Fortunately, we made it all the way downtown to the hotel without incident and without catching sight of the truck. I found the hotel’s parking garage and claimed a spot on the first floor; then we loaded up all of our things and headed across the street to the hotel.

The place was huge, with a lobby spanning at least five floors in height. After we secured our meeting room with the sales office, I headed there while Harriet made a stop in the rest room.

“I would’ve gone at the train station,” she said as she paused in the doorway, “but that place smelled worse than a hog’s pen in Indian summer.”

I laughed out loud, wondering how I had gotten through the week without her. Though Harriet was older than me by a good 20 years, she was a slightly eccentric, totally youthful ray of sunshine—her hair a vivid red pile of curls on top of her head, her glasses sparkling at each corner with rhinestones. And though she tried to wear nice clothes, she always seemed to be falling apart with shoes that didn’t quite match her purse, lipstick smeared on her teeth, and hemlines that were perpetually crooked.

I found our meeting place at the end of a long hall, a pleasant boardroom-style setup with a huge conference table and seating for about ten people. I pushed the chairs around a bit so that Harriet and I would have access to the electrical outlets; then I plugged in my own laptop and pulled out the box of records I had received from Marion—the ones she had discovered in Wendell’s safe. The hotel had left a stack of notepads and sharpened pencils in the center of the table, and I helped myself to two of each, laying them in our working space.

“Here’s your food setup,” the hotel caterer said as she wheeled a cart into the room. On it was a coffee pot and a small stack of cups and plates alongside an artfully arranged pile of fresh fruit and pastries—the mandatory minimum catering service offered with the room.

“Looks wonderful,” I said as she slid the cart against the wall. I had forgotten all about stopping for breakfast, and I felt a surge of appetite and a serious need for coffee. As soon as the woman left, I took a small plate and loaded it with fresh strawberries and watermelon before fixing myself a cup of the coffee, black and strong.

“Nice room,” Harriet said when she finally came through the door. “But this table’s big enough for line dancing!”

I smiled and pointed her toward the food and coffee. She got herself all set, then joined me at the table.

“Before we start,” Harriet said, removing her glasses to study me carefully, “I wanna know how you’re doin’. You really don’t look so good.”

I quickly swallowed a bite of a strawberry.