“We think Ms. Peltier took her own life,” he said. “We're not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.”

“Did you interview Carter Paragon?”

“I spoke to Mr. Paragon. He never met Grace Peltier.”

Lutz moved a little to his left. The sun was behind him and he stood so that it shone over his shoulder and directly into my eyes. I raised a hand to shade myself and his hand nudged for his gun again.

“Ah-ah,” he said.

“A little jumpy, aren't you, Detective?” I lowered my hand carefully.

“Mr. Paragon sometimes attracts a dangerous element,” he replied. “Good men often find themselves under threat for their beliefs. It's our duty to protect him.”

“Shouldn't that be the job of the police here in Waterville?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Mr. Paragon's secretary preferred to contact me. Waterville police have better things to be doing with their time.”

“And you don't?”

He smiled for the first time. “It's my day off, but I can spare a few minutes for Mr. Paragon.”

“The law never rests.”

“That's right, and I sleep with my eyes open.” He handed my wallet back to me. “You be on your way, now, and don't let me see you around here again. You want to make an appointment with Mr. Paragon, then you contact him during business hours, Monday to Friday. I'm sure his secretary will be happy to help you.”

“Your faith in her is admirable, Detective.”

“Faith is always admirable,” he replied, then started to walk back to his car.

I had pretty much decided that I didn't like Detective Lutz. I wondered what would happen if he was goaded. I decided to find out.

“Amen,” I said. “But if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to stay here and read my magazine.”

Lutz stopped, then walked quickly back to me. I saw the punch coming, but I was against the car and all I could do was curl to one side to take the blow to my ribs instead of my stomach. He hit me so hard I thought I heard a rib crack, the pain lancing through my lower body and sending shock waves right to the tips of my toes. I slid down the side of the Mustang and sat on the road, a dull ache spreading across my stomach and into my groin. I felt like I was going to vomit. Then Lutz reached down and applied pressure from his thumbs and forefingers just below my ears. He was using pain compliance techniques and I yelped in agony as he forced me to rise.

“Don't mock me, Mr. Parker,” he said. “And don't mock my faith. Now get in your car and drive away.”

The pressure eased. Lutz walked over to his car and sat on the hood, waiting for me to leave. I looked over at the Paragon house and saw a woman standing at an upstairs window, watching me. Before I got back into the car, I could have sworn that I saw Ms. Torrance smile.

Lutz's white Acura stayed behind me until I left Waterville and headed north on I-95, but the pain and humiliation I felt meant that the memory of him was with me all the way to Ellsworth. The Hancock County Field Office, home of Troop J of the state police, had dealt with the discovery of Grace Peltier's body. It was a small building on U.S. 1, with a pair of blue state trooper cars parked outside. A sergeant named Fortin told me that her body had been found by Trooper Voisine on a site named Acadia Acres, which was scheduled to be developed for new housing. Voisine was out on patrol but Fortin told me that he'd contact him and ask him to meet me at the site. I thanked him, then followed his directions north until I came to Acadia Acres.

A company called Estate Management was advertising it as the future setting for “roads and views,” although currently there were only rutted tracks and the main view was of dead or fallen trees. There was still some tape blowing in the wind where Grace's car had been found, but that apart, there was nothing to indicate that a young woman's life had come to an end in this place. Still, when I looked around, something bothered me: I couldn't see the road from where I was standing. I went back to the Mustang and drove it up the track until it was in more or less the same position as Grace's car must have occupied. I turned on the lights, then walked down to the road and looked back.

The car still wasn't visible, and I couldn't see its lights through the trees.

As I stood by the roadside, a blue cruiser pulled up beside me and the trooper inside stepped out.

“Mr. Parker?” he asked.

“Trooper Voisine?” I extended a hand and he took it.

He was about my height and age, with receding hair, an “aw shucks” smile, and a small triangular scar on his forehead. He caught me looking at it and reached up to rub it with his right hand.

“Lady hit me on the head with a high-heeled shoe after I pulled her over for speeding,” he explained. “I asked her to step from the car, she stumbled, and when I reached over to help her I caught her heel in my forehead. Sometimes it just don't pay to be polite.”

“Like they say,” I said, “shoot the women first.”

His smile faltered a little, then regained some of its brightness.

“You from away?” he asked.

“From away.” I hadn't heard that phrase in quite some time. Around these parts, “from away” meant any place more than a half-hour's drive from wherever you happened to be standing at the time. It also meant anyone who couldn't trace a local family connection back at least a hundred years. There were people whose grandparents were buried in the nearest cemetery who were still regarded as “from away,” although that wasn't quite as bad as being branded a “rusticator,” the locals' favorite term of abuse for city folks who came Down East in order to get in touch with country living.

“Portland,” I answered.

“Huh.” Voisine sounded unimpressed. He leaned against his car, removed a Quality Light from a pack in his shirt pocket, then offered the pack to me. I shook my head and watched as he lit up. Quality Lights: he'd have been better off throwing the cigarettes away and trying to smoke the packaging.

“You know,” I said, “if we were in a movie, smoking a cigarette would automatically brand you as a bad guy.”

“Is that so?” he replied. “I'll have to remember that.”

“Take it as a crime stopper's tip.”

Somehow, largely through my own efforts, the conversation appeared to have taken a slightly antagonistic turn. I watched while Voisine appraised me through a cloud of cigarette smoke, as if the mutual dislike we instinctively felt had become visible between us.

“Sergeant says you want to talk to me about the Peltier woman,” said Voisine at last.

“That's right. I hear you were the first on the scene.”

He nodded. “There was a lot of blood, but I saw the gun in her hand and thought: suicide. First thing I thought, and it turns out I was right.”

“From what I hear, the verdict may still be open.”

He stared at me, then shrugged. “Did you know her?” he asked.

“A little,” I replied. “From way back.”

“I'm sorry.” He didn't even try to put any emotion into the words.

“What did you do after you found her?”

“Called it in, then waited.”

“Who arrived after you?”

“Another patrol, ambulance. Doc pronounced her dead at the scene.”

“Detectives?”

He flicked his head back like a man who suddenly realizes he has left out something important. It was a curiously theatrical gesture.

“Sure. CID.”

“You remember his name?”

“Lutz. John Lutz.”

“He get here before, or after, the second patrol?”

Voisine paused. “Before,” he said at last.

“Must have got here pretty fast,” I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

Voisine shrugged again. “Guess he was in the area.”

“Guess so,” I said. “Was there anything in the car?”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“Purse, suitcase, that kind of thing?”

“There was a bag with a change of clothes and a small purse with make-up, a wallet, keys.”