“My grandfather drowned because he was careless. He wasn’t murdered by a closeted lover who owed him money. Of those two stories, which one do you think people would be most interested in?”

“So you lied to protect Bruce Jewett?”

“I omitted information I considered unimportant. And it wasn’t like I was under oath. Besides, that Lieutenant Rivard barely gave me five minutes. Not a fan of the non-conforming community, that man.”

She was right there.

“Why tell me this now?” I said. “If you believe Jewett had nothing to do with your grandfather’s death, why did you come chasing after me?”

“I looked you up on the InterWebs after you left the house. Your life would make a great graphic novel if you’re ever in need of a ghostwriter.” She winked at me to be cute. “One of the things that came through in the articles was how relentless you are. I knew you’d catch Bruce in a lie or something.”

I wondered if she knew that the man she was defending considered her the human equivalent of something you found stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

She actually put away her hookah pen to make her final appeal. “The best thing for everyone—Mother most of all—is for you to let this drop and go home. That’ll be the end of it, and we can all get on with our lives.”

The wind, rushing down the river valley, pushed snow from the boughs. It fell around our heads like glitter.

“What can you tell me about Arlo Burch?” I said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Really?”

“I can’t put this case aside until I have a conversation with the last man to see your grandfather alive.”

The sound of an engine straining to climb the hill made us both pause and wait for the vehicle to appear. It turned out to be a growling Pontiac Grand Prix, one of the last of the V8s. The once-white body was pockmarked with rust like the worst case of acne you’ve ever seen. There were at least two people inside, both women, maybe a kid in the backseat.

The driver slowed to have a look at us as they passed. The female passenger scowled and made a comment that I didn’t need to be a lip reader to decipher.

“Do you know who that was?” I asked, after the Grand Prix had roared out of sight.

“Not by name. Half the people living up there moved in over the past year. They’re all related, my friend Felice says. And they’re no fans of cops. The worst of them—the one to watch out for—is the old lady they call ‘Grambo.’”

“Grambo!”