Hit and Run

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The stove in the state troopers’ station was turned too high; Carney had a headache. And the crash picture he was examining depressed him. This one had been a carload of teenagers trying to pass a truck on the blind corner out beyond the Rucker turnoff. He sighed and pushed it aside, hearing a woman’s quick, light voice in the hallway, then Tillotson’s rumbling reply.

As the woman came in, followed by the trooper stamping snow from his boots, Carney made a swift appraisal. Middle thirties, attractive, assured, just hesitant enough to indicate that any kind of police setup was a new experience.

“Why don’t you go right over by the stove there, ma’am?” Tillotson said. “This lady’s name is Mrs. Fairliss, Del. Mrs. Peter Fairliss. Pardon me, ma’am. This is Sergeant Carney.”

“How do you do, Sergeant.” The woman was trying to control her shivering. Her lips had a bluish look as she turned, keeping her hands outstretched toward the stove, to give Carney a quick apologetic smile. She was a smallish, neat-figured woman with a smooth young face, short nose, quiet eyes. She had the look of a woman loved and well cared for. Expensive tweed suit, fur jacket.

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