“He was driving the thirty-two Toyota for Braun Racing. Not sure now. I think he’s trying to get back into Formula One, but the FIA World Motor Sport Council decided there won’t be any new teams this year.”

“Is Villeneuve the only Canadian NASCAR driver?”

“Tabarnac, no. Mario Gosselin drives in the Camping World Truck Series. Pierre Bourque, D. J. Kennington, though those guys are mostly part-timers. Jean-François Dumoulin and Ron Fellows are road-course ringers.”

“Which means?”

“They drive road courses, not ovals.” Pause. “Anything new on your landfill case?”

I briefed him on developments.

“You planning a return trip to the Speedway?”

“If necessary.”

Ryan hesitated. “If you go, will you be anywhere near the Nationwide garage area?”

When I realized where he was going, I burst out laughing.

“You want Jacques Villeneuve’s autograph, don’t you?”

“The man’s a legend.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“It’s not like I’m suggesting you steal the guy’s jockeys.”

“Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, Villeneuve groupie.”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan, all-around smart-ass.” I could hear Ryan’s blush flame across the line.

“You wear a cap with the number thirty-two and Jacques’s picture stitched on the brim?”

“Forget it. I don’t even know if Villeneuve’s racing in Charlotte.”

Ryan wished me bonne chance, then we disconnected.

I was settling on the sofa to watch Boston Legal reruns with my very dapper cat when the front doorbell bonged.

Birdie and I looked at each other in surprise. No one ever uses that entrance.

Curious, I crossed the living room and put an eye to the peephole.

And actually cringed.

Summer stood on the porch, digging in a purse the size of a mail pouch. Backlit by the carriage light, her hair looked like a nimbus of white cotton candy.

I considered a quick drop and a belly crawl to the stairs.

Instead, I turned the lock.

Summer’s head popped up at the sound of the tumblers. Even in the dimness, I could see she’d been crying.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I know it’s kinda late.”

Kinda.

“Would you like to come in?” I stood back and opened the door wide.

Summer slipped past me, leaving a tsunami of Timeless in her wake. When I turned, she was extending a box of Tic Tacs in my direction.

“Breath mint?”

“No, thanks.”

“I find the taste calmative.”

“Yes,” I agreed. Using a word like “calmative” was quite an undertaking for Summer.

Summer dropped the little dispenser into her purse and fingered the strap nervously. In her pink-sequined bra tank, pink pencil skirt, and murderous high heels, she looked like an ad for Frederick’s of Hollywood.

“The study is more comfortable,” I said.

“OK.”

Summer clicked along behind me, head swiveling from side to side.

“Would you like something to drink?” I gestured at the sofa.

“Merlot, please.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t keep wine in the house.”