“Betsy gave you the key, didn’t she? And I guess Virgil’s through in here. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

Actually, Miss Beulah’s mention of the telephone bill had reminded me that there might be phone messages. I went into the kitchen where a telephone was on the counter and picked up the receiver. I recognized the rhythmic beep that Bellsouth uses to signify messages. It’s the same answering service I have at home. Unfortunately, it requires a number that varies for each area as well as a number-password. The number we use is Fred’s birthday, which wouldn’t help me much here.

“Damn,” I said. “He’s got messages, but he’s on Bellsouth.”

Sister had followed me into the kitchen.

“I’m sure Virgil’s already checked them.”

I ignored the smugness. “These are new ones,” I explained. “It doesn’t beep unless there are new ones. Virgil could have saved the old ones, but they’d just be sitting there.”

“You can’t access them?”

“Not without the code numbers.”

“Hmm.” Mary Alice started opening kitchen cabinets.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re supposed to be looking, aren’t we?” She took down an opened package of Oreos. “Reckon these are fresh? Remember that time you bit into one of those wafer cookies with the lard stuff in them and there was half a worm hanging out when you started to take your second bite?”

I remembered that it was a cookie that she had given me not mentioning that it was old as the hills.

“I’m sure those Oreos are fine,” I said, praying for a worm.

No such luck.

“Let’s see what they’ve got to drink,” Sister said, opening the refrigerator, her mouth full.

“Apple juice is all. You want some?”

I shook my head no. I had opened the drawer beside the sink that is everyone’s junk drawer. On top were a couple of matchbooks like the one on the mantel advertising the Homestead Inn in Nashville. I pocketed one of them. It had the inn’s phone number on it. Could Monk and Virginia have been there and on their way back through Pulaski when he was killed?

No, that didn’t make sense. That way the matchbooks would have ended up in Pulaski, not on Chandler Mountain. Nevertheless, someone had been to the Homestead Inn.

“Hello?” The front door opened and Terry Mahall stepped inside.

“I’m Terry Mahall,” he reminded us politely. “Betsy sent me to see if I could help you.”

“You can tell us what we’re looking for,” Mary Alice said. “We sure don’t know.”

“Can’t help you there, Mrs.—”

“Crane.”

I closed the junk drawer and walked into the living room. Terry was a handsome young man, I realized. I recognized his father’s pale blue eyes.