Eli and I still kept in touch, though he was now retired and living in Florida. We had always been close, but since Bryan’s death I had come to rely on him in ways that I couldn’t rely even on my own father. My dad was a sweet but plain-talking, shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy who thought the world was a black-and-white, right-and-wrong sort of place. He still harbored a complete unforgiveness for the man who had killed my husband, albeit accidentally, and his anger was nearly palpable at times—too palpable, I think, for me to be around.

Eli, on the other hand, was a more objective thinker than that, seeing many shades of gray in life, and rarely ever just black-and-white. He refused to let me wallow in my own anger and grief for very long, steadfastly insisting that I must simply turn the matter over to God and allow Him to use it as He saw fit. I tried, and it was hard, but Eli was my own personal cheerleader, watching from the sidelines, building me up, encouraging me to forgive and get on with my life. I treasured our friendship more than anything.

Unable to resist the urge, I picked up the phone and dialed his familiar number. It took nine rings before he answered, and for a moment I worried that I woke him up. His voice was distant, the line crackling.

“Eli?” I said. “It’s me, Callie.”

“Sally?”

“Callie!”

“Hold on.”

A few clanks and bangs later, Eli spoke again, the line much clearer now.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “The battery’s dying on the portable phone. Who is this?”

I smiled to myself.

“Callie.”

“Oh, goodness, Callie, why didn’t you say so? How the heck are you doing?”

I told him that I was in Pennsylvania, staying as a guest in the mansion of a recently murdered millionaire.

“And I thought my life was exciting now that we’ve signed up for tango lessons!” he exclaimed.

“I’m on a case, Eli. I need some guidance. You got a minute?”

“For you, sweetie, I’ve got all night.”

I could picture him settling in near the phone, pen and paper in hand, as I told him a bit about Wendell Smythe and the case thus far. He listened intently, asking for occasional clarification, pointing out details I might’ve missed. As usual, I felt myself growing more relaxed and confident as we spoke. To Eli’s way of thinking, there was almost no such thing as an unsolvable mystery; it was merely a matter of hard work, patience, and the occasional lucky break.

“I’m putting together a package for you first thing tomorrow,” he said. “No need for you to waste good time running around trying to collect all this stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve got the resources of a local agency this time. But thanks.”

“Whatever. Why not let’s talk about you now? You holding up okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Though it’s kind of hard, you know, being around a family where there’s just been a death.”