The fields fall gently behind the Wayside Theatre to the banks of Coldpound Creek. There the gray Pennsylvania rock drops into icy waters hurrying to their meeting with the Delaware. October sun fell this morning onto gray rock, green trees, saffron fields. Fell as well on the crumpled body of Miss Mary Gregg, half immersed.
Mary Gregg, late of the Wayside Theatre, was wearing a flannel skirt and matching cashmere sweater, a camelhair coat which floated along the water, pinned by her shoulders. One foot was doubled under her, and russet curls fanned out into the eddies of the stream. She must, thought Andy Pine, have been spectacular. He shivered on the bank above her body, and turned to Robert Dean beside him.
The young man chattered too. He had arrived, near-hysterical, at Andy’s door
