I said, “Hi, Lucy. Nice outfit.” Lucy liked clothes the way Dead Ed liked diesel-powered toys. I knew Sam wouldn’t notice how she was dressed and I knew Lucy felt good when people noticed.

The outfit I was admiring was a one-piece bodysuit of some soft flannel-looking fabric. The places where it might be too tight for a police officer on duty were hidden under a long mustard-colored four-button blazer.

“You really think it works? Sunny and I just went into Dillon to grab some dinner and we stopped at the Donna Karan outlet to look around. I wasn’t sure about this when I first saw it, but she convinced me the colors are good for me. So I picked it up. Can’t beat the price.”

“It works, Lucy. You look lovely. Don’t you think she looks great, Sam?”

Sam grunted.

She turned to face her partner but spoke to me. “He’s hopeless, Alan. Don’t bother. You guys made good time, Sam. Sunny and I just got back here a few minutes ago.”

“Alan mistook I-70 for the Bonneville Salt Flats. Listen, I appreciate the call about this, Luce,” Sam said. He hesitated, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You know I can’t have been here.”

“I know that, Sam. Don’t worry. Everybody’s cool about you being here.”

“Who is everybody?”

“A Summit County deputy named Larsen. He’s the one who called us; he’s on the ball. And the Robilios’ oldest daughter, Helen. Says everybody calls her Sunny.”

“And she doesn’t know I’m Merritt’s uncle?”

“She thinks you’re a specialist in this kind of thing. You know, like a consultant.”

“And exactly what is ‘this kind of thing,’ Luce?”

Lucy was already walking toward the back of the house. Without turning, she said, “Wing it, Sam. I’m not sure what we have yet.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“You’re Sam’s driver. Hang around the back of the room and act bored. It should be easy for you.”

Twenty-two

“Hello, I’m Sunny Hasan. This is Deputy Larsen, Craig Larsen. You must be the consultant from Boulder. Come in and have a seat. Would you like a drink? Some coffee? The snacks are nothing special, but,” she pointed at bowls of nuts and chips on the plank coffee table, “it’s all that was in the kitchen. Please, everybody help themselves.”

A fire was smoldering in a red granite-faced fireplace that was flanked by two leather sofas of an almost identical hue. A fresh piece of green oak had just been thrown on the grate, and the sap in the wood was escaping in gaseous little bursts that were snapping like a string of tiny firecrackers.

I said hello with a weak wave, and moved to a corner of the huge room, where I settled at a game table. I grabbed a magazine from a stand that was fashioned from the racks of a pair of good-sized bucks, the whole time trying to appear both superfluous and inconspicuous. The magazine I chose was the latest edition of MotorHome.

I was absolutely certain that it was the first time I’d had an opportunity to read MotorHome magazine.

Sam introduced himself to the deputy and to Sunny without revealing his affiliation to law enforcement. Maybe I knew him too well, but I thought he wore his status like a neon-lit COP sign attached to his forehead. Sunny Hasan might be fooled by Sam’s act, but I guessed that Deputy Larsen had been cajoled by Lucy to play along.

Sunny had a wedding ring on the appropriate finger of her left hand, the stone a size considerably smaller than a man of her father’s station might have offered to adorn the finger of his new bride. She wore an outfit that looked every bit as fashionable and new as Lucy’s. I guessed it was another Donna Karan outlet special. Wisely, I thought I would keep my compliments to myself this time.

Sunny was a surprising woman. Dead Ed, her father, had been a defiantly rotund guy with a thick neck and wiry hair in few of the desirable places and many of the undesirable ones. Sunny was a total contrast: small, blond, and cute. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and the curve of her hairline had an intriguing asymmetry. Her brand-new Donna Karan special was a short khaki skirt, a white v-neck T-shirt, and a black blazer. I was guessing that Sunny was in her late twenties.

Sam had removed a notepad from one of his pockets and was poised for work. In a soft, seductive voice I’d never heard him use before, he asked, “Now what exactly happened that caused you so much concern?”

Sunny smiled at Deputy Larsen and said, “Shall I begin or do you want to?”

I couldn’t figure out Larsen’s agenda. Was he hitting on Sunny or was he just bored enough with the alternatives in his life that this seemed like a reasonable way to spend an evening? He nodded politely to Sunny and said, “You go right ahead. Go on.”

She perched herself on the arm of one of the sofas before she started. “I’ve been in Denver with Mom since…everything happened. You know, the things with my father. George-he’s my husband-and I live in Grand Junction. After Dad’s funeral, George had to go right back home for work. I didn’t need to be back so quickly, and I decided to take a few days here at the ranch to, I don’t know, consider things, reflect. Grieve, whatever. So I said good-bye to Mom this morning, took George to the airport in Denver, and drove up here.

“I got to the ranch, I would guess, about two. Is that when I phoned you, Craig?”

“It was closer to three when you called us. But later on, when we talked, you said it took you awhile to realize what was wrong.”

“That’s true.” The fire was roaring and spitting and Sunny moved off the arm of the sofa to a seat farther from the heat. “None of you knew my father, did you?” We all shook our heads. “He was an, um, orderly man. He liked things his way. You did things the way Dad wanted or you did them behind his back and hoped he either didn’t notice or didn’t catch you. Those were your choices with my father. I’ve known all that my whole life. Okay?”

The psychologist in me was hearing Sunny rearranging the cards in her hand so she could find a palatable way to play the grief card for a father for whom she’d had a lot of negative feelings. Everyone nodded but Craig Larsen. I imagined he’d covered this territory already. Or maybe he was as taciturn as he looked.

“One of Dad’s things was that no one ever came to the ranch without him. That was a rule. This was Dad’s personal retreat. Even Fred and I-Frederick’s my little brother-needed an invitation to come here. Mom has still never been here without my father. That’s one of his things. Got it?”

Sam said, “Sure, gotcha.”

“The second thing is that every time I’ve ever been here to visit, the place has been immaculate, clean, neat. That’s another one of Dad’s peculiarities. Order. Cleanliness. At home, in Boulder, Mom gets housekeeping help now. She didn’t used to, even in that big house. But not up here. Dad expected her to keep this place clean all by herself. He once told me that she doesn’t fish, she doesn’t ski, she doesn’t hunt, she doesn’t ride horses, what else does she have to do? That’s my dad.”

She sighed. Her efforts were transparent as she struggled to balance her sorrow and anger with some more enduring feelings about her father, feelings that caused discomfort but not pain, like ill-fitting shoes. “When I arrived here this afternoon, the place was not…tidy. There were crumbs on the kitchen counter, and some spilled liquid that had dried on the floor. There were dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And the trash hadn’t been taken out. I checked his bedroom, upstairs. The bed was made, but it wasn’t made well. Not like my mom makes it. Like Dad insisted Mom make it.

“It all seemed…suspicious to me. Like I said, you would have to know him.” Again, she sighed. “I phoned my mother and told her I’d arrived safely and asked her when she and Dad had last been here. She said they hadn’t been here for weeks. ‘Your father has been traveling,’ is what she said. Then, in as much of a joking voice as I could-I didn’t want to alarm her, she’s been through an awful lot-I asked her if he still made her leave the place looking like a show home when they left. She said he did.”