What she wasn’t saying was that it had also been the last Thanksgiving with her husband of many years. All the traditions the family had developed and grown into were now part of a history that could never be revisited.

“But you know what?” Lindy asked. “I will never again have to make that horrible rutabaga casserole. Every year, Brown wanted me to cook it, saying it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it, and every year no one eats a single bite.”

“Um, if Brown didn’t eat any, why did he want it on the table?”

“No idea,” she said. “I think it had something to do with his grandmother, but he could never really explain it.”

She touched the photo again, half smiling, and I got the sneaking suspicion that the rutabaga casserole would be making an appearance in late November.

“You know that cute Deputy Wolverson, don’t you?” Lindy asked. “Last time he stopped by I happened to mention your name and the look on his face me think there was some history between you two.”

Um. I really didn’t want to go into all that, but I didn’t want to be rude, either, so I came up with a short synopsis. “We’re friends. A while back we used to date, but I’m engaged to someone else now.”

Lindy glanced at my still-naked left hand. “So you and Ash talk?”

“On a regular basis. He’s friends with my fiancé, too.”

“Well, there’s something . . .” She sat back, shaking her head. “Never mind. It’s too stupid.”

The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. “If it’s anything with the least possibility of having something to do with your husband’s death, just tell me. I can pass it on to Ash, and if he laughs and thinks it’s stupid—which he wouldn’t, because he’s way too nice—but if he did, I’m the only one who’ll know.”

Lindy bit her lips, considering. “All right,” she said. “Brown had turned serious about bicycling, but I barely know the difference between a road bike and a mountain bike.”

I nodded. I’d been the same way not long ago.

“For a few weeks before . . . Brown died, I saw someone I didn’t recognize ride past the house.” She nodded toward the road. “It happened probably half a dozen times, at different times of the day. Morning. Noon. Evening. It was odd, because this road isn’t on the way to anything.”

After a short hesitation, I asked, “How do you know for sure it was the same person?”

She smiled. “Because the bike was the brightest yellow you’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen another one like it.”

“This isn’t stupid at all,” I said. “I’ll tell Ash right away.”

That’s what I said out loud, but on the inside I was making small whimpering noises.