Pam sipped her coffee. Sipped again. “Here’s what I know,” she finally said. “One of his coworkers told me a couple of things. That he’s a great insurance agent. But that his ex-girlfriend took a personal protection order out against him a few weeks ago. And last week he ran his truck into his neighbor’s house.”

I gaped. “An accident?”

“It happened during a shouting match with his neighbor about the appropriate time to run a power washer,” she said dryly.

“So, not an accident.”

“Don’t see how.”

I thanked Pam for the coffee and the info, said I’d say away from Warren, and left, thinking that Mr. Jorgenson’s acts of violence were becoming more common. And seemed to be escalating in intensity. Could a murder be another violent act he’d committed? And what about two murders?

*   *   *

On the way back to the houseboat, I started to make a slight detour that would take me straight to the house. Rafe had implied during last night’s dinner that he’d be hard at work all day finishing the final coats of paint in the living room and downstairs study, but I’d seen no evidence of that. Though it was possible he’d parked in the garage and pulled the curtains and shades, it wasn’t likely. And if he wasn’t there working, I wanted to know why he wasn’t, because the calendar was inexorably ticking toward cold weather, and—

“Hey, Minnie!”

I stopped and turned to see a man about my age, but much larger and far, far taller. “Mitchell. Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you and your lovely wife?”

Mitchell Koyne beamed. “Bianca is doing great. We’re doing great.”

One of the minor wonders of the world was that Mitchell, who up until recently had been a terminal slacker, making his way through the world through a combination of seasonal jobs and the patience of his sister, in whose attic he’d lived, was now happily married to Bianca Sims, the region’s most successful real estate agent.

The love of a good woman had improved many men, but Mitchell’s transformation from lawn mower and ski-lift operator to respected manager of Chilson’s toy store was nothing short of miraculous.

It wasn’t that Mitchell wasn’t smart. It was more that until Bianca, he hadn’t bothered to apply himself. Though I was almost used to the new Mitchell, there was still a teensy part of me that missed seeing him in the library’s reading room, his former haunt, reading book after book because his overdue fees were too high to let him take books home.

“Haven’t seen you at the library lately,” I said.

“Nah, too busy at the store and with . . . well . . .” He dipped his head and scuffed his feet. “Doing projects around the house and stuff. You know.”