As Sam located the switch and hit the lights, Les stepped into a small central clearing, surrounded by piles of stolen goods, and did a slow survey, taking it all in.

“It’s a little like pawing through a pirate’s stolen treasure,” he said. “And just like Don grabbed whatever caught his eye, now we have to find the one thing that made somebody kill him.”

Sammie joined him amid the booty. “With no clue what it might be.”

The Brattleboro Senior Center is located on Main Street in the Gibson-Aiken building, named after two of the most influential political leaders in modern Vermont history. An imposing brick building, it was built in the 1920s as an armory. Indeed, to escape most of its lingering martial severity, the Senior Center had several years ago moved down to the tamer, less militant, low-ceilinged basement.

Joe Gunther was here to catch up with Cheri Pratt, Don Kalfus’s mother, who, according to her neighbor, was taking advantage of the affordable senior meals program, despite not yet qualifying as a senior herself.

He followed the sounds and smells of a large lunch in full flower and entered the room he was after, half-filled with diners who were crowding the tables or ambling about getting drinks or chatting. He paused by the door, Willy’s description of Cheri in mind, scrutinizing the scene while he paid his entrance fee, which dropped several dollars for those over sixty, until he located her sitting in a far corner—a lean, tough-faced woman who was as “thin as an axe handle,” in Willy’s words.

Fortunately, she was not only alone, but had a couple of empty chairs beside her. She wasn’t the only one. For the many people who were there to socialize, there were just as many simply desiring a cheap meal. They wanted to eat more than to converse.

As he wended his way between tables and people, Joe was unsure what category Cheri fit, since he also saw her waving familiarly to several passersby.

Reaching her table, he stood long enough for her to notice him and finish chewing her mouthful of lasagna.

“Mrs. Pratt?”

The smile he’d seen from across the room was not the restrained version she showed now.

“Who’re you?” she asked neutrally, her eyes calculating.

“May I sit?” he replied, indicating the chair beside her.

“Would it matter if I said no?”

He smiled and sat. “No.”

“I hope you never do undercover work,” she told him. “You have cop stamped all over you.”

“I should,” he agreed, shrugging his coat off onto the chair back behind him. “I’ve been at it long enough. The lasagna good?”

“I think so,” she said. “I don’t go for fancy.”

“No,” he said. “Me, neither.”

“You here about Donny?” she asked, breaking off a piece of roll and putting it in her mouth. “You’re obviously not interested in lunch.”

“Yes. We’re trying to discover as much about him as possible so we can find out what happened.”