“I suppose it could have been Riddick, since it was his computer, but I think he’d gone home by then,” I said.

“Or it could have been one of those Shiffleys,” she said. “The two who were hanging around after the construction finished. Cleaning up, they said. Seemed to take them a right long time for a simple cleanup job.”

“Perhaps they had to move slowly to keep the noise level down when the choir was singing,” I suggested. “Mr. Lightfoot doesn’t like noise during his rehearsals.”

“I caught one of them coming out of that hallway where your office was,” she said. “Duane Shiffley, I think it was. Maybe it wasn’t my place to say anything, but he looked a little furtive, so I asked him what he was looking for, and he said the bathroom. I pointed it out to him and kept an eye on him till he went in.”

“You think Duane was up to something?”

“Maybe,” she said. “What if he did come back Sunday night to snoop around some more, and Mr. Vess accosted him the way I did?”

“We should tell the chief,” I said. “Not our job to sort all this out.”

“Thank the Lord!” With that she began dialing.

I hurried out to my car and set out.

Barliman Vess lived along the Richmond Road—so called not because it led all that directly to the state capital, but because before the interstate came through north of town, it was the first road you took on your long, roundabout journey there. Thanks to the interstate, Richmond Road had remained a pleasant country road, winding around hills through mile after mile of rolling green farmland.

Vess’s house was small and unpretentious but well maintained. It had obviously once been a farmhouse, and had just as obviously been sold off separate from the farm itself—not unlike the much larger farmhouse Michael and I now lived in. A neatly whitewashed picket fence separated a modest yard from the pasture that surrounded it on three sides. A detached garage sat to the right of the house, and to the left about a third of the yard was set off from the rest by its own stretch of picket fencing—no doubt the garden, in summertime. The bushes around the house looked tidy and well pruned under their caps of snow. The driveway and front walk had been neatly shoveled before last night’s light dusting of snow had fallen on them.

I walked carefully up to the door in case there was any ice hidden under the dusting, because I had a good idea how much it would hurt if I fell on my shoulder and undid whatever healing it had done. No lights in the house. I knocked on the door, hoping Mother was inside. No answer.

Maybe Mother hadn’t gotten here yet. Or had come and gone.