“What’s the redhead so scared of, Warshawski?” the sergeant demanded, ignoring the panhandler. We watched Art get into his car, a late-model Chrysler parked at the end of the street, and tear off.

“I have that effect on men,” I said shortly. “Drives them mad. You find your murderer?”

“I don’t know. Your male model here was the only person acting suspiciously. Why don’t you show what a helpful citizen you are and give me his name?”

I turned to face him. “It’s no secret—the name is real well known down in these parts. Art Jurshak.”

McGonnigal’s lips tightened. “Just because Mallory’s my boss doesn’t mean you have to jerk me around the way you do him. Tell me the kid’s name.”

I held up my right hand. “Scout’s honor, Sergeant. Jurshak’s his old man. Young Art just joined his agency or his office or something. If you catch up with him, don’t use a rubber hose—I don’t think he’s got too much stamina.”

McGonnigal grinned savagely. “Don’t worry, Warshawski. He’s got stronger protection than a thick skin. I won’t mess up his curly locks.… You going over to the Cleghorn place for coffee? I heard some of the ladies talking about what they were bringing. Mind if I slide in with you?”

“We little Polish detectives live to help the cops. Come along.”

He grinned and held the car door open for me. “That get under your skin, Warshawski? My apologies—you’re not all that little.”

A handful of mourners were already at the house on Muskegon when we got there. Mrs. Cleghorn, her makeup streaked with dried tears, greeted me warmly and accepted McGonnigal politely. I stood in the little entryway talking with her for a minute while the sergeant wandered into the back of the house.

“Kerry took the children to her house, so things will be a little calmer today,” she said. “Maybe when I retire I’ll move to Oregon.”

I hugged her. “Go across the country to avoid being a grandmother? Maybe you could just change the locks—it’d be less drastic.”

“I guess it proves how upset I am, Victoria, talking like that—I’ve never wanted anyone to know how I felt about my sons’ children.” She paused a moment, then added awkwardly, “If you want to talk to Ron Kappelman about—about Nancy or anything, he’s in the living room.”

The doorbell rang. While she moved to answer it I crossed the little hall to the living room. I’d never seen Ron Kappelman, but I didn’t have any trouble recognizing him—he was the only man in the room. He was about my age, perhaps a bit older, stocky, with dark brown hair cut close to his head. He wore a gray tweed jacket, which was frayed at the lapels and cuffs, and corduroy pants. He was sitting by himself on a round Naugahyde hassock, flipping idly through the pages of an old National Geographic.

The four women in the room, the ones from church I’d assumed were Mrs. Cleghorn’s co-workers, were murmuring together in the other corner. They glanced over at me, saw they didn’t know me, and went back to their gentle buzzing.