Sonny did not look sunny. In fact, he looked grumpy. Maybe he just got the bill. Cindy, on the other hand, was happy and friendly, and would probably talk to a goldfish in a bowl.

Kate and Cindy began to chat about The Point, the Adirondacks, and whatever. Grumpy and I stayed silent. The fire felt good.

Cindy and Grumpy were from Long Island, and he was, according to Cindy, “in the publishing business.” Cindy was in public relations and that’s how they met. Thank God she didn’t tell the story, but I was certain one of them must have been drunk.

Kate said she was an attorney, which was partly true, and she told them I was a certified social worker, working in the Muslim immigrant community, which was funny, but Grumpy made a little snorting sound of disapproval.

The subject somehow shifted to shopping, and Cindy informed Kate that there were good shops in the village of Lake Placid. My eyes glazed over, and I thought Grumpy’s eyes would do the same, but I noticed he was looking at Kate, whose robe had opened a little at the top. The man was clearly a pig.

On that subject, I couldn’t help noticing that Cindy was also very pretty, with long blond hair, hazel eyes, Nordic features, and really great… presence, and so forth. She looked about twenty years younger than her so-called fiancé, and I couldn’t imagine what she found attractive about him, except for maybe the bulge in his pants. I mean his wallet.

Grumpy broke his silence and said to me, “I have a good idea about immigration. Wherever you were born, stay there.” He stood, took a last look at Kate’s cleavage from a better angle, and said to her, not me, “Nice meeting you.”

Cindy, too, stood and said to us, “We’ll see you at dinner. The chef is doing woodcock tonight.”

Woodcock ? I got to my feet. “I hear that his woodcock is firm and moist.”

Cindy smiled tightly.

“John,” Kate said, then turned to our new friends. “Have a good day.”

Grumpy replied, “I’ve made other plans.”

And off they went.

Kate said to me, “A totally mismatched couple.”

“Us or them?”

Grumpy had left a New York Times on the couch, and I scanned the front page. One headline read: U.S./FRENCH SPLIT ON IRAQ DEEPENS. I said to Kate, “See? If these people ate real food like the Irish and the English, they’d have some balls. Who eats snails? Here’s another story-a fireworks display at Disneyland outside of Paris caused the nearby French Army garrison to drop their weapons and surrender to a busload of Swedish tourists.”

“John, it’s really too early for this.”

“Woodcock.” I read the main headline, which said: BUSH TIES BOMBING AT BALI NIGHTCLUB TO QAEDA NETWORK. I scanned the story and saw that “Some Islamic militants were pressing a theory that the United States had masterminded the Saturday attack as a means to manipulate the Indonesian government and to strengthen its argument for a war against Islam.”

The Islamic militants had said the same thing about the 9/11 attacks. It was an interesting theory, with just enough plausibility to make some people wonder. I mean, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but I could imagine that there were people in this country, in and out of the government, who wanted an excuse to widen the war against terrorism to include certain Islamic countries. Like Iraq. I thought of something that one of the spookier CIA guys at the ATTF once said: What we need is one more good attack.

I think I can do without that, thank you, but I got what he was saying.

Kate said to me, “I’m going to the room to shower. What are you doing?”

I looked at my cell phone and saw I had no service. “I need to call Schaeffer to set up an appointment to see the crime scene, so I’ll use the kitchen phone. See you in the room.”

“Be nice to Pierre.”

“Oui, oui.”

She left, and I went into the kitchen. The place was bustling, and no one seemed to notice or care that I was there, so I found the phone, which was on the wall, and dialed the state trooper headquarters. I got the desk sergeant, who put me on hold. The kitchen smelled of frying pork products, and my stomach grumbled.

I opened the Times to the obit page, but I didn’t see Harry Muller. It might be too soon for an obituary, or maybe it wouldn’t run in the Times. I scanned the Metro section to see if there was a story about Harry’s death, but I didn’t see anything. An upstate hunting accident wasn’t exactly news, but the murder of a Federal agent was.

Therefore, the FBI and local police would issue a joint statement saying the death was an apparent accident but was still under investigation. Any news organization that called for further information would be asked to hold the story so as not to upset the family and/or tip off a possible suspect. You could usually buy a few days with that.

A waitress walked by, and I said to her, “Do me a favor and check on the breakfast for Corey. Mohawk Room. I could really use a bacon sandwich on rye.”

“Now?”

“Please. With coffee.”

She hurried off, and Major Schaeffer came on the line. “Morning.”

I could barely hear him over the sounds of the kitchen noise, and I said loudly, “Good morning. What’s a good time to go out to the crime scene?”

“Be here at eight. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Thanks. Anything new?”

“I spoke to Dr. Gleason last night.”

“Nice lady.”

“She said you went a little beyond identifying the body and paying last respects.”

“I told you, she showed us the signs of physical abuse.”

“Yeah? Did you handle any of the personal effects?”

“Absolutely not.” All of them.

He asked, “Find anything, Detective?”

“No.” Just the writing in Harry’s pocket and the cell-phone calls.

“Remove anything?”

“No.” Just the map of the Custer Hill property.

“My troopers say that you and your wife never signed in or out.”

“Tell you what, Major, why don’t you and I go to the morgue after the crime scene?”

“Too late. The Feds snatched the body last night.”

“I told you. You gotta act fast.”

“Thank you.”

The waitress put a tray on the counter and said, “Your breakfast will be delivered at seven.”

“Thanks. Add some of those biscuits that just came out of the oven.”

Schaeffer asked, “How’s The Point?”

“Great. All the booze is free. How are we doing with the search warrant and surveillance?” I took a big bite of the bacon sandwich. Heaven.

“Forget the search warrant for now. But I did begin the surveillance last night.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah. At eight-oh-three P.M., two vehicles left the subject property. One was a Ford van registered to the Custer Hill Club. The other was a Ford Taurus registered to Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”

I washed down the bacon with coffee and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“They went to Adirondack Regional Airport. The commercial terminal is closed at that hour, and they left the Taurus in an Enterprise spot and put the keys in a drop slot, then both drivers-two males-got in the van and returned to the Custer Hill Club.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Looks suspiciously like they were returning a rental car. What do you think?”

Major Schaeffer had a wry sense of humor. I said, “Check the trunk for a body. What was the plate number on the Taurus?”

“I don’t have it in front of me.” Which was his polite way of saying, “What have you done for me lately?”

I said, “I saw a blue Enterprise Taurus at the Custer Hill lodge when I was there.” I gave him the plate number from memory and asked, “Is that it?”

“Sounds like it. I’ll call Enterprise and find out who rented that car.”

I thought I probably had that information from Kate’s friend Larry at Enterprise, but I said, “Good. Anything else from the surveillance?”

“No. What are we looking for?”