Chapter Seventy

For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.

Ecclesiastes 9:12

Thursday 13th December: Hanlin and Bryer sat in the glassed in porch, bathed in the pale warmth of the late morning, early winter sun like toads on a mudbank. Bryer nursing a beer and Hanlin a whisky. He was experimenting with a new Glenmorangie, matured in port casks, that pleased him. The women were in the kitchen fixing soup for lunch. As with most of modern America, this was no politically correct home. When it comes to 21st century female emancipation, the USA lags far behind Western Europe.

Having said which, the boys felt they deserved the drinks. They'd just finished chasing the deer away from Jane Hanlin's rose bushes. She'd tried everything, right down to putting bars of Irish Spring soap on ribbons and hanging them from the bushes on the premise that the creatures disliked the smell. In the end, good old fashioned standing guard and hollering had proved the only truly effective defense.

Bryer stretched, flexing his arms without letting go his beer. He broke the silence. "Assistant D.A. seems to have been wrongfooted by David Fieldson."

"Fieldson's a smarmy lawyer. Can't say I like him."

"Springfield's best though. Trish Hartnett's lucky to have him."

Hanlin wrinkled his nose. "He's lucky to have Trish Hartnett. She'll be a rich woman no longer by the time he's finished with her."

"Innocent you reckon?"

Hanlin shuddered as he reached towards his Glenmorangie. "God knows. But it just doesn't fit does it? I mean all that hands on violence. Knifing Father Seb. Running down Bob Young. Killing poor Maria. None of it's very feminine."

"She sure has you on her side," Bryer laughed. "Women are as capable of calculated violence as men ever were. There's more to this world than the testosterone thing. And remember how inexpert that attack on Seb was. Could easily have been a woman."

Hanlin refused to be diverted. Like a dog with a bone he was determined to hold to his course. "So the incident with the bullet, when she and Baxter were shot at the other day. She did that to herself did she?"

Bryer smiled with genuine amusement. "No. I confess that would be something. But maybe that's not directly related. A third party. Maria's boyfriend perhaps. If he thought that Baxter had been forcing his way into Maria's affections - he could have done that."

Hanlin conceded the point, albeit grudgingly, with a shrug that would have done credit to a cowboy. But he wasn't done. "Could've been the boyfriend that killed Maria wouldn't you think?" he drawled.

Bryer sighed and put his glass down. "I still reckon Trish Hartnett is guilty of the Bob Young murder. At least it seems likely."

Hanlin stared out of the window. "Anything's possible," he answered. "But don't hold your breath if you expect me to subscribe to the theory you're now expounding."

"You have something better to offer?"

Hanlin raised an eyebrow. He was thinking, "Give me time. I'm getting there." But aloud he was more equivocal. "Not really," he said. Then again in acquiescence, "Not really. No."