LYLE USHERED US INTO HIS GOLF CART and then drove us down a narrow asphalt path along the golf course,
past a big log cabin with a wooden sign out front identifying it as THE COTTAGE.
I hadn’t visited the Pickett estate in many years, and it had grown even more majestic.
The sand traps of the golf course were newly raked. The cart path we drove on had no cracks or bumps.
Newly planted maple trees lined the path. But mostly I just saw endless grass, weedless, freshly mown into a diamond pattern.
The Pickett estate was silent, sterile, and endless—like a newly built housing subdivision before actual people move into it.
I loved it. As we drove, Daisy struck up a wholly unsubtle conversation.
“So you head up security here?” “I am security here,” he answered.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Pickett?” “Long enough to know you’re not friends with Davis,” he answered.
Daisy, who lacked the capacity to experience embarrassment, was not discouraged.
“Holmesy here is the friend. Were you working the day Pickett disappeared?”
“Mr. Pickett doesn’t like staff on the property after dark or before dawn,” he answered.
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