“Oh yeah,” Marge said, “the one where you strain a half-dozen cooked Granny Smith apples.”

The phone rang. Decker announced it was probably for him and picked up the receiver. He was silent for a moment, then turned his back to the women and whispered into the receiver. A minute later, he hung up and told Marge that Sheriff’s gave them the go ahead.

Byron Howard lumbered into the kitchen, announcing he was thirsty. His bald head was beaded with rows of sweat. He took a callused hand and mowed the water down, wiping his wet palm on his pants leg. He didn’t look any happier to see Decker than he had the first time.

“You still here?” he asked them.

“Looks that way,” Decker said. “We’re leaving right now, Mr. Howard.”

“They’re goin’ to the Darcys, Byron,” Annette said. “Katie Darcy was found on the other side of the mountain, and the detective thinks that don’t look so good, considerin’ how close Linda was to her and all.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Howard,” Decker said. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

Byron faced Decker and blurted out, “I’ll take you to the Darcys.”

Darlene’s face froze in shock.

Annette stammered out, “Now, Byron, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“I’m going,” Byron insisted.

Darlene’s look of surprise had turned to hatred. “Who’s gonna mind the farm?” she asked.

“I weren’t be more than ten minutes, Darlene,” Byron said. “For God’s sake, woman, I think you can last that long with me out of reach.”

Darlene’s mouth fell open.

Byron’s eyes beseeched Decker’s. “Please, mister. I won’t get in your way.”

Decker paused a second, then nodded for him to come along.

“Let’s go,” Marge repeated.

“Ten minutes, Darlene,” Byron said. “I swear it. Just ten minutes.”

11

Decker pulled the unmarked onto Sagebrush Canyon Road. Byron Howard sat shotgun, Marge stretched out in the back. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Howard staring at the Plymouth’s in-dash computer, the radio transmitter and mike, all the little lights and dials. To him, it probably looked like NASA control.

They rode a half-mile without speaking. Finally, Marge asked Byron about the biker bar down the road.

The beekeeper waved his hand in the air. “Bunch of lazy bums over there. But they leave us in peace and keep out the niggers.”

“Who owns the place?” Decker asked.

“Kid named Chip,” Byron answered.

“Chip what?” Marge asked.

“Just Chip,” Byron said.

Decker knew conversation was going to be one-way, but he tried anyway. “I hear your brother likes the pizza over there.”

Byron answered yep, the pizza was good, and stared out the windshield.