I turned it over. In a childish half-cursive, half-printed handwriting was the inscription, “To my Chandler Mountain booger. With love, Susan.”

“Who do you think killed Susan, Albert?”

“The Chandler Mountain booger.”

The words were as clear as if Albert Lee were in the kitchen. I handed the picture to Mary Alice and pressed my shaking hands together.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You sick?”

“I know who killed Susan Crawford.”

“Who?”

I nodded toward the picture she was holding. “The Chandler Mountain booger. Albert Lee Packard.”

She looked at the inscription on the back of the picture. “What makes you say that? This booger thing is just a joke.”

“This part isn’t.” I told her what Albert Lee had said the night before.

“I don’t believe that for one minute. I know for a fact that Virgil thinks Joe Baker killed Susan and Monk. And why would Albert Lee have done it anyway?”

“He was in love with her, had been for years.”

“So?”

“When Ethan died, maybe Albert Lee thought it was finally his chance, and she turned him down.”

“That’s dumb. I’ve turned lots of men down and they haven’t killed me.”

I closed my eyes and thought. I knew I was right, but I was having trouble putting two and two together here.

“He was the only person we know who was out there when the snake was put in your car, remember?”

“But he’s not a snake handler.”

“Doesn’t matter. He could have gotten a snake anywhere on that mountain.”

I picked up the wallet and looked in it again. Behind the money was a cash receipt from Rich’s, $2,472.92, FINE JEWELRY. It was dated December 23. I handed it to Sister.

“Engagement ring?”

She shrugged. “Could have been anything.”

“Not on a teacher’s salary. Especially a book collector.”

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.

“It’s Albert Lee. I know it is.” And I did know it, just as sure as I knew he had killed Susan Crawford.

“Here.” I handed her the wallet. “Put the pictures back in and throw it in the bathroom, quick.”

“Hell. Last night you figured out it was Terry and Betsy.” But she pushed her chair back while she was inserting the pack of pictures. “Take your time so I can get back in the kitchen. It’s probably not him, anyway.”

But my intuition was right. I got the same view of the scraggly beard through the peephole that I had gotten the day before.

“Okay,” Sister called. By this time the doorbell had rung twice.

I opened the door. “Good morning, Albert Lee. Sorry. I was on the phone.”

“Morning, Mrs. Hollowell. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if by any chance you’ve seen my billfold.”