“Okay. What about this on December 30?” The appointment at the prison.

She leans forward again, purses her lips. “I have no idea what that’s about.”

“He never mentioned it to you?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure it was work-related or had something to do with his book maybe, Detective. I have no idea.”

“Okay. One more.” I close the book, slide it back in the bag, and retrieve the other planner. I open it to the first page. “What about this?” I tap my finger on the square in question. “Lunch with Hayes. Who’s he?”

She blinks her eyes. “My boss at the bookstore.”

“You didn’t know about this either?”

“No.” She looks truly baffled.

“Why would your husband be talking to your boss?”

“Well, they’re friends too.”

“He wasn’t at the birthday party?”

She shakes her head. “He couldn’t make it. But we see him regularly.”

“But you don’t know why they were meeting last week two days before your husband was killed?”

“Maybe they were just having lunch, Detective.” Her voice rises an octave. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Tears gather in her eyes.

Chase heaves a deep breath. “It’s okay, Mrs. Bradley. We’re just trying to gather everything we can to help you.”

She grabs a paper napkin from a holder on the table and presses it to her nose. I slip both planners into my satchel, give her a minute.

“Just one more thing.”

She nods and grabs another napkin.

“Dr. Bradley see much of his dad?”

She clears her throat. “His father? No. He passed away last year. He was eighty-one. He and his wife had Jay when they were older.”

Shit. I was hoping Dr. Bradley might have confided in his dad. Maybe there would have been something to glean there. Oh well.

She glances up at me. “He was a detective.”

“We’ve heard that.” I collect my notes and stash them in my satchel. “If you need anything, Mrs. Bradley, please call.”

She stands and walks us to the foyer. “Thanks,” she says, as she closes the door behind us.

* * *

A frigid wind has picked up. The mild weather of a couple of days ago is gone, and we’re back to typical winter temperatures. I pull the lapels of my jacket up around my ears as we get into my van. The engine takes a minute or two to catch, and Chase throws me a look.

“We’re fine,” I say, as I rev the motor.

“Don’t you ever worry this old thing is going to go tits up, Rita, and leave you stranded someplace?”

“I’ve got triple A, son.”

He laughs and searches through his phone. My old van is my home away from home. I like being able to have the things I might need in the course of an investigation. Tools, waders, extra clothes. I drive it only on routine calls, knowing that if I need to chase a suspect, he’d leave me in the dust. Still, Chase has never been comfortable in my old vehicle. He’s a pretty tidy guy, and my van—well, keeping it spick-and-span isn’t a priority.