“No, I’m afraid not. He’s mad at me for not promising not to repeat what he told me to you. Says it’s none of your business. He’s talked to a police detective about this, and is waiting to be interviewed by him.”

Joe Mickels glared up at Betsy. He was trying hard to keep hold of his temper, because angry as he was that she had come, he was more afraid of what she was going to ask. But he’d told his secretary to show her in, because he did not dare let her know of either his anger or his fear.

She came in looking tired, and he sensed at once that she was nervous, too. That made him feel he could handle her.

“I take it you are still stirring up trouble over your sister’s murder,” he said bluntly.

She drew herself up a little. “I am asking questions the police should be asking.” He did not offer her a chair, though she seemed a little footsore. He remained seated behind his desk.

“What kind of questions?”

“For one, if you were in St. Cloud that night, as you claim, how did you manage to be seen ducking into a parking lot in Excelsior?”

“Who says they saw me?”

“Irene Potter.”

“She’s a loon, likely to say anything.”

“Her description is a little too detailed to be a hallucination. She said she saw a man with big whiskers, carrying a broken oar and wearing a black rubber coat and a hat with the brim turned down. Do you own a black rubber coat and a brimmed hat? Is your boat missing an oar?”

Bad questions, worse than he thought. He knew lying was a mistake, so he didn’t say anything at all. But she was content to let the questions hang there, being answered by his silence. At last he stood and went to the window. The sun was shining, people were going about their business. Old Mrs. Lundgren came out of the Excelo Bakery with a white paper bag in her hand.

“I should get these whiskers cut off,” he said. “Not many people wear them anymore.” He turned to find her looking at him with a pretty good poker face. “It was me,” he said.

“Why a broken oar?” she asked.