And I had a list of questions. At the top of the list: How had Mr. Cataliades known that I would need help at that particular time in that particular place? And how had he known to send the private investigators from Little Rock? Of course, if he had been the Pelts’ lawyer, he might have known that they’d sent Lily and Jack Leeds to investigate their daughter Debbie’s disappearance. He wouldn’t have had to brief the Leeds as much, and he would have known they could handle themselves in a fight.

Would the four thugs tell the police why they’d come to the bar, and who’d put them up to it? And where they’d gotten the vampire blood—that would be helpful knowledge, also.

What would the things I’d gotten from the secret drawer tell me about my past?

“This is a fine kettle of fish,” I said out loud. I pulled the sheet over my head and searched the house mentally. No one was here but me. Maybe Dermot and Claude were all talked out, after their big reveal. They seemed to have stayed in Monroe. Sighing, I sat up in bed, letting the sheet fall away. There was no hiding from my problems. The best I could do was to try to prioritize my crises and figure out what information I could gather about each one.

The most important problem was the one closest to my heart. And its solution was right to hand.

I gently extracted the pattern envelope and the worn velvet bag from the drawer of the bedside table. In addition to the practical contents (a flashlight, a candle, and matches), the drawer held the strange mementoes of my strange life. But I wasn’t interested in anything today but the two new precious items. I carried them into the kitchen and laid them carefully back on the counter well away from the sink as I made my coffee.

While the coffeepot dripped, I almost pushed back the flap of the pattern envelope. But I pulled back my hand. I was scared. Instead I tracked down my address book. I’d charged my cell phone overnight, so I stowed the little cord away neatly—any delay would do—and at last, taking a deep breath, I punched in Mr. Cataliades’s number. It rang three times.

“This is Desmond Cataliades,” his rich voice said. “I’m traveling and unavailable at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message, I may call you back. Or not.”

Well, hell. I made a face at the telephone, but at the sound of the tone I dutifully recorded a guarded message that I hoped would convey my urgent need to talk to the lawyer. I crossed Mr. Cataliades—Desmond!—off my mental list and moved on to my second method of approach to the problem of Sandra Pelt.