“I am,” he said, trying not to sound surprised. He shifted his shoulders experimentally and bent to touch his toes. Yes, he was actually almost pain-free.

“The two men who attacked Mr. Bernardo and Mr. Winthrop have gotten a public defender,” Arthur Smith said. “And on the advice of their counsel, they’re not talking to me anymore. They’ve abandoned their Men of Liberty spiel, since I think the lawyer told them it made them sound crazier and more dangerous than just saying they jumped some guys in the alley because they thought they were being jumped themselves.”

“What were they doing in the alley behind the gas station, anyway? I’m sure you asked them that.”

“They don’t seem to feel they have to explain their presence,” Arthur Smith said dryly. “That’s what the lawyer told them to say.”

“So . . . are they going to get out of jail?” Fiji looked as though Smith had told her the truth about Santa Claus.

“They may,” Smith admitted. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He’d settled on a straight-backed chair opposite the couch, and he turned his hat in his hands as he sat there. “Of the two, only one of them has any kind of arrest record, Zane Green, and that was one incident, a bar fight. The guy he beat up didn’t press charges.”

“A bar close to here?” Manfred asked.

“Yeah, the Cartoon Saloon.”

Manfred started to ask where that was, but Fiji shot him a narrow-eyed look that said, Don’t draw attention to this by asking about it.

Instead, he said, “So the whole incident’s over for now is what you’re telling us. And you’re not getting anywhere on Aubrey Hamilton’s death?”

“I wouldn’t say that. The coroner confirmed the body is that of Aubrey Hamilton Lowry, and her parents are claiming the body for burial when we release it.”

Fiji looked startled, as if the concept of Aubrey’s parents taking charge was a surprise to her. “Of course there’s no reason why her parents wouldn’t grieve, though Aubrey was . . .” she murmured, and then stopped abruptly. In a more public voice, Fiji said, “I hope they’ll keep Bobo in the loop about the funeral plans. That would mean a lot to him.”

The sheriff, who had gotten up to leave, looked at Fiji as if she’d grown another head or begun talking in Urdu. “That’s hardly likely,” Smith said. “They think he killed her.”

Manfred, who had turned to Fiji, saw all the color drain from her face and then flood back. He thought she might faint, and he was glad she hadn’t stood up.

“He loved her,” Fiji faltered. “They can’t think that.”