“If something hadn’t happened here, you wouldn’t have let me into the house at all,” I cut in ruthlessly. “I have the names of everyone who lives here; one of them will talk to me and tell me the truth.”

“The men can tell you nothing that I don’t already know,” Ruth said with finality. “Theresa, you go back upstairs to Mr. Calvin so Tyrone can get on with the vacuuming.”

Theresa put her chapped red hands into her pockets and scuttled down

the hall toward the main staircase. I couldn’t think of any way to press my point. If Ruth had seen Whitby, or any strangers, Sunday night she wasn’t going to tell me. If Calvin Bayard had left the house, despite whatever illness he had, she wasn’t going to tell me that, either.

I might be able to find a way to talk to the men working with the hay, but it wouldn’t happen today under Ruth’s stern eye. Theresa looked as though she’d be more likely to crack, but it would take me some time to find a way to talk to her alone.

I wryly conceded the field to Ruth, shaking her hand, thanking her for her help. I started down the hall toward the front door, but Ruth called to me to follow her back the way we’d come.

I smiled blandly. “My car is right outside the main entrance. It’s ridiculous for me to use the side door.”

Before she could order me out of the front hall, Calvin Bayard suddenly lurched around the edge of the great staircase and headed toward us, calling “Renee! Renee!”

Theresa walked next to him, a chapped hand on his arm. “Renee isn’t here, Mr. Bayard. She’s at work right now.” With her patient, she was a different person: assured, gentle, her anxiety gone.

“Renee, this woman won’t go away. I don’t like her, make her go away.” Calvin Bayard plucked at Theresa’s hand, looking at Ruth, whose short dark hair and stocky build did give her a vague resemblance to Renee Bayard.

The voice that I’d loved as a student was still deep, but it had become tremulous and uncertain. His face with its long narrow hollows had shrunk and turned pinkish. Whatever illness I’d imagined hadn’t come close to this. I dug my nails into my palms to keep from crying out in dismay.

He suddenly caught sight of me and stumbled to me, grabbing me in a rough hug. “Deenie, Deenie, Deeme. Olin. I saw Olin. Trouble, trouble. Olin is trouble.”

He crushed me tightly against the rough fabric of his jacket. He smelled of talcum powder and stale urine, like an infant. I tried to move away from his embrace, but despite his age and his illness he was strong.

“It’s all right,” I said, as he continued to clutch me. “Olin is dead. Olin doesn’t mean trouble now. Olin is gone.”

“I saw him,” he repeated. “You know, Deeme.”

Between them, Theresa and Ruth managed to remove his arms from my back. “He saw the story about Olin Taverner on the news,” Theresa panted. “He’s been very agitated, thinking that this man is out to get him. He keeps claiming he’s seeing him out the window.”