Peppy stared from Albritten to me with grave eyes and moved next to the older woman. I buried my face in her ruff. When I got to my feet, I felt as though I had lost my last friend on earth.

“We’ll be fine, and you’ll be fine,” Albritten said. “Trust Jesus that far, young woman. The car keys are under the floor mat. Don’t know why I did that—old habit and the first place anyone would look. You think you can get this business cleared up? Soon?”

“I’d better. I’m spending a fortune down here that I don’t have, and I need to get back home.”

“Husband waiting for you?”

“Friends,” I said lightly, putting Jake to one side of my mind. “Friends and clients.”

When I’d pulled out of her driveway and made sure the garage was firmly locked behind me, I drove over to Lou and Ed, the pair whose scrapyard advertised itself as “Breathing New Life into Old Metal.” Albritten had phoned them after I left, and they had a set of Kansas plates ready for me. Two big men, taciturn, so alike that when they changed positions, I couldn’t tell which was which. They looked me over to see if they agreed with Albritten’s assessment that it was okay to trust me.

“You expecting cops to stop you?” Lou, or maybe Ed, asked, slapping the plates against his open palm.

“Sheriff might if I’m not clever enough to stay out of his way.”

“What are you going to say about the plates being expired?” Ed asked.

Good question. “I’m borrowing the car from my cousin’s husband’s sister, over in Fort Riley. I didn’t know the plates were expired, honest.”

“Good woman.” Ed swatted my shoulder. “Bat those baby blues, and they’ll let you off with a warning.”

“Not when they see my Illinois driver’s license, they won’t. And not if Sheriff Gisborne sees my name, so I’d best not do anything that makes them want to pull me over.”

When Ed bent to screw the plate onto the back holder, a plastic-covered container dropped out. I knelt to inspect it: a small box, about five inches square, wrapped in thick plastic, taped tightly shut. Under a film of dirt, the plastic looked new, the tape fresh.

“I need a sharp blade.” My voice came out hoarsely.

Lou felt in his coverall pockets and came out with a box cutter. I slit the tape, careful not to nick the box. Lou and Ed leaned over to watch, breathing heavily. The box was old, the surface rough from damp and age. I pulled it gently apart and found a second plastic bag inside, new plastic again, covering a small reel of film.