"When I saw the ad for Speedy Septic in the Pennysaver, I said, 'That's the ticket. That's what I need: speedy.' Well, they were fast, all right. Weren't here more than fifteen minutes before my septic system was screwed up. Awfully fast in leaving, too, though at least the one fella, Middleton, apologized before he left."

"Did Middleton explain what had happened?"

"No. He was pretty worked up about the situation. All he could say was 'I'm sorry about this, sir.' But I heard him on the phone talking to his boss, Weston-or, more precisely, I overheard how Weston was talking to him. Tough not to, the way he was hollering and carrying on."

"When did Middleton finally tell you that Weston had pushed to complete your job?"

"It was a few weeks later. Jake had just finished repairing the connections and setting in the new tank when Middleton showed up on my lawn, looking mighty sheepish."

"Middleton came here?" Nick clarified.

"Yup. Found out why he looked so sheepish, too. You know, Weston actually had the audacity to send him with a bill?"

"Weston billed you? For what?"

"Parts and labor. He wanted me to pay seventy-five dollars for each of the guys he sent here. One hundred and fifty dollars for less than a half hour of work! Can you believe it? And not only did I not get a new tank, but you know d.a.m.ned well he turned around and sold it to someone else."

"And he didn't send an apology? Didn't call?"

"h.e.l.l, no. Just a big fat bill! I tell ya, that's what's wrong with this country today. No one wants to take responsibility for anything. They overpromise, underdeliver, and then, when something goes wrong, it's the customer's fault."

"Was that the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back? Is that when you decided to sue Weston?" Stella presumed.

"Sue him? I wanted to destroy him. Oh boy, was I mad!" Reid pointed behind his chair. "Took every ounce of willpower not to grab one of those, drive to Weston's office, and put him out of his misery."

Stella stood up to see where the elderly man was pointing. There, obscured from the sofa by the angular club chair, sat a gla.s.s-enclosed case containing seven rifles of varying lengths and gauges. Despite Hank Reid's a.s.sertion that he had resisted temptation, she couldn't help but wonder if one of those rifles could have discharged the bullets that killed Weston.

Nick crossed the room to admire the cabinet and its contents. "That's quite the collection. Are you a big hunter?"

"Sure am. Don't go as much as I used to-the cold and damp bothers my arthritis somethin' fierce-but when the weather's mild and dry, there's nowhere I'd rather be. Say, if you like those, I should show you the den."

"There's more?"

"Oh yeah, another half dozen. And then there's my collection of handguns." He struggled to rise from his chair.

"Oh, I don't think Nick wants to see that right now," Stella suggested. "We'd like you to finish the story first. Maybe you can show Nick the den before we go."

Reid nodded in acquiescence and then told Nick excitedly, "It's not just guns back there. I have the antlers from the first buck I shot. Had them mounted. My wife, rest her soul, hated all that stuff. What you see here was all her doing. She tucked me away in a spare bedroom. Still, she was a good woman. I'll have to show you the rifle I used to win her with. It's hanging on the wall over my desk."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "Win her? What did you do, fight in a duel?"

"Pret' near. Emma was seeing some other fella when I met her. Dumb as a stump he was, too. So I invited him out hunting. I was a good shot back then; still am, but I pretended otherwise just to get his confidence up. Well," Reid started laughing, "I spent the whole morning missing everything I shot at. By the time the day was halfway through, that fella was feeling mighty superior. That's when I suggested we split up; he agreed because I was scaring away all the wildlife. Well, I let him get some ways ahead of me before I tracked him. Him being so dumb, it wasn't hard. I snuck up behind him and shot him in the shoulder."

"What? On purpose?"

"Yup. Told the game warden and the police that I mistook him for a turkey."

"And they believed you?"

" 'Course. d.a.m.ned fool didn't call out and tell me his whereabouts while he was moving, like you're supposed to. Far as anyone knew, I saw the moving brush and fired. Fella knew he had done wrong by not calling out, so he couldn't argue, but he didn't exactly believe me either. He called it off with Emma a few days later." Reid's eyes sparkled. "I think he figured out not to mess with ol' Hank Reid."

"I'm surprised you didn't take Allen Weston out hunting," Stella commented.

"I admit the idea did cross my mind," Reid laughed. "But I'm not quite the hothead I used to be. Weston wouldn't have gone hunting anyways. He was too much of a pantywaist flatlander for that."

"So instead of taking Weston out hunting, you opted to sue him."

"I had already seen a lawyer when Middleton showed up at my door, but I was advised to try and settle the whole thing out of court. I had half a mind to follow that advice until I looked at the bill Weston had sent along. When Middleton saw how angry I was about it, he told me what really happened that day. He told me how he had warned Weston about the flooding in my yard and how Weston had disregarded his warnings. I had suspected as much after hearing parts of their phone conversation, but Middleton confirmed everything. What's more, he agreed to tell his story in court, which was like winning the lottery. You see, without evidence, a jury might a.s.sume that Weston didn't know of the risks of digging up the old tank."

"And Josh Middleton provided that evidence," Nick concluded.

"Right. Before Middleton came forward, the most I could hope to gain from my lawsuit was reimburs.e.m.e.nt for my deposit. But with Middleton's testimony, I could take Weston to the cleaners for negligence."

"Until Middleton was arrested for stealing Weston's truck," Stella pointed out.

Reid grunted. "Talk about a waste of taxpayers' money. If the police had any smarts, they would have seen that for what it was: nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense."

"So you don't believe Middleton's guilty either."

"h.e.l.l, no. That young fella has more smarts and savvy than most people twice his age. Reminds me of myself when I was a kid in the army. Want to see the pictures of me in my uniform?" Reid asked Stella as he once again struggled to get out of his chair. "I served in Korea from 1951 to 1953-"

"In a bit." Stella motioned for Reid to sit back in his chair. "We were talking about Middleton's arrest."

"Oh, right, that." He shook his head in disgust. "It's obvious Weston got wind of Middleton's testimony and decided to put an end to it."

"Did he succeed? I mean, what did your lawyer say about Middleton's testimony, given the theft charges?"

"That if Middleton was in jail when my case went to trial, he prolly wouldn't be allowed to testify."

"And if he weren't in jail?"

"That anything he had to say would be pretty much useless anyway. The jury would think he had an axe to grind with Weston and authority in general."

"And now that Weston's dead?" Nick probed.

"Weston's insurance company would most likely settle for all damages. My deposit, the bill with Jake Brunelle-all of it would be paid for."

"Sounds like the answer to your prayers."

"You just wait a second there, d.i.c.k."

"Nick."

"I'm not so old that I can't tell what you're getting at!"

"He's not getting at anything," Stella interjected. "Except that you're lucky things turned out like they did."

"That's right," Nick agreed. "I'm more interested in your rifle collection than this whole Weston business. Did you happen to go out hunting yesterday?"

" 'Course I did-at least 'til it started raining. I told you 'bout my arthritis. But I don't let it stop me. That's what fall is all about: hunting. Isn't it, d.i.c.k?"

"Nick. Did you get any bear?"

"Nope. Didn't hit a thing."

"Really? I thought you were a good shot."

"I am, but even good shots can have an off day."

"So you didn't shoot anything? Not even accidentally?"

"Now look here, d.i.c.k. I did not shoot Allen Weston. Am I glad that he's dead? h.e.l.l, yes. He was a perfect example of what's wrong with America today. Greedy, liberal slimeball. Good riddance, I say. Good riddance!"

Seeing their cue to exit, Stella rose from the loveseat. "I'm sure d.i.c.k-"

"Nick."

"-didn't mean anything by his comment. He was simply trying to scare up a good hunting story."

"Well, if that's the case, why didn't you just say so? I have tons of stories."

"Oh, and I know he'd just love to hear them. Unfortunately, however, we're out of time for today. Thank you for a lovely visit, Mr. Reid-um, Hank."

Reid, having previously struggled to rise to his feet, was out of his chair like a shot. "Oh, you're going? So soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Yeah, we have some things to take care of." Nick stood up and extended his hand.

"But you didn't see the den or my war pictures," Reid whined as he shook the younger man's hand.

"How about a rain check?" Stella suggested with a brilliant smile.

"You got a date. Oh hey, just one more thing. If you two are trying to play detective, you'd best be careful. I'm a p.u.s.s.ycat, but not everyone in town is as nice as me. I'm also not the only one who might have gained from Weston being six feet under."

Stella struggled to hide her surprise at Reid's use of the word p.u.s.s.ycat. "Um, really?"

"Yep. The kid, Middleton-as much as I like him, I bet it'll be hard to make those charges stick now that Weston's gone. And Jake Brunelle? He had to close shop all winter because Weston was taking away all his business."

"Hmmm. We'll be certain to check that out," Stella a.s.sured him as she inched closer to the front door.

"Hmph," Reid grunted in approval. "You do that. And watch yourselves. This might be a small town, but it's chock-full of nuts."

CHAPTER.

9.

THE WINDSOR BAR and Grill was housed in a circa 1700 tavern set back from the main road just on the edge of town. Its generic white clapboard exterior, faded carved wooden sign, and unpaved parking lot presented a forbidding facade to pa.s.sing tourists, but the locals knew that inside they would be met with cozy stone fireplaces, coffered ceilings, and some of the best comfort food in town.

"My money's on d.i.c.k Cheney," Nick a.s.serted as he slid into a corner booth.

"Who?" Stella asked from across the table.

"Hank Reid and that whole shooting accident story? He practically told us how he did it and how he plans to get away with it."

"By saying he mistook Weston for a turkey? Even if he shot Weston, I doubt he'd use that old story again."

"I don't know," Nick said. "If he can shoot a friend and lie his way out of getting caught, he could easily do the same with Weston."

"It wasn't his friend. It was the boyfriend of the girl he wanted to date. Guys that age do some pretty stupid things to impress a girl."

"Yeah, but shooting someone?"

"You're right. It does sound a bit extreme, doesn't it?"

"A bit?"

"Okay, so Reid's a loose cannon," Stella admitted, "but you're forgetting something: it was damp and cool when Weston was killed. Would Reid have been able to pull off an accurate shot, what with his arthritis acting up?"

"Oh, come on. You don't actually believe that whole rheumatism tripe, do you? Did you see him when we told him we were leaving? He couldn't have moved any faster if we had told him there was an all-you-can-eat buffet down the road."

"You're terrible, you know that?" she chided with a suppressed grin.

"I'm not terrible, I'm honest. I don't buy the feeble old man routine for a second. If Reid's arthritis is as bad as he claims, he wouldn't have been out hunting in the cold and damp yesterday. He would have been at home in his 1950s Barcalounger, sucking back a six-pack of Schlitz or Rheingold or whatever they drank back then and fantasizing about Laura Petrie in capri pants. I don't think Hank Reid's as frail as he makes himself out to be. He shot his wife's ex-boyfriend. He was in Korea for two years. He has antlers mounted in his den and a collection of firearms that rivals that of Walker, Texas Ranger. The dude's hard-core."

"That's just the generation, Nick. They're tougher than we are."

"There's tough and then there's trigger-happy. Look at my dad. He's only a few years younger than Reid, and you don't hear him rambling on about slimeb.a.l.l.s who deserve to be shot-then again, maybe he did say something like that once. But it was years ago, on Christmas Eve, after a couple of Tom and Jerrys. And, to be honest, Uncle Dan always was kinda sleazy."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a brunette waitress dressed in a light blue Windsor Bar and Grill T-shirt, a faded pair of jeans, and a black half-ap.r.o.n. "You here for the burger special?"

"Yes," Nick replied.

"How you want them done?"

"Medium rare, please."

"Medium," Stella ordered.

"You want cheese? It's an extra fifty cents."