Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

Denbow’s Code by Stephen Wasylyk

Zeigler beside him, Randy drove by without even glancing at Denbow, the blue Caddy leaving a little plume of dust as it went down the lane and disappeared into the trees.

No question of where he was taking his father.

It was about time.

When a man like Zeigler sits in his house for three months because his second wife has left him, closing out everything outside its walls including the business it had taken him years to build, it’s obvious that a fulltime caretaker and a once-a-week doctor aren’t enough.

Perhaps even where he was going wouldn’t be enough.

Denbow looked up at the now-empty house at the top of the hill, gleaming white in the morning sun against a Kodachrome sky dotted with immature puffs of clouds, a cool breeze rippling the grass and caressing his skin.

New listing! Beautiful hilltop home in superb, secluded ten-acre suburban setting w/bonus of rental home for income—

Denbow didn’t want to think about that, not because he’d have to move if that was the outcome, but because it would mean Zeigler was through.

He filled a scoop with birdseed and emptied it into the platform feeder on a post thirty feet in front of his study window, wings whirring behind him before he reached the house. Acres of woodland to feed from, but the birds preferred the fast food served up in his front yard.

The pigeons swooped down first. Why they were here, he had no idea. Probably had migrated to the suburbs along with people. The others followed, the ground feeders like the juncos and doves joining the pigeons, the perchers, sparrows mostly, jostling for position on the feeder, a few finches wedging their way in along with a male cardinal, all scattering when the pigeon with a fluorescent blue band around his neck leaped up to the platform. Too big to fit under the roof, he clung to the side, wings beating frantically, neck stretched to the limit, scooping up seeds before he lost his battle with gravity and glided to the ground. Head high and probably cursing, he stalked around the others before repeating the routine. No matter what was ordained, he didn’t intend to eat off the ground.

He reminded Denbow of Zeigler, who had failed several times before he’d put it all together. Like the pigeon, Zeigler didn’t intend to eat off the ground. He wanted to eat off the platform, alone, and he’d made it.

When he entered the house, Amanda was using the hallway mirror to brush on a touch of eye shadow. A cool, slim, long-legged woman with tightly curled dark hair and blue eyes, her pearl drop earrings added exactly the right touch of femininity to the severity of the dark suit. Style and class had never hurt when summing up before a jury.

She dropped the brush into the case, faced him and smiled.

“Pass inspection?”

“You’ll knock ’em dead at the D.A.’s office.”

She turned back to the mirror, eyes critical.

“I think it’s time for this suit to go.”

“Like Zeigler. Randy drove him away, probably to that place he mentioned. I hope they can straighten him out.”

She brushed an invisible piece of lint from a shoulder and agreed with his thoughts. “About time. Why do you think he waited so long?”

“It’s difficult to convince yourself that a rock requires psychiatric help. Everyone, including Randy, thought of Zeigler as solid granite.”

“His wife should have had more consideration. I feel sorry for him.”

He shrugged. “None of us is unconscious during the wedding ceremony.”

“Is that why you weren’t too upset when your wife walked out?”

“Maybe. Or maybe having a sense of humor helps. When your wife runs off with a man with implanted hair and a plaid sport jacket who drives a red Corvette and who thinks Dom Perignon used to be the weatherman on Channel Six, comedy overpowers tragedy.”

She smiled. “It couldn’t have been that easy to take.”

“I didn’t say it was easy. I said it was funny.”

“What are you planning for today?”

“Running the mower before the sun gets too hot and working on a report until dinner. It’s due Monday.”

“I’ll pick up something light and see you then.”

She kissed him and walked out, leaving a faint fragrance behind and a frown on his face.

He didn’t recall being consulted about dinner. Amanda was getting a little too proprietary, leading him where he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

He fired up the riding mower and steered it back and forth across the hillside on his side of the serpentine gravel lane, Zeigler on his mind.

Had it really been more than three years since Zeigler had called him in because his telemarketing operation was staggering along?

Making a living by straightening out faltering businesses, Denbow had found it wiser to concentrate on cash flow and liquidity if he wished to be paid, rather than character, but he’d liked Zeigler, a short, muscular man with very little hair and the rolling walk of an athlete. When, with tie pulled down and sleeves rolled up, he’d escorted Denbow around his operation and stopped to help an employee move a heavy carton, two things were clear. A man like that paid his debts and didn’t go down without a fight.

Denbow spent a week in the plant going over everything and talking to the employees. He learned that Zeigler knew their families, held their hands in grief, helped them celebrate the good occasions, lent them money, yelled when they made mistakes and then patted their shoulders when they didn’t — and intruded into their lives with suggestions and advice, solicited or not. They all loved him, so much so that when one suggested that they would be better off with a union, three muscular shippers cornered the man in a washroom and suggested he’d be happier elsewhere, even though a union would have guaranteed them all more money.

His employees weren’t part of Zeigler’s problem. It was his timing, his pricing, his presentation of products. What was even worse, in a business that depended on catalogues to generate sales, Zeigler’s reflected nothing of his unique character and personality. Behind the counter of a retail store, those would have made him an instant success, yet his sales material was no different from anyone else’s.

Like most of the problems Denbow was called on to solve, all this one required was the application of some common sense.

He threw the mower into neutral and mopped his brow as the engine idled, enjoying the warmth of the October sun on his back and the sweet smell of new-mown grass.

“Sales are up ten percent,” said Zeigler over lunch. “I should give you a bonus.”

“Forget it. My price is high enough.”

“I hear you’re looking for a place to live.”

Denbow smiled. He’d casually mentioned it to one person.

“My apartment lease is running out.”

Zeigler signaled the waiter. “Let’s take a ride.”

He turned off the highway into a narrow macadam road that ran up the side of a hill, leaving it for an easily overlooked rutted lane that led into a stand of trees. He stopped the car when the trees ended.

The lane continued diagonally upward, slicing through what must have been more than two acres of velvet lawn before ending at the top of the hill before a house, gleaming like a peaked-roof Camelot, that faced the southern sun and was protected from the north wind by a stand of trees.

Below the house and off to the right of the lane was another house. The one at the crest was traditional — white, Colonial blue shutters on the windows, broad porch overlooking the lawn. The other was more Frank Lloyd Wright — one story, of native stone, with patio and floor-to-ceiling doors.

“The big house is mine. I had the smaller one built for Randy as a wedding gift, but he won’t live there. Too close to me, he says. Even his mother couldn’t talk him into it.”

Zeigler’s voice was puzzled. It would never occur to him that anyone would interpret generosity and concern as interference.

“I’ll rent it to you, Denbow,” he said.

Small-town bred and hating apartments, Denbow felt like a child looking at something in a store window beyond his reach.

He chuckled. “That’s nice of you, but I couldn’t afford it. A one bedroom apartment is my limit.”

Zeigler put the car in gear. “I want you to meet my wife.”

His first wife had been a small, delicate woman, thin and gracious and gray as a mourning dove. Zeigler underwent a transformation the moment he entered the house, humble and grateful and infinitely gentle, his devotion apparent in the softness of his voice and the way he spoke to her.

Because the loose folds of skin weren’t that obvious yet and because thoughts of death had no reason to enter Denbow’s mind, it wasn’t until he and Zeigler were sitting on the porch overlooking the lawn and sipping coffee that he realized she was thin because she was wasting away and the young woman he’d assumed was a maid was really a nurse.

He glanced at Zeigler. In no way, at any time, had the man indicated the slightest trace of concern or worry. To him everything would be fine if you simply refused to give up. But even Zeigler couldn’t defeat death. When he lost what was obviously the most important thing in the world to him, it would take time for him to recover.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” asked Zeigler. “Had some of my best ideas here.”

“Renting me that house wasn’t one of them,” said Den-bow dryly.

“What’s your apartment costing you now?”

“None of your business.”

Zeigler chuckled. “I figure about six hundred. Okay. I know your ex’s lawyer took you to the cleaners, so that’s what you pay me.”

“You can get twice that or more. What the hell makes you think I need your charity?”

“What charity?” Zeigler swept a hand over the scene. “I bought this twenty years ago because I wanted to control who lived near me. The only reason I had the house built was Randy. Never thought he wouldn’t want it. Now I’m stuck with it. It’s a crime to let it sit vacant, but I’m certainly not going to sell it and I’ll be damned if I’ll rent it to just anyone. I’ve talked to a lot of people about you, Den-bow. You’re a quiet man. You go your own way and mind your own business. You know who you are and you’re good at what you do, and if someone doesn’t like you, that’s their problem. If you move into that house, you won’t be up here annoying me, there won’t be any wild parties, and there won’t be any weird people wandering around.”

He sliced the scene with a vertical palm and moved it to his left. “You take care of everything on that side of the lane. Pay the utilities, mow the lawn in summer, shovel the snow in winter, and leave me alone.”

The houses were islands set in a sea of green and surrounded by a barrier reef of trees. No slamming of doors or loud voices in the middle of the night, no hum of traffic during the day.

Denbow kept his face impassive so that Zeigler couldn’t see how much he wanted to say yes, but living two hundred feet from a man who thought he was always right, who always knew what was best for you — and worse still, never hesitated to say so — might make any price too high.

“Leaving you alone is no problem. No offense, Zeigler, but the question is — will you leave me alone? It’s hard for you to stay out of people’s lives. Randy knew that.”

“Aw, hell, you think I don’t? But only when I think I can help. You’re as hard-headed as I am, Denbow. No one can tell you anything. Nothing I can do for you. Even if I could, you’d tell me to go to hell.”

He held out a hand. “Not annoying each other is part of the deal. Okay?”

Denbow put the mower in gear. Nothing he could do for him. Except rent him the house at a ridiculous figure because he knew Denbow would appreciate living there.

The following spring, the first Mrs. Ziegler had been admitted to the hospital for extended treatment, but she’d died suddenly and unexpectedly.

Zeigler had suffered the first defeat he could never turn into eventual victory.

The employees attended the funeral en masse and returned to the plant to fill orders well into the night so that no time was lost. They wouldn’t have done that for the much younger second wife, their collective judgment better than Zeigler’s since it wasn’t distorted by love, lust, desire, or whatever else had motivated him to marry a woman thirty years his junior during a vacation in Mexico six months later.

“He couldn’t seem to handle Mother’s death,” said Randy. “I thought a change of scene would help. The last thing I expected him to do was take up with some bimbo from San Francisco, much less marry her.”

If Randy didn’t realize Zeigler’s marriage was a gesture, proof that he hadn’t really lost the battle, Denbow didn’t intend to educate him.

“Tequila, a Mexican moon, and a low-cut gown have addled the brains of many a good man,” he said. “He’ll get over it.”

“I know that,” said Randy icily. “The question is — how much will it cost him? That’s what worries me.”

No one expected the price to be Zeigler himself.

Denbow swerved around a granite outcrop too big to remove. Everyone is entitled to one mistake. She’d been Zeigler’s. Hair that really wasn’t blonde, clothes that were a little too tight and showed a little too much thigh and a little too much cleavage — as adept at playing a man as a concert pianist at playing a Steinway.

Zeigler had seen only an exciting woman who listened to his wisdom with wide eyes.

She was gone ten months later. What she took with her, other than Zeigler’s heart and soul, Randy didn’t say.

What Denbow didn’t understand was Zeigler’s continued depression. The man was too much of a fighter. Even floored twice, Zeigler should have picked himself up and staggered around the ring, looking for his opponent, not stretched out on the canvas looking up with unseeing eyes.

He stopped the mower alongside the lane where it curved away near the top of the slope. One more pass and he was through.

On the other side of the rutted gravel, Zeigler’s two-thirds of the hillside lawn was a rippling green blanket almost six inches tall.

Zeigler had been a lawn freak. He could have hired someone, but he himself mowed, sprayed, fertilized, and wandered over it in the evening with a spray bottle of weed killer zapping anything bold enough to take root.

“I like to grow things, Den-bow, but I don’t have time for flowers or vegetables, and riding the mower gives me time to think. When I look over it, I’m a proud man. A fine lawn isn’t in Mother Nature’s scheme. If you have one, you’ve fought her to a standstill. And I did it all alone. Not like the business. The people who work for me, and people like you, all have a part. But this lawn—” He gestured. “Don’t you think you ought to do something with your section?”

“Leave my wildflowers and weeds alone, Zeigler. Mother Nature’s been losing too often lately. She deserves a break.”

Zeigler’s once-velvet green carpet was showing the signs of neglect. He hadn’t set foot on it since his Mexico-acquired blonde had left him twisting in the wind, and Randy had turned down Denbow’s offer to mow it whenever he did his.

“I’ll take care of it. My father would want me to.”

But Randy had a wife and home of his own and the well-fertilized grasses shot upward during the warm fall days while the weed seeds rooted themselves into the rich soil in joyful anticipation of spring. Now that it was her turn, Mother Nature was taking no pity on Zeigler.

Denbow said what the hell and steered the mower across the lane. No telling when Randy would get to it now.

He’d worked his way halfway down the slope when Randy’s blue Caddy came up the lane and stopped so suddenly, it skidded on the gravel. Randy left the car and stood with hands on hips. Waiting.

Denbow waved and smiled as he approached. Randy, almost a twin of his father except for a softer face inherited from his mother, lifted a hand and drew it across his throat, face set and eyes narrowed.

Denbow cut the engine.

“We agreed that I’d take care of the lawn,” snapped Randy.

“Just being neighborly,” said Denbow. “Thought I’d help you out.”

“No one asked you to.”

“What’s the problem? The mower does the work. All it’s costing me is a little time, so forget it. How’s your father? Any prognosis?”

The words came slowly. “It isn’t as though he has appendicitis.”

Denbow didn’t point out that had been clear to anyone with any sense three months ago. He reached for the starter.

“I’ll finish it,” said Randy.

“That verges on stupidity. I’ll be done in half an hour. Go do whatever you have to do.”

Voice flat, Randy looked up at the house. “Stay on your own side from now on, Denbow. Nothing personal. Something between me and my father.” Denbow smiled. “Count on it. I never mow where I’m not wanted.”

If Randy said anything, the roar of the engine drowned him out. His rudeness didn’t surprise Denbow. Growing up as Zeigler’s son couldn’t have been easy, and Randy sometimes let a buried, perpetual anger show. What eluded him was who Randy was angry with — Zeigler, himself, or the world.

Halfway down the screen of his word processor the words ended, the cursor flashing accusingly. The report should have been finished an hour ago. The project was basic, the analysis simple, but even that required a concentration that escaped him.

One of the drawbacks of his business was that he formed no lasting relationships. One project finished, he moved on to another client who was sweating out bank loan payments.

Zeigler had been an exception and even then, once the business was on its feet, the agreement not to annoy each other had been respected, their contact limited to an occasional conversation, drink, or party invitation.

Zeigler brought his new wife down one day to introduce her and Denbow had waved at her a few times as she drove by, but that was all he knew of her, except that she obviously wasn’t making Zeigler happy. The man was more subdued, but facing a major mistake every morning had a way of doing that.

Denbow could neither affirm nor deny the rumor she was entertaining men in the house because there were many occasions when he had to be away, like the night she’d left. He hoped the rumor wasn’t true. Often overbearing and insistent, Zeigler was still one helluva man and deserved better.

When asked, Randy had said, “She packed her bags, told my father she was leaving, and took off.” He paused. “We had no idea she’d gone back to San Francisco until the police reported her car had been at the airport garage for two weeks. I don’t know why she’s waiting, but I suppose we’ll hear from her when she gets around to filing for divorce.”

“Why wait? Have your father do it.”

Randy leaned forward and spoke directly to the lamp on his desk. “Listen, Dad, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t divorce her.”

The lamp sat there.

“You’ve made your point,” said Denbow.

He’d walked up the hill several times to see if there was anything he could do. Robed, slippered, unshaved, uncombed, and red-eyed, Zeigler had ignored him. Maybe Zeigler hadn’t even known he was there.

“Severe depression,” the attendant had said. “All I can do is keep an eye on him. He might—”

“Kill himself?”

“They’ve been known to do that.”

He hadn’t gone again. It was, after all, none of his business. Like mowing the lawn.

The high-pitched whine of a four cylinder engine laboring up the slope made him frown. The day had gone fast. He stored what he’d written on a disk, turned off the processor, and met Amanda outside.

She handed him a bag of groceries. “I see you managed to get your lawn done. And Zeigler’s. I thought that wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“It isn’t, which Randy reminded me of in no uncertain terms.”

“Very rude of him. Did he say why he didn’t appreciate your labors?”

He placed the bag on the counter in the kitchen.

“Seems to be one of those father-son things. As a matter of curiosity, did the police ever get involved in the sudden departure of Mrs. Zeigler?”

She smiled as she slipped off her jacket. “Are you using an intimate relationship with an assistant county district attorney to elicit police information?”

“What other reason can there be for an intimate relationship?”

She kissed him and began to unpack the bag. “Okay. Since no missing persons report was filed, we knew nothing until the Philadelphia police notified us about the car at the airport parking garage. Randy told the officer who contacted him what had happened.”

“That was it?”

“Not entirely. One of the county detectives, who was born with a suspicious nature, checked the flights to San Francisco on the date of the parking stub and turned up a credit card slip for one way, first class passage, signed by the Zeigler woman, and a reservation clerk who recalled a very sexy, thirtyish blonde woman.” She held out a head of lettuce with loose green leaves. “Would you like to take care of the salad?”

“No. I’ll handle the wine bottle. Did you happen to know that Randy’s wife is also blonde, thirtyish, and very sexy?”

She smiled. “You’re as suspicious as the detective. He asked the San Francisco police to look into it. They didn’t have to look far. Several of them already knew her as a middle level hooker. When they found her, she was living far above her usual style, and they were relieved to learn her upward mobility was achieved through the legitimacy of marriage.” She turned to face him. “Just what the hell are you getting at, anyway?”

“I wish I knew,” said Denbow slowly. “Any good, All-American busybody would have learned all of this long ago. My problem is I overdo minding my own business. Since I like it that way, I assume others do, too. Zeigler is as much of a friend as I have and maybe, if I were a different person, I could have helped him somehow.”

He placed both hands on the sink and looked out the window at the house on the hill.

“You know, two weeks or so before she left him, I woke in the middle of the night with the feeling that someone was calling my name. I must have listened for two or three minutes. Didn’t hear a thing. I remembered I’d been listening to the radio while fixing a late bite and turned it down when the phone rang. Maybe I’d forgotten to turn it off. There was a full moon that night so I didn’t turn on any lights when I went out to the kitchen. I happened to look out this window. The moonlight turned everything silver except for a dark figure in a loose robe standing at the top of the lane.”

The rustling of things being removed from the paper bag stopped.

“Scared the hell out of me. Thought it was the Dark Angel and my time had come until I recognized Zeigler. He stood there in the moonlight for a minute or two before walking back to his house.”

Denbow turned from the window to find Amanda staring at him.

“With my superb sensitivity and caring nature, I never realized until after his wife left that he’d probably started down the hill to talk to me and stopped because it was the middle of the night and he’d remembered our agreement not to annoy each other. If I had any sense, I’d have walked out there and called him back.”

She folded her arms. “And now you’re off on some sort of guilt trip.”

“No. Talking to him might not have changed a thing. What I’m thinking of is that he turned to me for help and he still needs that. Something happened that night she left that took the heart out of him. It’s finally dawned on me that it would take far more than a wife, whom he probably wanted to get rid of anyway, walking out on him.”

She smiled. “You and the detective. That’s why he checked it out.”

He shrugged. “Maybe he should have followed up.”

“We don’t have the time or budget to chase psychological guesswork.”

“Let’s see if we can come up with more than that.”

He took her by the waist and lifted her to the counter.

She put her arms around his neck. “If you intend to get amorous, I prefer the bedroom.”

He removed her hands and stepped back. “Romance comes later. At the moment, you’re testifying from the witness chair as an expert in foul play.”

She crossed her legs and hiked her skirt to mid-thigh.

“Is that for my benefit or the jury’s?”

“Don’t get excited, counselor. Simply playing the part.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and paced the kitchen.

“The consensus is that the second Mrs. Zeigler left Mr. Zeigler to return to San Francisco.”

“Women leave their husbands every day.”

“Ah, but most have a compelling reason. What reason could Mrs. Zeigler have? She wasn’t abused, she had her Mercedes and several unlimited credit cards, and if she wanted to visit San Francisco, Mr. Zeigler would probably have driven her to the airport and bought the ticket for her.”

“Perhaps she simply wanted to shed Mr. Zeigler.”

“Again, ah. She could do that by divorcing him. Preferably here. The courts undoubtedly would have granted her a beneficial financial arrangement. Or she could have filed from San Francisco, but she hasn’t. Furthermore, by fleeing to San Francisco, she presented Mr. Zeigler with grounds to institute a divorce action as the injured party, which could well cost her money. Mrs. Zeigler is not the type to do anything that would cost her money. Why should she suddenly leave when it was to her benefit to stay?”

“Obviously, counselor, the benefits of leaving outweighed the benefits of staying.”

“Your report from the San Francisco police shows this to be true, but why would any man be so generous to a wife living in San Francisco, where she could do nothing to—” Den-bow cleared his throat discreetly “—earn her subsistence? Does this arrangement suggest something to you?”

The blue eyes were cool and steady. “You’re leading the witness. You want me to say Zeigler paid her to leave.”

“Try this — his transformation into a psychiatric gold mine and her high life in San Francisco were not a coincidence.”

“You’re suggesting blackmail?”

“I bow to your expertise.”

“What could he have done that would allow her to blackmail him?”

“Ask Randy. If she’s getting money, it has to be from him. Zeigler doesn’t even remember what a check is, much less how to write one out.”

She lifted her hands. “Get me down, Denbow.”

“You don’t buy my magnificent analysis? People pay me good money to be so smart.”

“I buy it, all right, but this is Saturday and I’ve looked forward all day to spending the weekend with you. The Zeigler matter can wait until Monday, which won’t hurt at all since it’s already waited for three months.” She slapped the head of lettuce into his palm. “Now get started on the salad. I’m hungry.”

He woke suddenly, just as he had on the night he’d thought he heard Zeigler calling him. The red numerals in the radio alarm clock said it was a few minutes after two. Beside him, Amanda breathed softly.

Damn. This wasn’t one of those heavy-eyed wakeups triggered by who-knows-what that could be dismissed by rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. He was wide awake. Really wide awake. One of those might-as-well-get-up-and-make-the-coffee episodes.

He slid out of bed carefully. No point in punishing Amanda.

Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, as alert and wide awake as he’d ever been in his life, he knew that his eyes would begin to close about mid-afternoon, when he’d be in the middle of finishing his report. One way or another, his body always extracted eight hours of sleep.

Perhaps something in his subconscious had bypassed the block he’d run into this afternoon and was telling him to get it done now.

Taking his coffee with him, he turned on the processor and stared at the flashing cursor on screen. The words still eluded him. Whatever his mind was trying to tell him, it had nothing to do with the report.

He returned to the bedroom and stared out the window, sipping his coffee. A full moon, as on the night he’d seen Zeigler; the hilltop and the lane silver. The warm afternoon sun long gone, the night air now carrying the chill of fall. It was the time of harvest and frost on the pumpkin and Halloween — and the last time he’d seen Zeigler laugh.

Zeigler had given a Halloween costume party to introduce his new wife, and the lane had been edged with luminescent figures of ghosts and witches and black cats leading up to the house. Feeling no pain as the convivial host, Zeigler had climbed on a table and recited a children’s poem about ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night.

“Paul?”

Amanda’s white form had raised itself on an elbow.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about things that go bump in the night.”

“How about waiting until dawn and things that go bump in daylight?”

The coffee cup stopped halfway to his lips.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Two thirty in the morning is not a time for self-recrimination. Come back to bed.”

He placed the cup on the nightstand and turned on the light. “Let me have your keys. Your car is blocking me in.”

“Where are you going?”

He threw the robe aside and slipped into shorts and a T-shirt. “To look for something that goes bump in daylight. Don’t ask if I’m crazy. Just give me the keys.”

She threw back the covers. “Oh no. Where my car goes, I go.”

He grinned. “Like that? Not that I have any objection to nudity, but you’ll find those vinyl seats a little cold.”

She sighed. “Mother was right. If he laughs when he sees you naked instead of being overcome with flaming passion, the romance is over.”

“Only waning. I’ll need something from the garage, so I’ll meet you outside. No need to dress formally and makeup isn’t necessary.”

Five minutes later, wearing slacks and one of his sweaters, she started the engine. “Where are we going?”

“Up the hill to Zeigler’s house.”

“We could have walked.”

“We’ll need the headlights.”

“With this moon?”

He told her to stop in front of the house, walked slowly back and forth across the lawn, returned, and said, “Move over.”

He made a U-turn so that the headlights flooded across the grass.

She joined him in their glare. “Exactly what are you doing?”

“Trim the grass on Zeigler’s lawn close enough, and you’d have an enormous putting green. It’s all as smooth as silk, but when I was mowing I hit a couple of bumps about here. I thought nothing of it at the time. Could have been the earth settling after a tree trunk cut below ground level rotted away.”

“It all looks level to me.”

“It would. The mower blade sort of floats over small depressions. The mower wheels don’t.”

He probed with a foot. “There it is.” Crushing the grass with the toe of one shoe, he worked his way around the perimeter, his blood running colder with each step as the outline of the depression took shape.

He finished with a rectangle about two feet wide and six long.

She let her breath out slowly. “I hope that isn’t what it looks like.”

Using the pointed spade he’d thrown into the car, he cut through the sod in the center and placed it aside, lifting out the soft dirt beneath until he met a stiffer resistance.

Once more. Gently. And the spade brought up bones that were once a human hand and released a faint stench into the cool, clean night air. “Oh-my-God.”

Covering her mouth, Amanda fled to the car and braced herself with hands on the hood.

He threw the spade aside and joined her.

Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Why didn’t anyone—”

He knew what she meant. “The sod was cut and lifted, the grave dug and the sod replaced. Within a week it would have been unnoticeable. It took a little time to settle, but now we know why Randy didn’t want me mowing on this side of the lane. It has to tie in with what happened to Zeigler.”

Her voice was still hoarse. “Who can it be?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m just a poor fool who had a hunch. Ask Randy. And Mrs. Zeigler. You can start proceedings to have her escorted back from San Francisco on Monday.”

“Monday? Monday?” Her voice trembled with sudden fury. “Try dawn. Try two hours. Try one hour. Dammit, how can anyone—”

Denbow took her in his arms and held her trembling body tightly, her face against his cool and clammy from shock.

“Take it easy,” he whispered. “Remember your job. Start earning that generous salary they’re paying you by setting the wheels of law and order in motion.”

If the day before had gone fast, this one had gone slowly. The sun was low before his processor-driven typewriter had chattered through the last page of his report.

Up on the hill, the grave was now a gaping hole surrounded by yellow tape, and much of Zeigler’s golf-green lawn had been trampled by a horde of lawmen and an army of news-people, from whom Denbow escaped by locking the doors and drawing the drapes.

The straining sound of the four cylinder engine drove him to the kitchen to fix two drinks. When Amanda came through the open patio door, he handed her a glass. She slumped into a chair and kicked off her shoes.

“Mind if I use our intimate relationship to elicit police information again? Did Randy talk or not? Who was in the grave—”

She took a long drink. “It’s all very weird and senseless.”

“When a body gets buried in a front yard, it can’t be anything else.”

“The corpse was a twenty-two-year-old kid named Grover, who worked for Zeigler. Nice, bright kid. From a small town upstate. Late that afternoon, Grover received a call. His mother was in the hospital. He went to Zeigler to tell him he had to leave and why. Randy was in the office at the time. Zeigler asked if he needed money. Grover said he had bus fare, but that was about all. Zeigler gave him a hundred dollars.”

“That’s the Zeigler I knew.”

“Four hours later, Randy was working at the plant, alone, when the night bell rang. There was Grover. He’d been mugged in the men’s room at the bus station in Philadelphia. All he had left was his commuter pass. He didn’t know what else to do, so he came back and walked to the plant, hoping someone would be there and he could borrow some money. Like a lot of people today, Randy doesn’t carry much cash. He uses credit cards. The banks were closed, of course, but there are those cash machines. He drove Grover over, intending to use his cash access card. Either the machine malfunctioned or it had run out. He couldn’t get a dime out of it.”

“What else is new?” murmured Denbow.

“Zeigler wasn’t available. He was having dinner in town with a supplier, but Randy knew he kept cash for emergencies in a safe at the house, and as far as he was concerned, this was an emergency. He drove Grover there. But Zeigler wasn’t in town after all. Since you were away, he’d hidden his car in your garage and was waiting in the dark to see who his wife was entertaining when he wasn’t at home.” She took another long drink. “If this doesn’t make much sense, be patient. It gets worse.”

“I assumed it would.”

“Randy parked in the lane at the front of the house, in the dark, where the light over the garage didn’t reach, because he said it was easier to back down to your driveway and turn around rather than go all the way up to the garage apron at the side of the house and maneuver around up there.”

Denbow nodded. “I’ve seen him leave the car there when he visited.”

“It was too dark for Zeigler to recognize the car or see there were two men. He waited by the side door. Grover was first to come around the corner into the light. Zeigler leaped to the fastest wrong conclusion in history. There could be only one reason for the kid he’d given a hundred dollars to that afternoon, supposedly to visit a sick mother, to drive up to his house. Talk about adding insult to injury. He hit him. Grover fell back into Randy just as he came around the corner. They both went down. Only Randy got up. Grover was dead, skull fractured by one of the stones edging the driveway.”

The taste had gone out of the drink. Denbow set it aside.

“Instant panic. Randy yelling at his father, his father yelling at Randy. When Zeigler realized what he’d done, he came apart. By that time Mrs. Zeigler was out of the house. When Randy started inside to call the police, she stopped him. His father would be arrested, go on trial for manslaughter, might even receive a prison sentence. Did he want that? Who knew Grover was there? No one. Who was more important, Grover or his father? She kept reinforcing the questions with shots of straight scotch. Zeigler was sitting on the ground, staring at his fist. Before he knew it, Randy was digging a hole. Don’t worry, his stepmother kept telling him. Only the three of them would know. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. When his father came out of it, he’d be grateful his son had protected him.”

“She has to be one helluva saleswoman.”

“Randy bought the idea only long enough to bury Grover, but by then he figured it was too late. He had another problem. Zeigler hadn’t moved. If he wasn’t back to normal by morning, people would wonder why. Tell them it was her fault, she said. She’d been thinking of going back to the West Coast. She’d go now. He could blame her. He gave her the money from the safe and promised to send more. Everything was under control. He’d worry about his next step when his father came around. He waited. And waited. Until yesterday.

“Didn’t anyone ever ask about Grover?”

“Of course. His family called when he didn’t come home, but the last time anyone had seen him, he’d been heading for the bus station, so it was assumed he’d disappeared somewhere between Philadelphia and his home town.”

She finished her drink and rested her head against the back of the chair, her voice flat. “I feel cold. Is it the story I just told you or that open door?”

Sun almost gone, the thermometer was falling. He rose and closed the patio door, looking out at the deepening shadows.

“What happens now?”

“Randy and the fast talking Mrs. Zeigler are guilty of the illegal disposition of a body to cover up a crime, but because of the motive and their position in the community, no judge will be too hard. Zeigler? Nothing. A man who isn’t aware of the proceedings can’t be prosecuted.”

Curiosity about a vaguely remembered bump in an otherwise level lawn had driven him into the night in the hope that he could somehow help Zeigler, but nothing had turned up that would help him at all.

His reflection in the glass stared back at him. Beyond, in the growing dark, he also seemed to see Zeigler. In a way, the man was a shadow of himself. They lived differently but followed the same code, which was why they got along so well from the day they met. The code said others could lie, cheat, and steal. They would not, even in retaliation.

Analyzing businesses, separating causes from effects and looking for solutions had given him a sixth sense. The pieces fit or they didn’t — and these pieces didn’t fit. He couldn’t believe accidentally killing Grover would push a man like Zeigler over the edge, any more than the departure of a wife he didn’t care about.

There had to be a flaw in the story somewhere.

When the thought came, he couldn’t erase it. Like the one solution to any problem, it stood pure and shining and unassailable. He turned to Amanda. Her eyes were closed.

He bent and whispered into her ear. “Randy lied about what happened.”

The eyes remained closed. “Lied? That’s one helluva story to dream up.”

“He didn’t dream it up. He reversed the roles. Listen to me carefully. Zeigler was working late, not Randy, which is more likely. Zeigler didn’t have much cash on him. He never did. Zeigler couldn’t operate the cash access machine. Anything with keys on it always baffled him. That’s why he kept money in the house safe. And because of the late hour, it was like him to take Grover along, intending to give him the money, drive him in to the station, and put him on a bus. So Zeigler drives up to that house on the hill and he walks in on something that takes the heart out of him and sends him into a depression so deep the mind mechanics may take years to find him, much less bring him out of it. One guess as to what it was.”

She sat silent for a few moments, then the eyes opened, the shoes were on, and she was headed for the door, tossing the words back over her shoulder. “Damn you, Denbow. I wish you’d stop thinking so that I can get some sleep.”

The phone rang two hours later.

“I’ve had enough of your fertile brain, Denbow. I’m at home.”

“That’s too bad. Dinner is waiting, the wine chilling, the table set, and the candles ready.”

“Bloodshot eyes ain’t romantic, even by candlelight.”

“Don’t you pay attention to commercials? I have a little bottle of the stuff that clears that up in seconds. What did Randy have to say this time?”

“Exactly what you thought he’d say. His father caught him and his sexy stepmother in the most embarrassing of all situations and it shocked Zeigler’s mind loose from its moorings.”

“I knew it had to be something that gross, but don’t tell me the sight made poor Grover faint and hit his head.”

“Since Zeigler was out of it, Randy jumped all over Grover, wanting to know what they were doing there. Grover told him. Whether his father came out of it or not, Randy knew the story stopped with him. Grover, though, was edging toward the door to tell the world. Randy was about to become national Sleaze-of-the-Month, but there’d be no television interview or book contract. He’d be finished. With his wife and family, at the plant, and especially in the community. The way people felt about his father—”

“—they’d start a movement to bring back tarring and feathering.”

“Furious, blaming Grover for the whole thing, he ran after him, picked up a rock and hit him. It was obvious by then that Zeigler would be no problem for some time, so he and Mrs. Strike-It-Rich worked out the details. Feel smug about bringing him to justice?”

“I don’t give a damn about him. All I was concerned about was Zeigler. Now that the psychiatrists know the real cause of his depression, they should find it a great deal easier to bring him around.”

“What made you realize Randy was lying?”

“Zeigler and I subscribed to the same code. If I’d never lower myself to skulk around in the dark to catch a cheating wife, neither would he.”

“Some code. Look where it got him. But that little bit of information might come in handy some day, so maybe I should change my mind about dinner. Does the code prevent you from taking advantage of a woman who falls asleep over the entree?”

Silverware gleaming, the table set before him. Precise. Perfect. And empty.

“You’re the only exception. Taking advantage of you under any and all circumstances is mandatory.”

“Best clause in the code, Den-bow. Light the candles. I’m on my way.”