Skeleton Key(95)

2


Peter Greer’s house was in New Preston, and “a little bit farther up in the hills” was a good way to describe it, although Gregor might have dispensed with the “little.” The hills were relentless. Gregor had no idea what people did out here when it started to snow—and they had to do something, because there suddenly seemed to be a lot more of them than there had been. It wasn’t that the area was builtup. There was nothing at all like a subdivision, for instance, or a city block. There were, however, a lot of houses, both close to the road and farther back, placed every which way on lots that all seemed to be protected by low stone walls. Every once in a while, there was a wall with a driveway entrance but nothing else to be seen. The house beyond was protected by shrubbery or a thick tangle of trees or sheer distance, so that it couldn’t be seen from the road. Peter Greer’s was one of these houses. At first, all Gregor could see was a square stone pillar with the number 267 attached to it on a burnished bronze plaque, and an oversized blue mailbox.

“If I lived out here, I’d five close to the road,” Stacey said. “I mean, think of the days when you don’t want to go out, but you have to get into your car just to get to your mailbox. Either that, or trek through the snow and the rain just to find out that all you’ve got is another mailing from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.”

Peter Greer’s driveway was narrow and rutted. Stacey Spratz’s patrol car bumped along, threatening to blow a tire every few feet.

“Gravel drives cost a mint to keep up,” he said. “And people run out of money and they stop doing it, and this is what you get instead.”

“Not good,” Gregor said.

“Well, the idiot has probably got an ATV. That could explain it, too.”

ATV. All-Terrain Vehicle. It took a while for Gregor to translate it, and by the time he did they were in the rounded open space in front of the garage. The car sitting there, giving off waves of heat, was a Ford Taurus sedan. It was a new sedan, but as Gregor went around the back of it he could see that it was a rental, from Enterprise, one of the cheapest outfits around. Even so, if it had been his car, Gregor would have wanted to give it a better driveway.

Stacey Spratz called in their location and the phone number where they could be reached until further notice. Gregor got out of the car and looked at the house. It was a remarkable piece of architecture, and “hanging off the side of a hill” wasn’t a bad way to put it, either. The thing must have been bolted into the rock. It went down a sheer cliff above a small stream, and the stream was very far down.

“This thing would give me nightmares,” Gregor said.

“Me, too,” Stacey said.

The front door was opened and a tall, thin, intensely well-dressed man stepped out. Gregor was interested to note that he could tell that Peter Greer was “intensely well-dressed” even though the clothes he was wearing were nominally casual—jeans, button-down shirt, sweater. The shirt was a good broadcloth, though, and the sweater was cashmere. Even the jeans looked expensive.

“Mr. Demarkian?” Peter Greer said.

“I’m Gregor Demarkian,” Gregor said.

“Mr. Greer and I have met,” Stacey Spratz said.

Peter Greer stepped back and motioned Gregor and Stacey into the house. The inside turned out to be just as spectacular as the outside had been. Just inside the door was a foyer. The ceiling of it rose two-and-a-half stories above their heads. Beyond the foyer was a living room, which also had a ceiling two-and-a-half stories tall. It also had a solid wall of windows looking out on the sheer drop and the stream below.

“This is a remarkable house,” Gregor Demarkian said.

“Yes, isn’t it? Lindal Cedar Homes. That’s the company that made the kit that it was built from. Custom designed, by the way. I saw an example of their work up in Salisbury and I had to have one.”

“It must have cost a lot of money.”

“I think it makes sense to spend money on where you live, don’t you? After all, you’re going to spend most of your time there.”

Most people spent a significant part of their time at their offices, but Gregor didn’t mention it. He assumed Peter Greer worked hard enough. Starting a successful business and turning it into a player in the national market was not a hobby. He allowed himself to be led into the living room and offered a chair. The chairs, and the sofa, were all navy blue leather.

Peter Greer went to the bar built into the side of one wall and poured himself a Perrier and lime. He gestured to Stacey and Gregor, offering, but they both declined.

“So,” he said. “You’ve come to talk about Kayla. And to get my alibi.”