This last was repeated in a mincing la-de-da tone that I have never used in my life. I ignored that, and the anger. “I saw the bulletin in their trash when I was getting rid of the beer cans. It looked like the one I found when I was going through your mom’s papers, but Gerald and Deeny came back out into the living room before I could do more than stuff it in my back pocket. I didn’t have time to check the date on it. Until just now, for all I knew, that bulletin could have been from a year ago.”

“But in the car…” He looked away from me. “Never mind, I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Travis,” I said.

“For what? Sorry that the Spannings are a pack of liars? Christ, there must be something in the DNA. A beguiler’s gene.”

Rachel laughed, surprising him into smiling back at her. “I do a good job of feeling sorry for myself, don’t I?” he said.

“Not especially,” she replied easily. “Most people I know, if they had the kind of weekend you’re having, they’d be throwing tantrums or getting drunk or locking themselves up in dark rooms for a good long cry.”

“All of those ideas sound great to me right now.”

“Nobody would blame you. How’s the hand?” she asked.

He shrugged. “If I’m distracted, it doesn’t bother me. When I was pretending I was someone else at the mobile home park, or looking at the photos…”

“You want a pain pill?”

“No,” he said. “A distraction.”

“Well, I’ve got the murder files, but are you really up to that?”

He hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

She looked over at me and said, “What about you? You’re looking a little worn down.”

“I’ll get a couple of aspirins. I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll get them for you,” she said, standing.

Travis turned to me and said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“It’s okay. And by the way, I think there are plenty of people to be proud of on the Spanning side of your family.”

For a moment I thought that little bit of understanding was going to be his undoing. I saw his eyes tear up, but he struggled to pull himself back under control. I got up to check my answering machine, just to give him a minute to himself. There was a message from Margot, saying she was back home and asking me to stop picking on Harold Richmond. Rachel, overhearing it, rolled her eyes.

“I guess I hadn’t really expected her to stay away from him,” I said.

There were two messages from McCain, requests to give him a call- polite as usual. Rachel just shook her head at those. I took the aspirin.

Travis was still thinking about Gerald. When we sat back down on the couch, he said, “Why? Why would he lie about something like knowing my father was dead?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe he just wanted a chance to leave the room with Deeny, to talk to her out of earshot. When we first came in, I caught her giving him surprised looks a couple of times. Something was going on there, I’m just not sure what.”

“Or he wanted me to believe he really missed my dad, wanted the two of us to share sympathy-have something that would bring us together.”

“I don’t know. He could have done that without the lie.” I thought for a moment while Rachel, who had ignored two empty chairs to sit down on the floor in front of us, began pulling copies out of envelopes. The envelopes made me think of the DeMont inheritance. “I hate to ask this, Travis, but have you made a will?”

“Yes. I provided for my mother,” he said, and again I saw him struggle for self-control. After a minute he said, “I guess I’ll have to make a new one. I’ll talk to Mr. Brennan. I-I wanted to talk to him anyway, about setting up an endowment in my father’s memory, something for local adult literacy programs.”

“That’s a good cause,” Rachel said absently. “I had an aunt-came here from the old country. She learned to read from one of those programs-adult school, at night.”

“Irene didn’t tell you?” Travis asked.

“I wanted to respect your confidences-” I began.

“Yes,” he interrupted, “and I appreciate it.”

“Tell me what?”

“My father was illiterate.”

“Really?” She took a moment to absorb this information, then said, “He did so well for himself-your father must have been quite a man.”

“Yes, he was. Charming, resourceful and bright. A bigamist, a liar and-well, let’s look at the file. You worked in homicide, Rachel. Maybe you can tell me if my father was also a murderer.”

24

“I’m not sure,” she said. “But I can definitely tell you that you shouldn’t hire Mr. Richmond to do any detective work for you.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Oh, he may not be bad at tracking people down, but he should have handed this homicide investigation over to people who knew what they were doing. He sure as hell didn’t.”

“What did he do wrong?”

“Well, the scene was obviously unnecessarily disturbed before the coroner got there-lots of people moving in and out of the room, touching things they shouldn’t have been handling-Richmond, too. Looks like some of that started before he got there, though, so he can’t take all the blame.

“The worst thing he did was to break rule one-he had an easy suspect and he worked backwards from there, instead of keeping an open mind while he looked at the evidence. Once he had your dad figured for this, Travis, he wasn’t going to budge from that position. He’s still defensive about it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Travis said, sighing.

“So tell us what you think,” I said.

“Well, let’s start with the basics. She was stabbed to death. Someone placed a pillow over her head-apparently not pressing down hard enough to suffocate her, but enough to keep her quiet-and went at her with a knife. No weapon left at the scene, but they could tell it was a knife both from the wounds and because a small piece of the tip of the knife broke off when it struck a bone.

“There were no prints. Arthur’s prints were in the house, all right, but not anywhere unexpected. Killer was wearing gloves.”

“Wait!” I said, as she was about to go on. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you certain the killer wore gloves?”

She picked up one of the stacks of paper and flipped through it. She read one page for a moment, then said, “Yes. There was a lot of blood, and they found bloodstained prints of gloved hands on some of the surfaces in the bedroom.

“Then his hand…” Travis said.

Rachel looked sharply at him. “What are you talking about?”

Travis told her what he had told me on the beach-but in slightly more detail, telling of seeing his father approach the house, and touch the glass-that Arthur’s hand was bloody, but not his clothing.

“Why didn’t you say something about this before?” she asked angrily.

“Can’t you guess why he didn’t?” I said.

She calmed down a little. “Which hand? Which hand had the blood on it?”

He closed his eyes. “His left hand.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded.

“A few drops of blood, lots of blood, what?”

“It-it coated his palm. When he put it on the glass, it made a hand print. A red hand print. That’s what I drove my own fist through.”

“How far did you live from the DeMont farm?”

He shrugged. “About fifteen minutes away.”

“Less if someone were in a hurry,” I said. “And at that time of night, there wouldn’t be much traffic.”

“Did your dad ever tell you how his hand ended up coated in blood?” she asked.

“He said he had gone into her room. The lights were out, but the room wasn’t completely dark. He could make out her shape on the bed. But she wouldn’t answer when he called to her, and there was a smell- he said it was an awful smell. He said he leaned his left hand on the mattress as he reached with his right to turn on the lamp near her bed.” He stood and demonstrated, using the couch as a stand-in for the mattress, placing his weight on his left hand as he reached out with his right. “It felt damp. When the light was on, he saw that his hand was in a pool of blood, Gwendolyn’s blood. He could tell that she was dead. He became frightened and turned out the light, then left. He panicked, he said, and the first person he thought of turning to was my mother, so he drove to our house, but then he realized that it wasn’t really his home anymore, and that he had no right to be there. He also felt sure that his own life was in danger, that he would be accused of murder.”