“I met him several times over the years.” Moulton had stopped eating but continued to watch Hawthorne closely.

“What did you think of him?”

“I can’t say I’d formed an opinion. He seemed friendly enough. Hail fellow well met. I was sorry when he lost his wife.”

“Were you surprised when he resigned?”

“I expect I was surprised that I hadn’t heard anything about it before it happened.”

“Do you know anyone very well at the school?”

“I can’t say I know anyone well. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Grayson, and I were in school together. And I’ve known Mrs. Hayes for many years. The local people at the school, I pretty much know all of them. And a number of the teachers I’ve seen around.”

“And you talked to them?”

“You mean about the vandalism? I expect I’ve talked to them all.” Chief Moulton sipped his Coke, then patted his lips with the back of his hand.

“One more thing. There was a girl, Gail Jensen, who died over the Thanksgiving break three years ago. Do you know the cause of her death? She probably died in Plymouth, but I’m not sure.”

Moulton pushed his sandwich away, got to his feet, and hitched up his belt. “I can find out.” He walked to the file cabinet, limping slightly, and pulled out the top drawer. Then he drew out a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together and began to read.

“Well?” asked Hawthorne.

Moulton went to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. He seemed to be pondering something. “She died of a hemorrhage.”

“Due to appendicitis?”

Moulton dug at one of his front teeth with a thumbnail, then he plucked something off the tip of his tongue. “She died due to a botched abortion,” he said.

—

It was Monday night and Scott McKinnon was playing detective. He liked it. There was nothing at Bishop’s Hill that escaped his notice, or almost nothing, since he still had to find out who’d trashed Evings’s office. For that matter, he still hadn’t worked out who had hung Mrs. Grayson’s cat. But he hadn’t given up. Persistence, that’s what he had. Indefatigability.

Like tonight, for instance, he had been outside by the garage smoking a cigarette when he heard shouting from the kitchen, then LeBrun slammed out of the back door, followed immediately by the cook, who was angry and shouting at his cousin, and now Scott was hurrying behind them, eager to hear what the fuss was about.

It was cold and no stars were visible, just a glow from the hidden moon. It was supposed to start snowing in the night and snow all the next day and maybe the day after, and Scott liked to think they’d be marooned and the kids who hoped to go home on Wednesday for Thanksgiving would get stuck and wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, because Scott wasn’t going anywhere either. His father was in L.A. and his mother was in Boston and both said they didn’t have time for Thanksgiving. “Maybe I’ll grab a turkey sandwich,” his father had told him over the phone, then he had laughed. It would snow so much there would be a great mountain of snow covering the first-floor windows and all the kids who had homes to go to for Thanksgiving and couldn’t go anywhere would feel like shit.

LeBrun hurried along the edge of the playing fields with Gaudette about ten feet behind him. Gaudette wore a white jacket that made him glow in the light of the distant security lights. LeBrun wore a dark sweater. Scott thought they must be freezing, because he was wearing a down jacket and he was still cold and his feet in their basketball shoes were chunks of ice as he jogged forward to catch up. But he didn’t get too close, only close enough to hear. So far the only word he’d made out was tequila, which didn’t seem like much, though he guessed it had to do with Jessica’s getting drunk in the headmaster’s house and dancing wildly with her clothes off, which was a scene that Scott would have liked to see.

“Stop!” called Gaudette. “I’m warning you! I’ll go to Hawthorne!”

Abruptly, LeBrun turned to face his cousin and Scott had to fling himself down so he wouldn’t be seen. Then he wriggled toward the trees in order to soak up some shadow.

“Fuck you,” said LeBrun.

Gaudette stopped a few feet from LeBrun. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you liked Hawthorne. Who paid you to wreck that old guy’s office? Was it Bennett? Jesus, you make a mess wherever you go.”

“Just stay out of it, do you hear? You got work, I got work. That’s just how it is.”

“How come your work always brings in the cops? And you’re fucking that girl, right? She’s a kid.”

“I’m not fucking anybody.”

“Who paid you to wreck that office?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gaudette took a pack of cigarettes from under his cook’s jacket. He popped one out and lit it. The glow from the lighter briefly illuminated his face, making it seem redder than usual.

“Give me one of those, will you?”

Gaudette stepped forward and handed his cousin the pack. Now LeBrun’s face was quickly visible and disappeared again. Scott thought it looked twisted, but that was just a result of the shadows. He wished he too had a cigarette but there was no way he was going to ask them.

Gaudette and LeBrun stood smoking and not saying anything. The tips of their cigarettes made red arcs as they moved them up to their mouths and away.

“You want to hear a joke?” said LeBrun.

“I’m sick to death of your jokes.”

“What does an elephant use for tampons?”

“I said I’m sick to death of your jokes. When you called me about this job, I thought I was doing you a favor. And you promised to stay out of trouble, right? What else have you been doing? You wrecked that office and you’re fucking that girl and getting her drunk . . .”

“I said I’m not fucking anybody.” LeBrun flicked away his cigarette and Scott watched where it went because there had to be a lot left and maybe he could find it after they had gone.

“Somebody must have paid you. If it wasn’t Bennett, then it was probably Campbell. Why else would you have done it unless someone paid you? You caused that old guy’s death just as much as if you’d shot him. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing you up here. You’re as wacko as ever.”

LeBrun took a step toward his cousin, then stopped. “I don’t like being talked to like that. You needed someone to help with the cooking and I done it. I been making good bread.”

“I want you out of here,” said Gaudette. “I’ll drive you to Plymouth and you can get a bus in the morning. If you need cash, I’ll lend it to you. You can pay me back when you get your check.”

“No way, man, I got stuff I got to do.”

“You don’t have a choice. If you don’t go tonight, I’ll talk to Hawthorne. Don’t you see that me knowing this stuff makes me an accomplice? I got a good job here and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Come on, man, I need two more weeks. We’re brothers.”

“Two more weeks to get in even worse trouble? Look what’s happened because you gave the girl tequila. Shit, you said you liked Hawthorne.”

“I was having some fun. It didn’t hurt anybody. A girl dancing, what’s the trouble with it?”

“She’s fifteen.” Gaudette flicked away his cigarette. “And Hawthorne could lose his job. Believe me, I don’t want Skander in charge again.”

“I did a lot worse when I was fifteen. I got dicked and no tears were shed. As far as I know, she’s still got her cherry. Leastways I didn’t take it, that much I know for sure.” LeBrun laughed.

“I’m tired of your troubles. Pack your bag and I’ll drive you down to Plymouth.” Gaudette began to turn away.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bro.”

Gaudette turned back again, furious. “Hurt me, you wacko little shit, you want me to bust up your face? You got one last chance—take it or you’ll go to jail.”

LeBrun laughed again. “Okay, okay. Don’t get so serious.” He began to walk back. “I’ll pack my stuff. I was getting pretty sick of this place anyway. Fucking cold just about tears you apart. You hear about the Canuck who died while getting a drink of water?”