The wind gusted outside bringing a bevy of new noises into the room. Gwen slipped off her bra and then got up off the bed, undoing her skirt and letting it fall to the floor. The vision of Paynter lying in the pool of blood forced a moan from her throat and she plodded into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

When it was hot enough, she shed the rest of her things and stepped into the pummelling stream, immediately ducking her head into the spray, hoping to wipe away Paynter's image. She tried to think about her predicament. At first she'd thought that she'd killed him, but the news came out that he was beaten and stabbed the same night she had been to see him.

Gwen knew none of that was her doing – the bottle incident aside – so who was it? Who killed Paynter after she left, and was there any trace of her having been there? Of course there was – the bottle! She placed both palms against the shower wall and let the stinging water course down her back.

><><><><

Doc Butler leaned on the door frame, the ash from his cigarette spilling carelessly down the front of his cardigan. Brian looked up and sighed, waving him in.

"I know, I know... I said tomorrow...today. So what's so important?"

"I don't believe Paynter was killed in his house." He sat down in the solitary chair and leaned on the front of the desk. "And I don't think all the blows to the head occurred at the same time."

"Care to enlighten me? Particularly since Ingersol established otherwise."

"They didn't, actually. Their final report says the scene was too messed up to determine if it was the actual sight. The fact that there was so much blood on the floor just made it an easy surmise. Don't forget, the murder weapon was found in the barn."

"I know, I found it but so what? The killer just hid it out there figuring nobody would look."

Doc flapped a hand and slumped back on his seat. "So what about the knife?"

"What knife?"

"The stab wound, remember—after he was dead?"

"You know, Doc, this is all Ingersol's problem now, let's let them look after it." He pushed the ashtray across the desk. "You wanna use this before you self immolate?"

Doc Butler snorted and stabbed out the remainder of his smoke in the ashtray. "What happened to the keen policeman who didn't want any help solving a mystery?"

"I made some inquiries," Brian protested. "I just didn't like some of the personal stuff that came out. Stuff that was unrelated to the Paynter business. I was going to follow up on the pipe after I found out it came from Garrison's and I wanted to interview the judge 'cause he bought some but..."

"Jesus, what made this town elect you sheriff?" Doc snorted, hoisting himself out of the chair and hovering for a moment in front of the desk before stomping out.

Brian swore at himself under his breath. Doc was right; he was just making excuses because he was lazy. So what if he found out about the community's secret vices, a good sheriff should know that stuff. Be discreet about it. File it away. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the slim file the Ingersol police had sent to him. He read everything again, slowly, keeping the doctor's suspicions in mind as he did.

Think laterally, stupid! Or what's the other fad phrase – outside the box?

The report was very light on information about the knife, and he wondered if they were just ignoring it, since it was postmortem, or if they weren't telling him everything. What about that knife? Why would the killer hide the pipe near the scene but not the knife? Why put the body back in the house if the killing took place in the barn? And why stab a dead body?

A gust of noisy wind drew his attention to the window; long streaks of rain slanted down the glass panes and the sky quickly grew a dirty grey.

><><><><

November replaced October on the stage and introduced a fiery blaze of colour across the landscape that even the seemingly perpetual rain couldn't diminish. Unfortunately, it was all flash, and very soon the same brilliant colours were little more than street litter that needed to be swept into piles and burned, attracting the wide-eyed, daring curiosity of the school children.

Brian read the several messages relayed by Marge, three from Irving Keldman regarding the behaviour of the children around his store, one from Gilly Gilly requesting a call back as soon as possible and one from Ethel Howerchuck.

He tossed Irving's complaints into the wastebasket and spread the other two on his desk blotter, leaning over them and trying to guess what they might be about. Gilly's came in first, so he took them in order and rang Marge, asking to be connected to the restaurant.

"Brian? Great, glad you could call back."

Gilly's voice had always conjured up country cooking and small town friendliness, until, that is, he learned about the Blue Nights Club. Now he thought he could sense a rougher edge, a kind of weary experience. He cleared his throat and answered. "What's up, Gilly?"

"About that business the other day, with those two detectives?"

"What about it?"

"Ricky doesn't know about that part of my life, Brian..." She let it trail away, hoping he would catch on without her having to plead.

"What is it you want from me, Gilly?" He knew very well, and he felt like a shit making her say it. What was his problem? He'd always liked Gilly. Was it the fact she knew the Ingersol detectives and might tell them something about him? Was he a giant sized jerk that was behaving like an asshole? Yes! "Never mind, I know." The line between them hung silently.

"It was a long time ago, Brian," she said defensively.

"None of my business, Gilly. And Ricky will never hear it from me."

He could hear her exhale quietly, and she breathed grateful thanks into the phone before hanging up.

><><><><

Ethel Howerchuck was not content with a telephone explanation, she wanted Brian to drive up and see her at her home. Since the Judge was one of the town biggies, Brian agreed.

Past the eyesore that was once Paynter Gough's place and over a small crest, the road gave way to a sprawling valley of nature's pallet. The fall colours were still clinging desperately to the sheltered trees although barren holes were beginning to dot the canvass. Judge Howerchuck's estate stood bold and erect among the scenery.

A rambling, single storey, stone and rough hewn pine retreat, architecturally perfect in its setting. A silver thread of smoke waved up from the chimney, beckoning seductively to Brian as he swung his Toyota through the wide gates and down the crushed rock drive to the house. Ethel watched from the doorway as he crossed the drive and stepped up onto the porch.

"Please come in, Sheriff." She left him to close the door and follow her into the massive living room containing equally massive furniture. The judge was obviously a man of grand proportions when it came to decorating. Brian took the indicated chair by the fireplace and immediately sank out of sight between the shoulder high armrests.

Ethel situated herself opposite in a smaller version more suited to her tinier stature. Over the almost walk-in hearth hung a huge, full-length portrait of the judge in his legal attire, gazing pontifically over the room.

Brian squirmed forward and perched on the edge of the seat cushion, elbows braced on his knees.

"So, how are you, Mrs. Howerchuck?"

"Upset, sheriff. Very upset." She canted her head forward and stared, awaiting the obvious inquiry. When Brian just shook his head slightly, she sighed and straightened the giant diamond ring on her finger. "Ever since my... neighbour died, there has been a steady stream of curiosity seekers, poachers and young people using the drive as a lover's lane."

"Poachers?" Brian couldn't imagine what could possibly be poached on Gough's property.

"People illegally cutting trees and removing plants and shrubs." She bristled.

"Aah... well... do you know who might be doing these things?"

"I believe that would be your job to ascertain who these trespassers are." Shoulders squared, chin firmed and gaze steadied.

Brian sagged inside. He might as well arrest half the town and be done with it. Even Polly was probably out here digging up wildflowers or whatever for her aboriginal potions. As for the lovers, well Brian wasn't heading down that road any time soon; it was bad enough he knew of one already, and it was no kid.

"Mrs. Howerchuck, I'll see that some official signs are posted on the property and I will talk to some of the council about cautioning their constituency regarding your concerns." The alliteration made him smile and he quickly shunned it for a more guileless expression.

She closed her face slightly, unsure of his sincerity. "Well, I guess I will have to be satisfied with that, won't I?"

"Without any positive leads, ma'am, there's very little else I can do. The council won't condone a twenty-four hour stakeout to catch some kids necking."

"The Judge may have something to say about that, sheriff." Ethel rose to indicate his time was up.

"Mrs. Howerchuck, please don't take this the wrong way," he said, standing with her, "but Split Oaks is in the middle of a homicide investigation, a homicide quite possibly committed by one of our citizens." Her face paled as he spoke. "My attention has to be focused on that and not really on tree-cutters, poachers or kids."

He gave her a huge smile and a slight bow and bid her a pleasant day as he strode quickly across the savannah of broadloom and out the front door. The Toyota sped down the narrow road, leaving a kaleidoscopic mass of leaves swirling in its wake.

This was definitely a feature of the job Brian was beginning to hate, self-important people with petty complaints and a population too small to have any kind of privacy. He forgot to toot his siren passing the school and the missed reaction made him angrier.

Back at his office Marge had left another message from Irving and Brian grabbed it up, stomping back down the stairs and down the street to the grocery store. Irving was outside, sweeping away a clutter of leaves, his white apron flapping about his thighs with each swipe of the broom.

"Irving!" Brian marched up and stopped almost on top of the broom. "Have you got nothing better to do than spend all your time phoning my office about the kids around here? They're all in school for cryin' out loud!"

Irving tugged the broom away and stood at attention with it. "I wouldn't have to if you did your job, Brian. What they are doing is called theft in my book."

"And what is they're thieving, Irving?"

"They come in here after school and break open bags of beans for their damn pea shooters, that's what."

Brian clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "Have you got a bowl and a piece of card?"

"Huh? What fo—"

"Have you!"

Irving scurried inside and hunted down the articles, turning to find Brian at the counter, holding a marker. "What are you going to do?"

"Just give me the card and go and get a fresh bag of beans."

When Irving came back, Brian tore open the bag and poured the beans into the bowl then stood the card up behind it on the counter. "There," he said, taking out a five dollar bill and dropping beside the bowl. "When that runs out, let me know." Irving came closer to read the card and then watched the stiff, retreating back of the sheriff striding down the street.

The card read:

Kids – help yourselves but don't be greedy- Compliments Keldman's Grocery.