Gorman shook his head. “She grew up in a mining town, down in West Virginia. Came up here to take a summer job as a waitress. That’s how she met Kenny. I think he married her because she was the only one who’d put up with his crap. But it didn’t sound like a happy marriage. Especially after the accident.”

“Accident?”

“Few years ago. Kenny was driving, boozed up as usual. Ran his car into a tree. He walked away without a scratch-just his luck, right? But Maria Jean ended up in the hospital for three months.”

“That must be when she broke her thighbone.”

“What?”

“There was a surgical rod in her femur. And two fused vertebrae.”

Gorman nodded. “I heard she had a limp. A real shame, too, ‘cause she was a nice-looking woman.”

And ugly women don’t mind limping, Rizzoli thought, but held her tongue. She crossed to a wall of built-in shelves and studied a photograph of a couple in bathing suits. They were standing on a beach, turquoise water lapping at their ankles. The woman was elfin, almost childlike, her dark-brown hair falling to her shoulders. Now corpse hair, Rizzoli couldn’t help thinking. The man was fair-haired, his waist already starting to thicken, muscle turning to flab. What might have been an attractive face was ruined by his vague expression of disdain.

“The marriage was unhappy?” said Rizzoli.

“That’s what the housekeeper told me. After the accident, Maria Jean didn’t want to travel much. Kenny could only drag her as far as Boston. But Kenny, he was used to heading for St. Bart’s every January, so he’d just leave her here.”

“Alone?”

Gorman nodded. “Nice guy, huh? She had a housekeeper who’d run errands for her. Did the cleaning. Took her shopping, since Maria Jean didn’t like to drive. Kind of a lonely place up here, but the housekeeper thought Maria Jean actually seemed happier when Kenny wasn’t around.” Gorman paused. “I have to admit, after we found Kenny, the possibility kind of crossed my mind that…”

“That Maria Jean did it,” said Rizzoli.

“It’s always the first consideration.” He reached into his jacket for a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Does it seem hot in here to you?”

“It’s warm.”

“I’m not too good with the heat these days. Body’s still out of whack. That’s what I get for eating clams in Mexico.”

They crossed the living room, past the spectral forms of sheet-draped furniture, past a massive stone fireplace with a neat bundle of split logs stacked beside the hearth. Fuel to feed the flames on a chilly Maine night. Gorman led them to an area of the room where there was only bare floor and the wall was a blank white, undecorated. Rizzoli stared at the fresh coat of paint, and the hairs on the back of her neck stirred and bristled. She looked down at the floor and saw that the oak was paler here, sanded and revarnished. But blood is not so easily obliterated, and were they to darken the room and spray with luminol, the floor would still cry with blood, its chemical traces embedded too deeply into the cracks and grain of the wood to ever be completely erased.

“Kenny was propped up here,” said Gorman, pointing to the newly painted wall. “Legs out in front of him, arms behind him. Wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. Single slash to the neck, Rambo-type knife.”

“There were no other wounds?” asked Rizzoli.

“Just the neck. Like an execution.”

“Stun gun marks?”

Gorman paused. “You know, he was here about two days when the housekeeper found him. Two warm days. By then, the skin wasn’t looking too good. Not to mention smelling too good. Could’ve easily missed a stun gun mark.”

“Did you ever examine this floor under an alternate light source?”

“It was pretty much a bloody mess in here. I’m not sure what we would have seen under a Luma-lite. But it’s all on the crime scene video.” He glanced around the room and spotted the TV and VCR. “Why don’t we take a look at it? It should answer most of your questions.” Rizzoli crossed to the TV, pressed the ON buttons, and inserted the tape into the slot. The Home Shopping Network blared from the TV, featuring a zirconium pendant necklace for only $99.95, its facets sparkling on the throat of a swan-necked model.

“These things drive me crazy,” Rizzoli said, fiddling with two different remotes. “I never did learn how to program mine.” She glanced at Frost.

“Hey, don’t ask me.”

Gorman sighed and took the remote. The zirconium-bedecked model suddenly vanished, replaced by a view of the Waites’ driveway. Wind hissed in the microphone, distorting the cameraman’s voice as he stated his name, DetectivePardee, the time, date, and location. It was five P.M. on June 2, a blustery day, the trees swaying. Pardee turned the camera toward the house and began walking up the steps, the camera’s image jittering on the TV. Rizzoli saw geraniums blooming in pots, the same geraniums that were now dead from neglect. A voice was heard, calling to Pardee, and the screen went blank for a few seconds.

“The front door was found unlocked,” said Gorman. “Housekeeper said that wasn’t unusual. People around here often leave their doors unlocked. She assumed someone was home, since Maria Jean never goes anywhere. She knocked first, but there was no answer.”

A fresh image suddenly sprang into view on-screen, the camera aimed through the open doorway, straight into the living room. This was what the housekeeper must have registered as she opened the door. As the stench, and the horror, washed over her.

“She took maybe one step into the house,” said Gorman. “Saw Kenny up against the far wall. And all that blood. Doesn’t remember seeing much of anything else. Just wanted to get the hell out of the house. Jumped in her car and hit the gas pedal so hard her tires dug tracks in the gravel.”

The camera moved into the room, panning across furniture, closing in on the main event: Kenneth Waite III, dressed only in boxer shorts, his head lolling to his chest. Early decomposition had bloated his features. The gas-filled abdomen ballooned out, and the face was swollen beyond resemblance to anything human. But it wasn’t the face she focused on; it was the object of incongruous delicacy, placed on his thighs.

“We didn’t know what to make of that,” said Gorman. “It looked to me like some sort of symbolic artifact. That’s how I classified it. A way of ridiculing the victim. ‘Look at me, all tied up, with this stupid teacup on my lap.’ It’s just what a wife might do to her husband, to show how much she despises him.” He sighed. “But that’s when I thought it might be Maria Jean who did it.”

The camera turned from the corpse and was moving up the hallway now. Retracing the killer’s steps, toward the bedroom where Kenny and Maria Jean had slept. The image swayed like the stomach-churning view through the porthole of a rocking ship. The camera paused at each doorway to offer a glimpse inside. First a bathroom, then a guest bedroom. As it continued up the hallway, Rizzoli’s pulse quickened. Without realizing it, she had stepped closer to the TV, as though she, and not Pardee, were the one walking up that long corridor.

Suddenly a view of the master bedroom swung onto the screen. Windows with green damask curtains. A dresser and wardrobe, both painted white, and the closet door. A four-poster bed, the covers pulled back, almost stripped off.

“They were surprised while sleeping,” said Gorman. “Kenny’s stomach was almost empty of food. At the time he was killed, he hadn’t eaten for at least eight hours.”

Rizzoli moved even closer to the TV, her gaze rapidly scanning the screen. Now Pardee turned back to the hallway.

“Rewind it,” she said to Gorman.

“Why?”

“Just go back. To when we first see the bedroom.”

Gorman handed her the remote. “It’s yours.”