“It would seem that trait followed her into adult life. Traits like that become obsessive later on. Perhaps she sees herself losing control over her brother with his wife. You’re back in town, and I think we’ve all agreed, she doesn’t like you very much. Then there’s the secret they’ve kept all these years. Assuming,” Lola said, holding up her hand to ward off protests, “they were all there that day, which we assume they were. Now, Cady threw in her little clinker the day she went to Amy’s house by asking her why she lied. That might be heating things up a bit.”

“Where does that leave us?” Mandy demanded.

“Exactly where we were earlier this morning. We’re in a holding pattern. Mr. Denville said he would get back to us today after he interviewed the Kings and a few other people. He said he tracked down the old police chief, who retired a good many years ago.” Lola glanced down at the diamond-studded watch on her bony wrist. “Actually, he’s probably speaking with the old chief right this very minute. Isn’t it lunchtime, Anthony?”

“In about two hours. Now if you want to get rid of me, just say so. I know all about girl talk.”

“No. I’m hungry. Let’s have something scrumptious. Shrimp scampi sounds good. A nice crisp salad and some garlic bread. A big glass of fine wine and some Kona coffee, and, if it isn’t too much trouble, a cobbler of some sort. Not those frozen ones. A real one. Two hours from now will be fine.”

“What are you going to do, Cady?” Mandy asked.

“I think I’m going to change and go running. Atlas could use some exercise. When I get back I’m going to pore over those scrapbooks until it’s time to get ready for my date with Pete. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Run along, dear. We’ll just sit here and reminisce the way us old people do. Enjoy your run,” Lola said.

The chubby reporter chugged his way up the Kings’ driveway, then cut across the lawn to the front door of the house. He jabbed at the bell as he marveled at the tidy borders of flowers every color of the rainbow. He’d met Maxine King, and he seriously doubted she was the one who had planted the flowers. He’d bet a week’s pay she wasn’t the one who watered them either.

A maid wearing a gray uniform with a pristine white apron and little white cap on her head looked at him inquiringly when she opened the door. Denville handed her his business card, while he whipped out his press credentials from his shirt pocket with his other hand. “I’d like to speak to either Mr. or Mrs. King. It’s about the death of their son. The paper is going to do a feature article on the old case now that a movie is going to be made on the life of Lola Jor Dan.”