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SEVEN

“QUESTION: WHY DOES A woman who graduates summa cum laude from one of the best law schools in the country, then lands a job at one of the top law firms in Chicago, come back to Hemingway freakin’ Grove to live and practice small-town family law?”

Tommy Malone clicks off his handheld recorder and taps the brake as the car in front of his, a green Jeep driven by Darlene Farraday, comes to a stop on the road outside Hemingway’s Pub, left turn signal blinking. The parking lot is pretty full, impressive for a Monday night near midnight. The pub itself is done up well for tonight’s pre-Halloween party. The giant statue of Ernest Hemingway stands front and center on the lawn overlooking the street, a giant witch’s hat propped atop Ernie’s head, the statue surrounded by ornate backlit tombstones and pumpkins.

Fun, he thinks, without being too cheesy. Pretty damn expensive, too.

Darlene’s car turns into the lot. Tommy follows in with his rental. Darlene drives her car around to the rear of the building. Tommy stops much sooner, along the street side of the paved lot.

He kills the engine and waits for Darlene. While waiting, he raises the recorder to his mouth again.

“Question: How do a lawyer with individual one-time clients and a bar owner with small profit margins manage to build a new house that must have set them back a million dollars? In cash, no less — no mortgage?”

He hears the door slam on Darlene’s car. He reaches under his seat and removes the hammer.

Darlene takes the walkway up to the pub’s side entrance, adjusting the purse strap over her shoulder. She’s tall and fit at age forty, roughly the same build as Marcie Bowers, who is the same age. Pretty, too, he thinks as Darlene enters the pub.

Not like Marcie, though. Marcie is … striking. Not just those eyes, those sculpted features, but the way she carried herself this morning as she hustled around the town square searching for her dog, surely stressed and hurried but burying all that under an implacable expression, even managing to be polite to Tommy, seated on the bench.

Formidable, Tommy thinks. That’s the word. Marcie Bowers is formidable.

Tommy reaches into the glove compartment and removes a long rusty nail he found at a construction site down the street. He gets out of his rental car, hearing the vague sounds of music, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, from the pub. He walks over to Darlene’s Jeep in the rear of the lot, looking around for anyone else, but they’re all inside boozing it up and socializing.

He stops at Darlene’s Jeep. Glances around again. Then he squats down and hammers the nail into the rear driver’s-side tire.