“He’s tall,” he said, coming up beside her. “Late fifties. Gray hair, gray eyes, proper sort of man. You haven’t seen him?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Has he contacted you or your uncle or brother?”

“I don’t think so.” She stopped and said suddenly, “You’re at the farm.”

His look was dry, and he didn’t smile. “So it would appear.”

“Then you believe your friend was headed here?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.”

“But why would he want to contact my brother or my uncle?”

“I don’t know that he does.”

Ashley was confused. “Then why are you here?”

“I checked with Touchstone and the institute, and I stopped by your house on Chestnut Street. When I didn’t find you, I guessed you’d come here—a lucky guess, as it turns out.”

She didn’t know why, but she didn’t think he was telling her everything, and she chose not to press him. Given what had happened to David, she opted for caution.

“If you haven’t seen Mac,” he went on smoothly, “there’s a good chance I’m on a wild-goose chase.” He smiled. “Mac and I probably just have our signals crossed. My name’s Carruthers, by the way.” He slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a slim billfold. “Jeremy Carruthers. If you do hear from Mac, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave a message with my office.”

He handed her a business card. His office, she observed, was in San Diego; hardly across town. He was with a law firm called Carruthers and Stevens. “You flew all the way out here to find this friend of yours?”

“Oh, no, not exactly. It’s just a lucky guess. Is your uncle around, by any chance? Perhaps I could ask him.”

Ashley felt herself stiffening, but combated it, unwilling to let Jeremy Carruthers see the effect of his simple question. So that was it. Barky. Mac Stevens was after Bartholomew Wakefield, not Ashley. She shrugged. “’Fraid not.”

“I see. Well, perhaps Mac stopped by when you weren’t here.”

“I doubt it, but when Barky comes back, I’ll ask him.”

“Barky?”

“My uncle.”

“Of course. Well, thank you.”

The pale eyes were fixed on her, and she wondered if he guessed she was holding back. “Are you heading back to California?”

“Not just yet.”

“Then perhaps I could call you at your hotel if Mr. Stevens does turn up. Where are you staying?”

He moved out ahead of her. “Just call the office.”

“It’s the weekend,” she pointed out.

“I’m sure someone will be there to take a message.” He glanced back at her, and squinted in the sun as he walked over to a black Pontiac. Ashley memorized the license number and noted the rental sticker. Jeremy Carruthers gave her a spine-tingling smile. “Thanks for your time. And sorry about the eggs.”

“Lawyers, my ass,” Ashley complained as she went into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her.

David was hunched over the big pine table, looking miserable. New, ugly colors had blossomed in his face, and he held his middle, obviously in pain. “What’s up?”