I gave her both the hospital and club’s numbers. “If you call here, Randy may answer the phone. Be nice. He’s one of the good ones.”

“I’m always nice.” We both knew that was a big, fat lie.

“Thank you. I appreciate this.” More than I could say.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

I returned to the deputy, who smirked at me. “How did your call with the hospital go?”

Had he asked Florence to snow me? I narrowed my eyes. “Not well. I called Kansas City.”

His grin widened.

“I have someone calling the governor.”

He glanced at his watch. “The governor's office is closed.”

“They’re not calling his office. They have his home number. And if Governor Docking can’t help, they’ll call Senator Dole.” I resumed my seat. "Now, would you like to continue insinuating I had a part in a murder?”

After the night I’d had, watching Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head’s complexion go from a healthy tan to a shade whiter than skim milk was very satisfying.

“Mrs. Jones?” Deputy Harden strode into the room.

Thank heavens. I rose, and Bear’s tail thumped the floor. “Deputy."

"What happened?"

I recounted the story for the hundredth time.

“How’s Detective Jones?” Finally, someone who understood the important part.

I glanced at Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head. “The hospital wasn’t forthcoming.”

Deputy Harden frowned.

“My mother is calling.”

“Your mother?”

“It’s best not to cross her.” Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head and Florence were in for a world of trouble.

“Has anyone talked to Mr. Geller?” he asked.

I nodded toward Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head. “No. Deputy Kincaid has been exploring my possible guilt in the murders.”

Deputy Harden exhaled. Slowly. “Would you speak to Mr. Geller with me? Please?”

“Yes.”

Together, we walked to Bill's cabin. Bear, who seemed unwilling to let me out of his sight, tagged along.

“How would you like to handle this?” he asked.

He was asking me? “Isn’t there a procedure?”

“We don’t get a lot of murders down here.”

“We tell Bill and gauge his reaction?”

The deputy nodded and rapped on the cabin door.

"Coming." A moment later, Bill answered. He wore rumpled pajamas and smelled of cigarettes and coffee. Purple half-moons hung beneath his eyes.

“Bill, this is Deputy Harden. He—”

“We met yesterday. What is this about?”

“It’s about Buffy. She—"

“You've arrested her.” He sagged against the door frame. “I knew something was wrong when I saw her empty bed.”

“You think Buffy killed Graham?”

He frowned. “Don’t you?”

Not until now. “Why do you think that?”

He peered past us, as if he was worried about eavesdroppers. “Come in.”

Inside the cabin, a lit cigarette perched on the edge of an ashtray. Outside, the air was fresh and clean and not yet unbearably hot. “How about if we talk on the front porch?”

Bill considered, then nodded. “Give me a minute.”