“‘A good time,’” I found myself murmuring—by now I knew A Christmas Carol as well as Michael. Even the boys could quote bits of it. “‘A kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow travelers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.’”

I finished up my tea, reluctantly replaced the card basket in the front hall, and headed down the long hallway to talk to Minerva and check on the boys.

When I peeked into the library, the boys were nowhere to be seen. And Minerva seemed delighted to see me. She hurried over to the door, and I braced myself to remind her of my nearly nonexistent sewing skills.

“There you are!”

“Where are the boys?”

“They’re fine,” she said. “They were getting a bit restless, so your father and grandfather took them out to the zoo.”

I decided not to ask exactly what she meant by “restless.” Minerva would have used stronger words if either blood or broken valuable objects were involved. She shooed me back into the hall, followed me out, and closed the door behind her.

“Good Lord, but your mother’s been on quite a tear,” she said.

“She has? About what?”

“Barliman Vess. If you’d asked me yesterday what your mother thought of him, I’d have said she couldn’t stand the man.”

“And you’d have been right,” I said. “What makes you think she’s changed her mind now that he’s dead?”

“She hasn’t really. But now she’s convinced he was onto something.”

“‘Onto something’?” I echoed. “Like what?”

“She doesn’t know,” Minerva said. “As she keeps saying to anyone who will listen, he was cut off in his prime because he knew something dangerous or was asking the wrong questions or some such thing.”

“And she could be right,” I said. “Not about the cutting off in his prime—the man was eighty if he was a day. But he could very well have been killed because of something he knew.”

“Seems that way to me, too,” Minerva said. “I’m not arguing with her on that. I just question how wise it is to go around saying so to every blessed person in creation. And promising she’s going to pick up Mr. Vess’s mantle and carry on his crusade, whatever the dickens it was.”

“Oh, good grief.” I lowered my voice and took a step closer. “You do realize what she’s trying to do, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Minerva followed suit, and looked around to see if anyone were eavesdropping. “Trying to flush out the killer by making herself a target. And a damn fool thing to do, if you ask me.”