It wasn’t until the official square dance of thank-yous and acknowledgements and hymns to cooperation had ended and the DA was answering questions that the evidence against Fred Stanton was even mentioned, and Lucy found it less than compelling. The fact that Fred’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon was hardly surprising; after all it was his knife, from his house, and he might have used it to cut a ham sandwich. More interesting to Lucy was the mention that a witness reported seeing him leave the house in what the DA described as “an agitated state” on the day of the murder. Lucy had doubts about the value of that information, too. It seemed to her she left the house in an agitated state most mornings due to the fact she was often running late, or the girls were dawdling or the dog had gotten into the trash. There was always something. She raised her hand.

“Yes, there, you in the back,” said the DA, pointing to her.

“I was wondering if you have any information about the body that was found in the harbor this morning? Has the man been identified and was there any foul play?”

There was a flurry of interest from the reporters, but the DA wasn’t giving anything away. “No, we have not made an identification and no, there were no signs that his death was anything but an accidental drowning, but as you know it’s up to the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of death.”

“And when do you expect that report?” asked someone in the front row.

“That also is up to the medical examiner,” said the DA. “Now, I’ll take one more question before closing.”

Lucy was hurrying out of the police station, finally clutching the not-very-informative official press release, when she ran into Barney Culpepper.

“Hi, Barney. How’s Marge coming with the triathlon? And how’s Eddie doing over there in Iraq?”

“Eddie’s counting the days ’til he comes home—and so are we,” he said, looking grim.

“We all are,” said Lucy, who could imagine how worried they must be.

“Marge says I need to get my mind off the war. She wants me to start training with her,” he said, glumly, hitching up his pants. He fastened his belt underneath his sizable belly and it tended to slip. “She’s threatening to get rid of my La-Z-Boy.”

“Oh, no.” Lucy knew how much Barney enjoyed reclining in his favorite chair, watching football and baseball games, even golf if nothing else was on.

“She hid the remote. Said it’s good for me to get up and change the channels on the TV.”

“Well, maybe she has a point,” said Lucy.

“Have you ever tried to switch from channel five to channel sixty-three by pushing that little up button one channel at a time?”