The tune changed. Virginia’s thumbs slid across the tops of her knees. A tango?

“I don’t think he was competition material anyway. Too double-jointed.”

“Shame,” Mary Alice said.

Virginia looked at her suspiciously, decided that Sister really was commiserating with her and agreed that yes, it was a shame. Especially in the jitterbug. You couldn’t have those knees suddenly popping out at a funny angle.

“How old was this man?” Mary Alice asked.

“Late sixties, I guess. Maybe seventy.”

“Sure you weren’t mistaking a wobble for a double-joint?”

“Huh. Think I don’t know a wobble from a double-joint?” Virginia resumed her piano playing. By the time we got to Ashville where the sheriff’s substation was, I think she was playing “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

“I’m nervous,” she admitted as Mary Alice pulled into a parking place marked VISITOR.

“Nothing to be nervous about.” I said. “Sheriff Stuckey’s a nice man, and I’ll be back to get y’all in about an hour.”

I got the reaction I was expecting. Sister hit the curb.

“Hell, Mary Alice,” Virginia grumbled. “Why don’t you just run into the building?” She had been leaning over putting on her shoes and had smacked her head against the dashboard. She pulled the visor down and examined her forehead in the mirror. “I may have a bruise.”

“No, you won’t. And we’ll be back in about an hour. More like an hour and a half since we’ve got to go up that mountain.”

“You’re not coming in? I thought you were coming in with me.”

“Patricia Anne knocks down mailboxes.”

“She does?” Virginia looked back at me. “Why?”

“I hit one mailbox when I was fifteen and learning to drive,” I said.

“Pure luck. She aims for them all. And she keeps thinking she’s going to trick me into letting her drive my Jag.”

“Well, my goodness.” Virginia collected her purse and opened the door. “Won’t you at least come in for a minute?”

“I’ll come speak to Virgil a minute. Invite him to supper.” Sister carefully removed the keys and told me I could get in the front seat.

“Luke’s a terrible driver, too,” I heard Virginia telling Sister as they walked away. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

When we got to Monk Crawford’s house there was no sign of Betsy’s car.

“You’ve got the key. We could go in,” Sister suggested, pulling into the graveled area between the house and church.

“I don’t think we should do that.”

“Why not? We were in there going through everything the other day.”

Fortunately I didn’t have to answer. Betsy Mahall walked out onto the porch and waved at us. “Y’all come on in.

“Terry brought me,” she explained as we joined her. “He had to go to Oneonta on business. He’ll be back after a while.”