“I was using the collection this morning,” I said. “It seemed easier to leave the car there.”

I didn’t feel like explaining my worries about being tracked. I wondered if the fact that the sheriff or the colonel or whoever could track me through my phone meant they no longer needed to use their SUV. I put a reflexive hand on my throat, which suddenly felt tight.

When Clements dropped me at the library, he brushed aside my thanks with a brusque comment. “I hope you won’t go doubling back to trouble Sister Albritten again.”

I smiled perfunctorily. “Could she stay with her son for a few weeks? I don’t know what’s going on or who’s instigating it, but the violence at the McKinnon farm and at August’s home in Chicago—if those thugs think that she knows something—”

“I know.” He cut me off. “That’s why I’ve organized people in the community to stay with her. I wanted her to go to her son Jordan’s, but she’s a stubborn woman. Old, besides, and the old need to be in their own places. Jordan will come back tomorrow. He has to get his business organized so that someone can take care of things while he’s away, and then he’ll stay with her, or his oldest boy will. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do.”

I didn’t offer to help with guard duty; I didn’t know where my investigations might lead or when, but Albritten’s safety was yet another worry.

Back in my own car, I took my electronics out of their foil casing. I had a raft of messages, some urgent, but my own first priority was to collect my dog.

Peppy was delighted to see me, although the manager assured me that everyone had fallen in love with her; I could bring her back anytime. Peppy had played fetch longer than they thought possible for any dog, had worked well with the rest of the animals, and so on. I felt as though I were reading a kindergarten report: Your little Peppy is the ideal child, bright but caring about others. Not that I disagreed with a word of it.

As we drove into town, I was thankful she’d had enough exercise that I didn’t need to walk her tonight. We went back to the Hippo. It was five-thirty, sun over the yardarm, whatever that was.

The bartender/barista I usually saw in the mornings was on duty, so I brought Peppy inside with me.

I put two twenties on the counter and asked for a double Oban, neat. My usual drink, Johnnie Walker Black, is half the price, but I wanted pampering. “Do you need proof that she’s my emotional-support dog, or can you take my word for it?”