“So what’re you doin’ working with her?” the woman asked.

“Detective Dunn’s the best.” Decker smiled at the middle-aged hausfrau and said, “C’mon. You know how it is with us men. If we didn’t have you ladies to keep all our paperwork straight, we’d never get anything done.”

Marge coughed. Decker’s face remained impassive.

The woman smiled with thin, pale lips. “Ain’t that the truth. Well, come on in. It’s a hot one outside.”

“You’re Mrs. Howard?” Marge asked.

“Last time I checked, I was, Miss Detective.” She stepped aside to let them in. “You can call me Darlene. Everybody calls me Darlene. That’s my name.”

“Thank you, Darlene,” Decker said.

They followed her through a sunlit living room. The furniture was country pine, unstained, sanded as smooth as porcelain. By the color of the wood, the pieces looked to be at least fifty years old. Two six-foot sofas faced each other, both upholstered in a white-and-blue floral print. Doilies rested on the arms of the sofas, throw pillows stitched with petit point decorated the back. The fireplace had a wooden hearth; above it were elaborately embroidered samplers of fruits and vegetables.

Darlene’s destination was the kitchen, which took up the back portion of the house. Twice the size of the living room, it was filled with the latest in modern cooking equipment—metal freezers, food processors, hanging copper pans, and a stainless-steel industrial oven and cooktop that ran the length of the entire rear wall. Atop the burners were steaming cauldrons. Even with all the windows open, the air was choked with the smell of honey. A reedy blonde was stirring a pot, her back to them. A radio was blasting out Randy Travis, who was wishing he was in 1982.

“Who was it, Darl?” the blonde asked loudly.

Darlene shouted, “Look and see for yourself.”

The blonde whipped around. “My goodness, why didn’t you tell me we have company?”

She was much younger than Darlene, with an oval, freckled face that was pink and moist from steam, and hazel eyes opened wide in surprise. She had on a long apron over jeans and a T-shirt. Her smile was crooked, but Marge liked it. She was the first friendly face Marge had seen down here.

“Well, sit on down,” the blonde said, turning off the music. “I’m Annette.”

“Please to meet you, ma’am,” Decker said. “I’m Detective Decker, and this here is Detective Dunn.”

Annette’s face clouded.

“They’re policemen,” Darlene said.

“What’s this all about?” Annette asked.

“Now, that ain’t polite, Nettie,” Darlene scolded. “Go get these people some ice-tea. Can’t you see they’re sweating?”

“Oh, yes,” Annette said. She fiddled with her hair, which was bunched into a net. “Of course. I’m sorry. Please sit.” She motioned them to a round, cherrywood table at the entrance of the kitchen.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Decker said.