THERE WAS a somnolent stillness out at the Ashtons’. O’Leary looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past nine, too early for them. Or for Arthur Dunning, whom he had no interest in seeing. The matchstick curtains were still drawn in the two-room studio apartment over the garage that had been Kathy’s house . . . the old shack, Stan had called it. Dunning’s yellow midget car was in the middle of the road where Lucy had left it. Anita’s Cadillac, still alongside the bright blue convertible, where it had been when Spig made his other call, blocked the drive in front of the house. He pulled to a stop behind the midget, prepared to cool his heels.
Then he saw they were up, or somebody was. A curtain moved in one of the long windows at the bridge side of the house, and he saw a golden head, Ani
