The bungalow was tucked into the green obscurity along the mountain road a few miles east of Larsen’s Peak. The place was well kept if not exactly tidy. Townes had moved in a year before, and spent the first few months repairing cracked walls and broken terra cotta tiles. He’d painted all the rooms as well as the exterior, and built beds where herbs and vegetables were thriving. There was a small barn about forty yards on...

“That was some damn good pie,” she said. She was leaning against the trunk of the Pontiac Townes had been caressing and cussing into running condition a couple hours a day over the past few weeks. It was still a little rough around the edges, with patches of compound around two of the wheel wells contrasting the original, jet black finish. The moment he’d driven it out of barn and pulled to the front of the house, she loo...