“Yes, but they couldn’t have done it, either of them, Hud. Margot left City Hall pretty close to nine forty-five. It took her six or maybe seven minutes to walk home, so she got in before ten, but not by much. The murderer was waiting for her, but he had to talk his way into her apartment, convince her to come down to the shop, murder her, and then trash the shop. There wasn’t time to do all that and still be down by that parking lot by ten-fifteen.”

“Maybe Irene saw Joe on his way to the shop, before the murder.”

“No, because I made that call to 911 at three minutes after eleven. Say five minutes to the shop from the parking lot, persuade Margot to come down into the shop, murder her and injure the cat, then wreck the shop, and get away before I got there at eleven—not enough time, Hud. Even if he was still in the place when I saw the open door, there wasn’t enough time. The shop was really trashed; you must have spent a long time breaking and tearing and kicking and smashing. It must have taken you at least half an hour to do that, and more likely forty-five minutes, or even an hour.

“Both Irene and Joe described your car as the one they saw in that parking lot at a little after ten. You really should have taken that hood ornament off. Ask me how I can prove it was your car.”

“You can’t prove it was my car.”

“The department of public safety can make up lists of Minnesota car owners broken down any way you want. Did you know there are only seventeen Rolls-Royces in the state, Hud? And only two of them are convertibles. And guess how many owners of Rolls convertibles don’t have alibis?”

“Bitch,” Hud muttered. “You bitch!” He grabbed for her, but prepared, she ducked away.

“Jill!” she shouted, and Jill stood up on the other side of the gleaming-empty salad bar. Beside her were Lars and two more uniformed officers, one with his gun drawn.

“Hold it right there, Mr. Earlie,” the cop with the gun said in a deep, calm voice.

“I tried,” said Betsy. “But he wouldn’t confess.”

“Close enough, I think, Miss Devonshire,” said another man’s voice, and a heavyset man who looked like every B-movie plainclothes cop came out of the kitchen. He was the chief of Excelsior’s police department. With him was Mike Malloy, handcuffs in hand.

Jill, Lars, and the uniformed cops ducked under the salad bar and approached.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Earlie,” said Malloy. He reached for Hud’s right arm and snapped the handcuffs onto his wrist. “For the murder of Margot Berglund. You have the right to remain silent....”