That caught her by surprise. “You could tell I’d been drinking?”

Something like a smile ghosted across his face. “You been a cop as long as I have—always wanted to say that in real life, so rarely get the chance—anyway, you learn how to spot a drunk, even one as outwardly steady as you were.”

Lucy stared down into her coffee cup, embarrassed.

She snapped her head up again when she heard the sound of the study door being opened. “What are you—?”

“Jeezus-H...” whispered Emerson. He looked back at her and said, “Mind if I take a closer look?”

“You got a warrant?”

“No, but like I told the group last night, cooperation is preferable—”

“—to coercion, yes, I remember. I wasn’t quite that drunk.”

“I repeat, Miss Thompson, you are not a suspect.”

Lucy sighed, set down her coffee, and escorted Emerson into the study, explaining the Walls of Madness to him.

She found his fascination with the Walls amusing in a sad sort of way, right up until he bent over and picked up one of the wadded newspaper clippings and unfolded it.

“All about Beals’ release last month,” he said matter-of-factly. He seemed to consider something for a moment, then turned and handed the clipping to Lucy. “Under any other circumstances, Miss Thompson, I’d be reading you your rights about now. How come you tore down only the Beals stories?”

“I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t even remember going into the study after I came inside.”

“Still drunk, were you?”

“Falling-down fractured, yes.”

“Ah, an honest one.”

“Going to charge me with DWI?”

Emerson shook his head. “Not much point now. Banks saw no reason to suspect you were intoxicated, and for all I know you might have taken some kind of medication that exacerbated the effect of the alcohol. Doesn’t matter. You didn’t hit anything or run over anyone.” He looked down at the clippings on the floor, half-heartedly kicking at a few of them. “Besides, I know there’s no way you could have gotten over to Beals’ side of town in less than twenty minutes, not in that godawful storm.”

“You’re sure he was killed at ten-fifteen?”

“We have something of an eye-witness. A supervisor at Spencer named Morse. He’d been working with Beals in the garage. Came inside to take a leak and heard what sounded like the wind blowing the roof off the garage. By the time he gets his fly zipped up and can run outside, there’s what’s left of Beals lying outside the wreckage of the garage.” He looked at her again. “You’re also not suspected of any complicity in his death, Miss Thompson. Besides, even if that were the case, if you know someone or something that can do to Beals and that garage what was done to them—” He shook his head. “I don’t want you siccing them on me.” He paused. “That’s a joke. My humor sometimes leans toward the macabre.”

“You must have them rolling in the aisles down at the morgue.”