"Pull!"

The clay pigeon sailed across the sky like a shooting star. Ted Nance followed its trajectory with his 12-gauge and pulled the trigger when the target reached its apogee. His shot splattered the little black and orange disk into hundreds of pieces.

"Good shot!" his wife, Nancy, said. She loaded her gun and tested its balance before bringing it to her shoulder. "Pull!" she yelled.

Another clay pigeon flew across the sky. She tracked it with the barrel of her gun then fired. Her substantial body silently absorbed the shotgun's recoil. Her figure may not have been perfect but her shot was. The clay pigeon returned to earth in pieces.

"Good shot, Nance," Ted said.

She grinned, lowered her gun and turned to me. "Your turn, Winston."

I hadn't done any shooting in quite a while and even though my Barbour Penine shooting jacket had padded shoulders I knew I would be sore in the morning. But that was no cause for complaint. It was good to be out in the country under a sparkling sky breathing invigoratingly crisp air. Saving Bernie from his "mob girl" and uncovering an art scam had proved to be a bit tiring and this day of shooting was doing me good.

"Pull!" I said.

James launched the target from a small shack to our right. The clay bird sailed across the sky in front of me. I followed it's path with my barrel, leading it slightly, then squeezed the trigger. The shotgun kicked me in the shoulder like a backfiring Ford, but my shot hit the target dead center.

"Good shooting, Winston," Ted said.

"Thanks."

"Have you been practicing?" Nancy asked.

"No."

"Come, now, Winston," Ted said as he readied his gun. "James must be giving you lessons."

"Nothing of the sort," I said. "It was a lucky shot."

Nancy gave me that skeptical look that schoolteachers give schoolboys with poor excuses. James then took six more clay birds from a straw-lined wooden box and reloaded the launcher.

"What do you think of these clay pigeons?" Ted asked. "I got them from Mexico. Their balance is superb."

I took one of the clay pigeons from the box and examined it. It was nicely molded with "Made in Mexico" stamped into the clay along the edge.

"Yes, very good birds," I said. True skeet shooters are as picky about their clay pigeons as fanatical golfers are about their golf balls.

"I'm importing a shipment of them to use in the sporting clays tournament my hunting club is sponsoring next week," he said.

Now I supposed I should explain a few things. First, sporting clays. Sporting clays is a game, invented by the British of course, that combines skeet shooting and hunting. But instead of hunting real game, clay birds are used. Contestants move from station to station along a woodland course like golfers moving from hole to hole. The clay birds are launched and made to duplicate the movement of various game such as pheasant, quail, and rabbit. One point is given for each target hit. It's not as easy as it sounds.

And now Ted Nance. Ted owned a small, but successful, import/export business in San Francisco. He shipped mainly to and from Latin America. He also owned the beautiful piece of land we were shooting on: fifty acres nestled against the mountains separating the Napa and Sonoma valleys. He was an avid sportsman and adequate businessman. He wasn't perfect but he was a good man.

"You will be a member of my team, won't you?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "Who else is on it?"

"Nance, of course, and a fellow named Richard Rigger. He's a banker."

Nancy's face momentarily clouded over even though the sky was clear. That should have given me my first clue but I was enjoying the shooting too much to notice.

"Richard Rigger?" I said. "I don't know him."

"He's throwing a party next Saturday. You can meet him there. You're free next Saturday, aren't you?"

"Come on, Ted, it's your turn to shoot," Nancy growled.

"Pull!" Ted yelled.

Another clay pigeon crossed the sky. Ted raised his gun to his shoulder, aimed, shot, and hit the target just before it hit the ground. He turned toward us with a giant grin on his face.

"See if you can top that shot, Nance," he said to his wife.

"I've had enough shooting for today," she replied.

"Oh." Ted's giant grin dissolved into giant disappointment. "If that's the way you feel", he shrugged. You could always tell when Ted was disappointed. It was the way his eyebrows appeared to melt and drip into his eyes.

"You can stay here and shoot for as long as you like," Nancy said. "I'm going back to the house. Coming, Winston?" It was more of a command than a question.

"Sure," I said.

"You don't mind if James stays with me, do you Winston?" Ted asked. "I would like to get in a bit more practice."

"Have at it," I said.

"We'll have coffee waiting for you," Nancy said.

* * *

"Winston, something's wrong," Nancy said as we approached the house.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Ted hasn't been himself. Something's troubling him. A wife can always tell. I don't know for sure, but I think it has something to do with this Rigger fellow. My intuition tells me he's getting Ted into trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but Ted definitely hasn't been himself since he started doing business with Rigger."

I looked at Nancy.

"These days he's always nervous," she continued. "And he seems shifty. We both know that's not Ted. I just know this Rigger fellow is behind it all. Now there's a shifty one for you. I just don't trust him."

"Ted thinks highly enough of him to have invited him to be a member of his sporting clays team." I said. "There must be some trust there."

"There's something fishy about that, too" Nancy said. "I don't think it was all Ted's idea."

"You think Rigger muscled his way in?"

Nancy shrugged. "I suggested James. He's the logical choice. But no, Ted picked Rigger."

"Well, you know how businessmen like to stick together."

"There's more to it than that. I know there is."

"Would you like me to pursue it?" I asked.

Nancy stopped and touched my arm. "Would you, Winston?" she said. "It would make me feel so much better."

"Sure."

"Be discreet, though, would you? Don't let Ted know I suspect anything."

"You know me," I said. "I am always the epitome of discretion.

"And always the perfect gentleman," she said.

* * *

Ted and James returned after the sun had turned the sky purple. Ted led me into his living room where an entire wall was covered by shelves holding knick-knacks from around the world. I examined a few pieces while Ted pulled some cigars out of a wooden box.

"I've got something for you," he said. "Cubans, of course."

"Of, course." I stuffed them into my pocket.

"Don't see why you want them, though. You don't smoke."

"Gifts," I said, thinking of the Penguin.

Ted nodded. "Oh, and wait until you see this." He went to a handsome walnut gun case, unlocked it, removed one of the shotguns and carefully carried it to me.

"Nice," I said.

"It's an AAHE-grade Parker. I paid $38,000 for it."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes," Ted continued. "It was a real bargain. I've see them go for as much as 45k."

It was a beautiful shotgun all right. Not too much engraving but meticulously crafted. It oozed precision.

"Oh, he's showing you that," Nancy said, bringing in four steaming mugs of coffee. "Give me a gun I can take out in the wilds and shoot with. All that one is good for is sitting in the case."

"Don't you use it?" I asked.

"No, it's a work of art," Ted said. "No true collector or lover of shotguns would ever take one of these out into the wilds. The risk of scratching it or damaging it is too great." He returned the gun to the case.

"It's a waste if you ask me," Nancy said. "Give me a gun I can shoot."

I smiled. Ted locked the gun case and joined us on the sofa.

"Now, Ted," Nancy said. "Tell us what kind of trouble Rigger's gotten you into."

So much for discretion. So much for not letting Ted know she was suspicious.

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