Rowell Dollard had actually gone, as he’d said, to the suite he kept over in Raleigh for nights when he worked late during sessions of the state legislature. If Cloris had died no earlier than twelve, Rowell could conceivably have rushed back in the hour and a half it took to travel the unbanked, unlighted, two-lane road between Hillston and the state capital. He could have smothered Cloris, and then sped back to Raleigh.
But, so far, I could think of no motive. If Rowell Dollard secretly kept a mistress,
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