“Does that mean Bucky was having an affair?” she asked.

Carpenter shrugged. “Maybe. Either that, or he was hoping to or seeing professionals. Whichever, it does throw a somewhat different light on the situation. And it opens us up to the idea that things around here might he somewhat more complicated than they look.”

Joanna thought about that as Carpenter stowed his collection of glassine bags in a scarred but ample briefcase. In the aftermath of Andy’s death, there had been some question about whether or not he had been having an affair, too. Even though those suspicions had eventually proved groundless, Joanna knew from personal experience how much the unwarranted allegations had bothered her-how much additional and needless hurt they had added to her pain. The same thing could happen to Terry Buckwalter if unfounded hints of Bucky’s infidelity were tossed around during the investigation into the veterinarian’s death.

“What if Terry doesn’t know anything about the possibility that her husband was messing around on her?” Joanna asked.

Carpenter seemed unconcerned. “She’s bound to find out eventually,” he said.

“Not necessarily,” Joanna returned. “I’d hate to think that someone in my department was responsible for telling her.”

“As in ignorance is bliss?” Ernie asked.

“No,” Joanna returned. “Not bliss. It’s just that sometimes being allowed to believe a lie is less painful than knowing the truth.”

Ernie gave Joanna a searching look. “You don’t want me to tell her?”

“Right,” Joanna replied. “Not if it isn’t necessary. Remember what happened with Andy?”

Ernie Carpenter was one of the homicide detectives who come to Joanna’s house to question her, bringing with him those unfounded and hurtful rumors.

Ernie Carpenter looked down and examined his feet. “A good cop was dead,” he said huskily. “In what had been made to look like a suicide. Maybe I was a little overzealous, but it was my job to figure out what had happened. I’ve been sorry about that ever since.”

Joanna nodded. “Me, too,” she said. “And if there’s any way to keep that kind of ugliness from happening to some other human being, I’d like to. You’re a homicide detective, Ernie. I’m not telling you how to do your job. I’m just asking you to go a little easy on Terry Buckwalter. Don’t tear her heart up in little pieces and step on them, not if you don’t need to. If Hal Morgan turns out to be our killer, then there’ll be no need to bring any of this up, will there? No need to mention the condoms at all.”

At least Ernie Carpenter did Joanna the courtesy of considering for a moment before he replied. “Like I said before, Sheriff Brady, this is a small town. If Bucky Buckwalter was screwing around behind Terry’s back, there’ll be plenty of other people besides me who’ll be willing to tell her so. The fact is, maybe she already knows.”

“That’s different from having the information come from you or from someone in my department,” Joanna returned. “All I’m saying is if it isn’t necessary to the case, don’t bring it up. Do I have your word on that?”

Ernie Carpenter shook his grizzled head. “I can’t promise it won’t come up,” he said at last. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Detective Carpenter,” Joanna said. “Your best is good enough for me.”

By three o’clock, the crime-scene investigation was pretty well complete. Ernie had retreated into the clinic’s restroom to change back into his street clothes, and Joanna was about to head back to the department. Just as she was climbing into the Blazer, Terry Buckwalter’s mottled white T-Bird bounced over the cattle guard and stopped just inside the clinic compound.

Deputy Dave Hollicker had been stationed at the clinic’s entrance all afternoon, telling whoever tried to turn into the parking lot-potential clients and gawkers alike-that they would have to come back some other time.

As soon as Deputy Hollicker waved the T-Bird to a stop, Joanna headed in that direction. Dave wasn’t a bad guy, but he had all the subtlety of a baseball bat. Joanna didn’t want him to be the one who told Terry Buckwalter that her husband was dead.

As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Dick Voland had issued orders that no information was to be released by anyone other than Frank Montoya, the public information officer. Dave Hollicker was exceptionally good about obeying orders.

When Joanna reached the T-Bird, a frowning Terry Buckwalter peered up at her in frustration. “What the hell is going on here?” she demanded. “This is my property-my business-but your jackass deputy here won’t let me in, and he won’t tell me what’s going on, either.”

“It’s all right, Deputy Hollicker,” Joanna said. “Let her through. I’ll take over from here.”

They moved forward that way, with Terry Buckwalter driving the T-Bird as Joanna walked alongside. Terry left the driver’s window rolled down so they could speak as they went.

Not knowing where to begin, Joanna took a deep, steadying. breath. “There’s been a fire,” she said.

“I know that,” Terry replied impatiently. “A fire in the barn. Somebody who knows I golf at Rob Roy in the afternoons called out there and spoke to Esther Thomas, the lady who runs the restaurant. Esther sent Tom out on the course to find me and let me know. I can see the barn from here. From the way it sounded, I expected it to he a complete loss, but it doesn’t look that bad. So what’s the problem? Why all the fuss?”

She glanced off in the direction of the barn. “I’ve told Bucky a thousand times not to smoke in the barn, but he never listens to me.” Parking in the empty space next to Bebe Noonan’s Honda, Terry jammed down on the emergency brake and then stepped out of the car, leaving the door open and the keys in the ignition.

“Terry,” Joanna said. “The fire had nothing to do with cigarettes. It may have been arson.”

“Arson,” Terry repeated with a puzzled frown. “Why would anyone want to do that? And what does Bucky think about all this?”

“I’m afraid things are much worse than they look. About Bucky…”

“What about him? Where is he?”

Joanna remembered hearing her father, D. H. Lathrop, and her late husband, Andy-both of them police officers-say that the worst part of being a cop was having to deliver death notifications. After little more than two months in office, Sheriff Joanna Brady already knew from personal experience that the same thing applied to her. Delivering that wrenching news was the worst duty possible.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Terry, but your husband is dead.”

As soon as Joanna uttered the words, Terry Buckwalter’s knees seemed to collapse beneath her. Her breath came out in a gasp, and her well-tanned face turned pale and her lips stark-white, as she sank back down into the driver’s seat of the car.

Seeing Terry’s reaction, Joanna immediately began railing at herself for botching the job. Stingily there must have been some better way to deliver the news than simply saying, “Your husband is dead.” Wasn’t there something else she might have said, something gentler that would have cushioned the blow? Couldn’t she have found some softer words that would have blunted the impact of that starkly life-changing reality?

“Dead?” Terry repeated, as though in a daze and n t quite capable of grasping the word. “You’re saying Bucky is dead?”

Joanna nodded. “The firefighters found him in the back of the barn when they went inside to douse the flames.”

Terry Buckwalter leaned back against the headrest of the seat, momentarily closing her eyes. Joanna expected that any moment a torrent of tears would start, but that didn’t happen.

“How can that be?” Terry murmured. “He was fine when I left at noon. What happened?”

“We won’t know for sure about that until after the autopsy.”

The word “autopsy” seemed to be a catalyst. Terry grasped the steering wheel with both hands and pulled her-self up straight. Since she still hadn’t taken the keys out of the ignition, a hollow bell-like tone was bonging out some internal warning signal. The racket was driving Joanna crazy, but Terry Buckwalter seemed oblivious to it.