Black Ribbon

State of Maine are, of course, armed—so, for that matter, is the bulk of the citizenry —but sheriffs and their deputies carry up-to-date weapons in ordinary holsters, as do the state and local police. County sheriffs and deputies are important in Maine because—believe it or not, New Yorkers—up in the wild woods, there’s mile after beautiful square mile of sparsely-populated land divided into what the tax bills call “unorganized territories,” areas with names but no governments, and entities marked on the maps only by abbreviations that must mystify the tourists, T3 R13 WELS—Township 3 Range 13 West of the Easterly Line of the State—Big Ten Township, Rainbow, Redington, and plantations, too, in all of which, there being no local police to call, you holler for the deputy, who may, as in the case of Wayne Varney, also be a police officer in a nearby town. All that’s assuming that you haven’t had a boating accident, which would be Fish and Game’s business, or... Well, you get the idea. And Eva Spitteler clearly hadn’t had a boating accident. In fact, soon after the pale blue Chevy Caprice cruiser pulled into the parking lot of the Mooselookmeguntic Four Seasons Resort Lodge and Cabins, Wayne Varney refused to assume that Eva’s death had been any kind of accident at all.
    I heard the siren in the distance and saw Varney’s cruiser pull in because I was on my way to the agility area, not to gawk at the death scene, and certainly not to get a close look at Eva Spitteler’s body, but to rid myself of the insidious suspicion that Eva Spitteler’s supposed death was nothing but one more hoax. It took me a second to identify the big man who emerged from the cruiser as the same guy I’d seen in Doc Grant’s, the cop who’d been drinking coffee while Everett Dow ate. Today, he had on big, ultradark sunglasses, and when he stepped out of the Chevy, he put on the hat I’d noticed the day before, a dusky blue woven-straw Stetson with silver braid trim. On the left breast of his uniform was a silver badge; on the right shoulder, a little American flag. Fastened to his belt were a set of handcuffs, a miniradio, a sidearm in a holster, extra clips, and so many other tools of his trade that at the guess-your-occupation booth at a country fair, he’d have been a sure loser. Maxine, who must have heard the siren, came dashing from the main lodge, approached Varney, and like a dog offering its paw, raised a hand and rested it on his sleeve. In return, he gave her shoulder a few gentle thumps.
    I can only reconstruct what happened after that. Maxine, I’m sure, tried to get Varney to treat Eva Spitteler’s death as a simple accident. One look at Varney, though, should’ve told anyone, even an amateur guesser of occupations, that this guy was a law enforcement professional who took that profession in earnest. Within minutes of his arrival, he’d radioed for backup, ordered a surprisingly large crowd (of people and dogs) out of the agility area, obtained what was probably a cogent account from Sara and Heather, and let it be known that the State Police were on their way.
    When I entered the dining room, I was a little surprised to discover how many other people had also shown up for breakfast. Although I hadn’t eaten anything, I wasn’t hungry.
    Rather, I suffered from a distinct sense of unreality for which food, I thought, might be a cure. After I’d eaten, I was going to make a quick call home. Then I intended to groom Rowdy, not to work on his appearance, I should point out, but to clean up my own emotions and, I think, to try to clear my conscience.
    As I sat alone eating my eggs and toast, I had the eerie feeling that the dining room was haunted by the ghosts of mean things I’d said and done to Eva Spitteler, the shades of cruel thoughts I’d had about her, the spirits of my own unkindness. Was Eva Spitteler the only person who’d ever wanted a plug in Dog’s Life? The only person whose chair had ever collided with mine? And if she’d perpetrated the dirty tricks? So what! I’d heard her accused and convicted on the basis of no evidence, and I hadn’t felt even a twinge of objection. Eva’s wants now seemed pitifully simple: She’d wanted to be liked. She’d wanted to feel important. In the matter of her death, I had perfect confidence in my own innocence; I suspected almost everyone else; yet I was the one who felt guilty.
     

 
    IMAGINE THAT YOU WANTED to summon death, to grab