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We approached silently, heading straight for the front door until Vida veered off and tiptoed toward the big arched window in the living room. The recently planted shrubs offered a minimum of hiding places, but Vida managed to duck behind a rhododendron. I sidled up to her, not daring to look through the glass. But Murray Felton was shouting, and I knew his target was Warren Wells.

“You're back to selling tennis balls and salmon eggs, asshole! I hope you have to stand behind some crummy counter in a two-bit store peddling ammo until you're ninety!”

I heard Vida make a clucking noise with her tongue, but Warren's reply was muffled. Through the glossy oval leaves of the rhododendron, I couldn't see Murray, but I
could make out Warren's profile. He seemed abject, but I might have been wrong.

“Put a fork in it, Wells!” Murray shouted. “You're done.”

Anxiously I glanced toward the road. There was still no sign of Milo. Had Jack Mullins thought I was kidding? That was the trouble with romancing the sheriff: his colleagues stopped taking you seriously.

Vida leaned toward me. “The bedroom window,” she whispered. “It must open from the outside. Do you think… ?”

The mental image of Vida and me crawling through the window into Ursula's boudoir was ludicrous. “Why don't we ring the bell?” I whispered back.

But for once, Vida seemed to have abandoned her usual blunderbuss tactics. “Hmm … I don't know …” She peered through the shrubbery. “Drat, I can't hear Warren. Ah! He's moving. Maybe this Murray person is leaving.”

The Murray person wasn't going anywhere, judging by the gun that Warren had pulled out from somewhere that I couldn't see. Vida and I both froze behind the bush. But we could now hear Warren, who had raised his voice.

“You've ruined everything! You always did! You were nothing but a little shit from the get-go!”

“You killed her, you bastard!” Murray yelled back. “You're weak, you're cruel, you're nothing but a worthless prick!”

Even in the shadows, I could see that Vida's face showed alarm. “We can't let Warren shoot that foul-mouthed man! What shall we do?” She saw me glance down at my purse. “Not that! Don't you dare, Emma!”

“I wasn't really—” My words were cut off as Murray dove for Warren. The two men went down and out of sight. Vida and I stared at each other, then both galloped off to the double doors. The melodious chime sounded
just as we heard the shot. Vida pulled on the brass handle, but the doors were locked. A stunning silence ensued, broken only by the approach of Milo's Cherokee Chief.

I started to wave as he drove up to the house, but turned sharply when the front door swung open. A trembling Warren Wells stood before us. There was blood on his pale blue sport shirt, and he just stared, speechless. Then he saw Milo striding up to the porch, and passed out at Vida's feet.

“What the hell … ?” Milo glanced from Warren's recumbent figure to me. I had knelt down to make sure that the blood wasn't coming from Warren. Vida apparently had noted as much, and had already stepped over the unconscious man to go inside the house.

“Warren may have shot his stepson,” I gasped. “I think it was self-defense. Get an ambulance. Murray may still be alive.”

“Murray?” Milo stopped in mid-step, obviously dumbfounded. “You mean that smart-ass TV reporter?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I'm not sure he is a TV reporter.” I, too, was shaking. “Go. Get help. Vida's inside with Murray. I'll stay with Warren.” I had no desire to see what carnage had been wrought in the living room.

The sheriff jumped over Warren and disappeared. I could hear him talking to Vida. Murray wasn't dead, but she believed that the wound to his chest was serious. A moment later I heard Milo barking orders over his cell phone. Next to my knees, Warren stirred.

“It's okay,” I said softly. “Milo's here, he'll take care of everything.”

Warren made an attempt to roll over and look at me. “I didn't mean to … but he jumped me.” Letting out a long, agonized sigh, he let me help him sit up. “Murray was about the worst kid I ever met. Why did he have to belong to Alexis?”

“She probably spoiled him,” I said, thinking not only
of Roger, but of my own sometimes wayward son, Adam.

Warren sat on the porch with his head on his knees. “I left Alicia for him. My bright, beautiful daughter— Murray's right, I'm a prick.” He peered out at me over his hunched shoulder. “Can you call Francine?”

“Sure,” I replied, hearing the wail of the ambulance siren in the distance. “Is Alicia still with her?”

“Yes.” Warren rubbed at his temples. “We still have a lot to talk through It didn't turn out to be much of a Labor Day vacation for Alicia.”

It hadn't turned out to be much of a holiday for several people in Alpine. The ambulance came up alongside Milo's Cherokee Chief. I recognized the drivers, though I could never remember their names. They went straight for Warren, but I waved them off.

“The wounded man's inside,” I said as Warren and I both got to our feet.

“I need a drink,” Warren muttered, still rubbing his head.

It sounded like a good idea to me. But mixing cocktails at the baroque bar would be in poor taste until Murray Felton was removed from the living room. “Let's walk a bit in the garden,” I suggested. “You can tell me about your stepson.”

As I suspected, Warren was easily led, especially by a woman. Now that I wasn't concentrating on hiding in the shrubbery, I could feel the dew in the grass. A breeze was blowing down from Tonga Ridge, soft and benign. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that some of the neighbors had gathered at the foot of the driveway. I pretended not to see them; that was Milo's department.

“There's not much to tell,” Warren began, finally squaring his shoulders. “Alexis had raised him on her own until she and I got married. He wanted a father, but he resented a stepfather.” Warren gave me a sheepish look. “It sounds dumb, but that's the way it was.”

“No,” I said. “I understand. Murray wanted his real father. He felt rejected. A substitute couldn't cure that.”

“Right.” Warren nodded with a semblance of enthusiasm. “You got it. You understand people real well, Emma.”

“Sometimes.” What I understood was how I knew Adam would have felt if I had married someone other than Tom. “So you and Murray never got along. I suppose that caused problems with Alexis.”

“Boy, did it! It got worse and worse. Finally it came down to him or me. Alexis had to choose. Murray was a teenager by then, and he was getting into all kinds of trouble. She expected me to handle him the way she always had—by standing up for him, making excuses, even giving him alibis. I'd gone along with her to keep the peace, but as Murray got older and into more serious stuff, I couldn't do it anymore. That's when we split up. Right after that, before the divorce was final, Alexis found out she had leukemia. That damned Murray was old enough to read stuff in the papers and magazines. He found out that sometimes diseases are caused or at least aggravated by stress. Naturally he blamed me. Still, I tried to reconcile with Alexis after she got sick. But she was one of those people who acts like a wounded animal—they just want to go off in a cave and die. Which is what happened a year or so later. By that time Murray was living with her brother and his wife in Kirkland.”

Ed had told me about the insurance policy Warren had inherited, and the supposed provision for Murray. “Did you try to make contact with the relatives?”

“Once. They hung up on me. I had to get on with my life.” Warren had lowered his head, eyes focused on the soft, wet new grass.

The ambulance attendants were wheeling the stretcher into their vehicle. I could see Milo standing by the open rear doors, gesturing and talking. Appropriately enough,
Vida had gone down the drive and was relaying information to the curious neighbors.

Warren also noticed what was happening in front of the house. “We can go back in now, can't we?” He seemed eager.

“Well …” I hesitated. “It
is
a crime scene. Let's wait to see what Milo does.”

“Shit,” Warren murmured. “Now I can't even get a drink because of that creep.”

“You'll survive without it,” I said, recalling Francine's fear that her ex-husband might have slipped into alcoholism under Ursula's influence. “When did you run into Murray again?” I asked, taking his arm and leading him toward the rear of the house.

“In June, just before we moved to Alpine. We attended a silver wedding anniversary reception for some of Ursula's friends. Murray was working for the local weekly and taking pictures.”

“So he
was
a journalist,” I said, more to myself than to Warren. “Did he know Ursula?”

Warren shook his head. “No, but he recognized me right away. He was real nice, which should have made me suspicious. He asked a bunch of questions, especially when he found out I was getting married again. But I didn't hear from him until he showed up tonight.”

The garden at the back of the house sloped sharply upward into a rockery with a small waterfall. There was a fish pond and a gazebo, as well as a large patio furnished with an umbrella-covered table, a barbecue, and a hot tub. I tried to envision the Buzzy O'Toole menage dining in alfresco elegance, and failed.

I let out a sorry little sigh. “It wasn't enough to get his revenge. He had to make sure you understood. That everybody understood,” I added, thinking how Murray had wanted me to write about Warren's humiliation.

But I was a step ahead of my companion. “What?”
Warren stumbled over one of the flagstones in the patio. “You don't mean … ? Oh, no!”

Though I couldn't tell in the darkness, I was sure that the color had drained from Warren's face. “It was no accident,” I said grimly. “I don't see how it could have been. To get his revenge, Murray had to make sure that Ursula died. He couldn't take chances, not when she planned to change her will and her insurance policy in the coming week.”

“But …” Warren was still having trouble finding words. “How could he know?”

The ambulance siren sounded again, denoting its departure. “I doubt that he did at first. He came to Alpine looking for an opportunity. He was a reporter, remember. Believe me, Warren, it's not hard to ferret out information when you're a member of the press.”

“Brendan Shaw wouldn't tell tales out of school,” Warren protested. “Neither would Marisa Foxx. Her, especially. I don't believe it.”

“All Murray needed to know was that Ursula had appointments with Brendan and Marisa. He could guess why. I went to see Brendan myself the same day that Ursula did. It was right after that when I first realized I had an intruder. Murray may have thought I'd found out something about Ursula that day. Or maybe he was doing some research on my reporter, Carla Steinmetz, to buoy up his alibi for being in town. He needed as much background as he could get beyond the feature on Ursula in
The Advocate.
Murray was pretending to be a hotshot TV reporter, remember. But he also broke into this house the evening that Ursula died.” I gestured in the direction of the bedroom window. “He may have found her personal papers. I suspect he came back later, introduced himself as someone she'd met at her friends' anniversary reception, had a drink or two, and offered to take her for a spin in his Miata. They were seen driving by Jake and Betsy's. Betsy insisted it was you, but if you think about
it, there's a passing resemblance between you and Murray. You're both dark and about the same size. Furthermore, Betsy admits she can't tell one car from another. Your Z3 and Murray's Miata are both red sports cars. That's close enough for Betsy OToole. She was familiar with your Z3, but she'd never seen the Miata before. Naturally she assumed it was you.”

“Jesus!” Warren wiped his brow. “Murray killed Ursula! I can't believe it!”

I realized that Warren hadn't heard much of what I'd said. It didn't matter. We had now circled the garden and were back at the head of the driveway. The neighbors had dispersed, but Vida and Milo were standing on the front porch.

“There you are, Doubles,” the sheriff said, somewhat gruffly. “You'd better come inside. You can tell us what happened down at headquarters.”

“He went for the gun,” Warren said, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. “He actually grabbed it, and then we wrestled around on the rug and—”

Milo put up a hand as we moved indoors. “Hold it, Doubles. You're a suspect. I can't play the old-buddy game. We have to go by the book.”

In the entry hall, Warren turned a puzzled face to Milo. “But… it was an accident.”

The sheriff's temper was fraying. “Shut up. It isn't just my part of the job. If this Felton lives, he could file a civil suit against you. Does that sound like something he might do?”

Warren hung his head. “It sure does. He's a real SOB.”

Standing on the threshold of the vast and showy living room, our eyes immediately fell on the bloodstained Portuguese carpet. A tortured groan erupted from Warren's throat.

“That rug cost a fortune. If Ursula could see that, she'd croak!”

Nobody reminded Warren that Ursula already had.

V
IDA DRANK HOT
tea, Milo sipped Scotch, and I nursed a bourbon and water. It was almost midnight, and we were in my humble living room, going over the finer points of the Randall case. Naturally the sheriff brought up the question of Ursula's shoes.

“That's not so difficult,” Vida said a bit testily. She was still annoyed with me for not telling her about Murray. “Ursula probably thought she and that dreadful young man were going for a joyride in his sports car. It didn't occur to her that they would stop by the river. But when they did, she removed her wedgies. Perhaps she left them in Murray's car. When Ursula drowned, Murray had to get rid of the shoes, so he did the logical thing, and tried to put them back on. But he was rattled— he put one on the wrong foot. Then he either panicked, or something startled him. He drove away, with or without the other shoe.”

Milo was still looking puzzled. “So what you're saying is that Murray could have driven up Mount Sawyer and dumped that shoe, or that my original scenario about the party gang may have been right. One of them found the shoe and took it with them.”