When my phone’s GPS lady told me I was within five hundred feet of my destination, I turned her off and slowed the car to a crawl.

Brown and Lindy’s house was a 1970s-era split-level ranch, one of those houses that meant you’d always be in good physical shape because every time you wanted something from a different room, you’d be going up and down stairs.

The lawn was lushly green, the bushes in front were tidy, and the house’s light gray paint, trimmed with white, appeared new. Window boxes filled with brightly colored annual flowers made the house look cheerful and happy, a feeling that had to be in direct opposition to the emotions going on inside.

Three cars were in the driveway, but I had no way of knowing if the Berniers were the kind of people who filled up their garage with stuff and left their cars in the drive, or if they were people who always kept their cars in the garage and the ones in front of me were family’s and friends’.

“You’re stalling,” I said out loud. When I’d texted Ash if he thought it would be okay if I gave my condolences to Brown’s wife in person, he’d checked with Lindy and told me that Saturday morning, about ten, would be a good time to stop by.

Cowardly Minnie had hoped that his answer would be different. I’d hoped he would say, Don’t be ridiculous, you’re the last person she wants to see. There’s going to be a memorial service in October. Talk to her then.

But he hadn’t, so now I was stuck.

“The investigation starts now,” I murmured, echoing what I’d told Kristen last night, though I wasn’t sure I was starting anything. My only intention was to introduce myself to Lindy and tell her how sorry I was for her loss.

I inched the car closer and closer, and since even a very slow pace gets you where you want to go if you stick with it long enough, before long I was parked behind a dusty SUV, walking up to the house, and ringing the doorbell.

The man who answered the door was tall and thin and had a thick shock of hair a color that wasn’t exactly blond but wasn’t exactly white, either. “Hello?”

His single-syllable question was polite but brusque. Understandable, given the circumstances, so I decided not to read anything into it. “Hi, I’m Minnie Hamilton. I talked to the sheriff’s office about stopping by, and—”

“Bob?” a female voice called. “Is that the bookmobile lady?”

Bob’s eyebrows went up. I nodded.

“Yeah, it’s her.”

“Well, let her in, for goodness’ sake! Don’t let her stand out there on the doorstep for everybody to see.”