While Snook didn’t slam the door, she didn’t fling it wide in joyful welcome.

“May I come in?” I asked.

“I’ve got someone stopping by.”

“I won’t take long.”

Sighing, Snook stepped back. I went directly to the kitchen.

The fish were still in their bowl. Murray was nowhere to be seen.

Either uncomfortable or genuinely hurried, Snook did not offer tea or a seat at the table.

OK. Plan B.

“Did Ms. King explain the results of the exhumation?”

“I shouldn’t have done that with Daryl.”

The change in attitude surprised me. “Why not?”

“It made people angry.”

“What people?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re right. It’s un-Christian. The dead should rest in peace.”

“But you were right, Nellie.”

She twisted her lips to one side but said nothing.

“I’m so sorry about your brother.”

“No one will do squat.”

“I promise you. I will try my very best to find Daryl’s killer.”

Her eyes told me she didn’t believe it.

I tilted an ear as though startled by a sound. “Oh, my. Is that Murray?”

“What?”

“Sounds like a cat in trouble.”

Snook hurried to the laundry room. I heard the door open, then she called out. “Murray. Where are you, Murray? Here, kitty.”

Wasting no time, I stepped to the fishbowl and, using the ketchup container, scooped a sample of the sparkly mixture lining the bottom. The fish skittered away from my hand, clearly displeased.

“Here, kitty.”

Murray strolled in from the house’s interior.

I moved to the laundry room.

“False alarm.” I smiled. “He’s here.”

As though offering proof of his well-being, Murray joined us.

Snook picked up the cat.

I took my leave.

*  *  *

The Bellanca Building is Yellowknife’s answer to the skyscraper. But Burj Khalifa it’s not. Built in 1969, the eleven-story box has blue facade on its sides and LEGO-layered windows across its front.

I entered from Fiftieth Street and checked the directory. The Mineral Development Division of Indian and Northern Affairs Canada was on the sixth floor. The mining recorder’s office was on the fifth.

I hurried to the elevator and pressed the button for five. When the doors opened, the MRO was straight ahead. Surprisingly, the office was unlocked.

No tax dollars had been wasted on interior design. The reception area was Spartan, the walls decorated with framed pictures of rocks, underground shafts, large equipment, and aerial views of places probably not favored by tourists. Wooden chairs lined one wall. A desk sat at the rear. That was it. But would you really want frills at a mining recorder’s office?

I called out.

No answer.

A corridor shot from a doorway to the right of the desk. Walking down it toward the back of the building, I wondered how I’d recognize the man I was seeking.

No problem. Each office had a name plaque. Jacob Rainwater’s was at the end. His door was open.