Page 43 of Death on Gallows Path

“Sure thing.”

On the return trip, the deputy’s eyes followed my car’s progress.

I resisted the temptation to speed away, keeping the pace steady.

Clara breathed out through her nose. “Okay, now we go see where Damon lived.”

* * * *

Clara’s use of the term go right past as applied to our route from Gallows Path to the Swindells’ neighborhood bordered on mendacious.

Some people abuse the truth because it suits them, they don’t think others can tell the difference, or they’re pathological. Or a combination.

Clara, I believe, did it from an excess of optimism.

Except, of course, when she fibbed to catch murderers.

She directed me to a highway, off that highway onto another highway, then through a couple other turns, finally reaching the road listed for the Swindell address.

Big houses, set well apart dotted the road. Toward the end of it, we identified the Swindell house from the fountain in the front, as Willow mentioned.

Also, the sheriff’s department SUV parked in front.

The house resembled a scaled-down French chateau that oddly settled in a suburban development in Northern Kentucky.

It wasn’t alone in its émigré status. On this road, we’d also seen a white-stucco and red-roof Spanish hacienda, a Tudor revival that must have OD’d on growth hormone, an Italian villa, complete with square turret, and somebody’s idea of a Bavarian castle run through a Disney sketch. I half expected to hear It’s a Small World After All from speakers in the trees.

Each house sat on enough land to avoid hitting elbows, but not enough to prevent visual dissonance.

I slowed to a crawl as we passed the Swindell house.

We saw a bush at the corner of the garage big enough to mask Willow from Damon and his unfriendly visitor.

A glare from a window reminded me of what Willow said about the interior’s gold accoutrements.

I remembered visiting Versailles Palace in France and not caring for it. Gaudy and hollow inside. Ostentatious and rigid outside.

Something outside the house pushed Louis XIV to the background.

A sheriff’s department vehicle out front held another not-Hensen, not-Eckles deputy. This one’s head was down, probably checking his computer, but lingering too long would certainly earn attention we didn’t want.

Navigation said I had a turn coming up — right now.

The turn took us into an area of smaller yards and less . . . architectural adventure.

The Georgers’ address belonged to a Craftsman house that must have nibbled on that growth hormone to grow and grow and grow.

Two more sheriff’s department vehicles were parked in its driveway.

Worse, the front door opened and Deputy Eckles emerged.

I applied the accelerator, avoiding the temptation to floor it.

“I don’t think he saw us,” Clara said, as we turned into another street.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Clara tapped her fingers on her dining table.