She fixated on the mirror. Her lips had always bothered her. They were nearly flat planes and she used two subtly different shades of lipstick to give them dimension. And, when she remembered, she would keep the bottom lip curled forward slightly. This tended to make her look more pouty than sensuous, but, in her experience, men liked pouting women as much as sexy ones.

Out of the shower, drying her thin legs and waist, Meg stepped on the scale automatically, though she'd never weighed a pound over 105 since a month after Sam was born. She combed her hair straight, pulled on her robe.

She called down the hall, "Sam, let's go, honey."

In the bedroom Keith was still in bed. He seemed asleep. As she passed he groped playfully for her butt. She slapped his hand gently then tugged at his arm. "Up, up!" she called. "The world awaits."

He groaned.

Meg walked down the stairs. She didn't put on her slippers until she stepped into the kitchen. She liked the touch of the carpet on her feet in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, rolls were warm, coffee was hot. Meg was sipping from a heavy mug and wondering where they got the crazy names for kids' breakfast cereal when Sam came thumping down the stairs. He was his father's son in many ways. In the morning he was groggy, puffy faced, his sandy hair going at odd angles. But unlike Keith (a pudgy boy forty years ago, a pudgy man now), Sam was lean and tall.

And brilliant. This gift was from his father. If Meg had said prayers, she would have thanked the generic all-powerful spirit she nearly believed in that Sam had received the gene for Keith's brains, not hers.

Meg Torrens, with two years' community college, was going to be the mother of Samuel K. Torrens, Ph.D., cum laude.

Keith came down the stairs slowly, wearing knife-crease gray slacks, a white dress shirt, a green-and-black striped tie.

She poured coffee. He said, "Thanks, darling," and started working on a sweetroll.

They paid the premium for the New York Times but Keith preferred the Cleary Leader, which if you read it regularly would really scare the hell out of you, and make you think that Dutchess County was filled with nothing but murderers, child molesters and the mournful classmates of teenagers who'd driven the family car into trains while tanked up on their father's vodka. Today was Tuesday, publication day, and he read the thin paper hungrily, boning up on local gossip.

"Hey, Mom," Sam said, sitting forward on his chair, making valleys in his cereal. "What happens when a duck flies upside down?"

Meg knew that success as a mother, just like success as a politician, is largely dependent on cheerful insincerity. She turned to him, thought a moment, then frowned. "I have no idea. What?"

"He quacks up!" He laughed. Meg did too and wiped a bit of Smurf off his cheek. Keith grunted a laugh and ruffled the boy's hair.

Sam dodged away and shook his hair back into place. "Dad!"

Keith looked at him for a moment, an affectionate gaze, then turned back to the paper. There was a shyness about Keith, even with his wife and son, and he didn't look up as he said, "If I don't have to work, how about going to the game on Saturday?" It was as though he was afraid they'd turn him down. He added, "They're playing…" He looked at Meg. "Who're they playing?"

The high school team's standing and upcoming opponents were pretty much common knowledge in Cleary. Meg said, "No game this weekend, remember? It's the festival. If you're taking time off we can all go."

"Yeah!" said Sam, his voice breaking.

"Sounds good."

Meg said, "Maybe I should enter my apple butter."

Keith said slowly, "Well, sure. You could."

He and Sam looked at each other.

She said, "It wasn't that bad."

"It like tasted good, Mom. It really did."

"Maybe," Keith said delicately, "next time, just some food color."

"Critics." Meg turned to the Times classified real estate section and added up the commissions she would have made last year if she were selling houses in Scarsdale or Greenwich instead of Cleary.

At seven-thirty: the bus arrived and Meg pitched Sam his pro-wrestling lunch box. He hugged her then disappeared out the front door.

Keith said, "That guy ever call the insurance company?"

Meg asked, "What guy?"

"Your accident? That guy with the movie company."

Bzzzt.

"Oh, him. I'd forgotten about him. I don't know. I'll call Jim. Find out."

Keith looked at his watch, muttered, "Damn," and walked quickly up the stairs. He returned ten minutes later; he'd added spit-shined shoes and a navy blazer to his uniform of the day.

They brushed cheeks and he walked out the screen door. She called, "Bye, honey."

Keith said something to her and lifted his hand but she missed his words. They were obscured by a sound that started running through her head again, the whir of the Polaroid, which this time, try though she might, she could not force out of her thoughts.

"Mr. Pellam."

Pellam smiled and shook the man's hand, glancing around him.

The scene was something out of a really bad movie-one that Alan Lefkowitz wouldn't have come close to. He was in a little, close-smelling town-government office. A lumber yard calendar on the wall, a dead plant in a drought-struck flower pot, a few yellowing files, a map dated 1964. The smell of bitter old coffee, papers, musty cardboard.

And at the desk: a local pol-looking just like Oral Roberts-with a tight grin he no way in the world meant.

"You're the mayor, that correct?"

"Hank Moorhouse." Silver hair, baby-blue suit, shiny pale green shirt and striped brown and yellow tie. Jowls and chicken skin. His eyes were bloodshot. "Mayor and town magistrate. First, let me say how sorry we are about what happened to your friend. Is there anything I can do?"

Pellam discreetly studied Moorhouse's Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit. "I'd like to see the coroner's report on my friend's death. The deputy-"

And damn if the man wasn't nodding and looking over his desk. He pulled a file out from underneath a stack of papers. "Sure thing, sir. Here you go."

Pellam opened it. On top of the report were pictures of Marty's body-taken at the scene of the fire and during the autopsy. It was like a jolt of electricity seeing those photos. He closed his eyes for a moment then glanced at Moorhouse's impassive face and shuffled the glossy pictures to the back. He read the short, badly typed report.

The cause of death was shock and loss of blood due to massive burns. There was evidence of some alcohol in the blood stream but no drugs.

"How do you figure he was killed doing drugs if the coroner didn't find any in his system?"

Moorhouse sniffed a cautious laugh. "Oh, well, that's easy. Pretty clear he was killed before he had a chance to smoke anything."

Pellam handed the file back. "I'd like to see the police report, if it's possible."

"Sorry. That's not public-"

"-record material."

Moorhouse said, "Nosir. That's correct."

"Did you consider the possibility he was murdered?"

"That's not my job, sir. The sheriff and the coroner make that determination. Tom-he's the sheriff-he's out of town for a day or so. And as for the coroner, well, what does that tell you?" Moorhouse tapped the file. "County doc seemed to think it was pretty straightforward."

Pellam asked, "What about the permits?"

Moorhouse swivelled back in his green leatherette chair. "Don't need to see me about that. Town clerk can issue them."

"He can?"

"Yep. Deer'll cost you twenty-five. Bear's protected. Geese-"

Pellam smiled. "I understand you decided not to issue obstruction permits to my movie company."