“As a matter of fact,” I said slowly, “my brother and I are leaving Sarne in an hour or so. We’re just dropping by Helen Hopkins’ place first, at her request. Then we’re outta here.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “I’ve missed my opportunity. Maybe someday if you have business close to here, you’ll give me a call?” He tucked a business card into my hand.

“Thanks,” I said noncommittally, and after some more hand clasping and eye-to-eye contact, I got out the front door with the check in my hand.

I tried to tell Tolliver about the odd interview I’d just had, but I guess he was miffed at the long wait he’d had outside the lawyer’s office. In fact, Tolliver was mighty quiet while he searched for the Hopkins house, which turned out to be a humble box-like building on a humble street.

Hollis Boxleitner had said some pretty bad things about his wife’s mother’s past, and I had formed a negative picture of Helen Hopkins. When she answered the door I was surprised to see a tidy, thin woman with wispy brown hair and popping blue eyes. She had once been pretty, in a waif-like way. Now she seemed more like a dried shell. She was wearing a flowered T-shirt and khakis, and her face was about as wide as my thin hand.

“I’m Harper Connelly,” I said. “This here’s my brother, Tolliver Lang.”

“Helen Hopkins. God bless you for coming to meet me,” she said rapidly. “Please come in and sit down.” She gestured around the tiny living room. It was jammed with furniture and so cluttered that it took me a moment to realize the room was nonetheless extremely clean. There was a shelf mounted on the wall, full of a display of Avon carnival glass. A huge Bible was centered on the cheap coffee table. Flanking it were two starched crocheted doilies, and in the exact center of each one was a glass candlestick holding a white candle.

I knew a shrine when I saw one.

And the pictures; two brunette girls were duplicated over and over around the room. There was an age progression beginning on the north wall. Sally and Teenie were born, went to grade school, trick-or-treated, danced, graduated from grade school and junior high, went to proms, and in Sally’s case, got married. This room was a panorama of the lives of two girls, both of them murdered. The last picture in the progression was a bleak shot of a white casket covered with a pall of carnations resting on a bier at the front of a church. This final picture, surely taken at Sally’s funeral, had a bare spot next to it; this would be where the picture of Teenie’s casket would hang. I swallowed hard.