“That’s cold, even for you.” He poked his head inside. A dog gave a low, creaky bark, then fell silent. “Mrs. Garrison! It’s Dean Robillard. You left your back door unlocked.” And he walked right in.

Blue stared at the open door, then slumped down on the back step. Not even the Garrison Police Department could arrest her if she didn’t go inside, could they? She propped her elbows on her knees, ready to wait him out.

A querulous female voice shattered the evening quiet. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”

“I know this is a small town, Mrs. Garrison,” Dean said from inside, “but you should really keep your doors locked.”

Instead of retreating, her voice grew louder and shriller. Once again, Blue detected a trace of Brooklyn. “You heard me. Get out!”

“As soon as we talk.”

“I’m not talking to you. What are you doing out there, girl?”

Blue whipped around to see Mrs. Garrison looming over her in the doorway. She wore full makeup, a big platinum wig, wide-leg blue jersey slacks, and a matching boatneck tunic she’d accessorized with gold pendants. This evening, her heavy ankles spilled over a pair of worn magenta slippers.

Blue got right to the point. “What I’m not doing is breaking and entering.”

“She’s afraid of you,” Dean said from someplace inside. “I’m not.”

Mrs. Garrison propped both hands on her cane and regarded Blue as if she were a cockroach. Blue reluctantly came to her feet. “I am not afraid of you,” she said, “but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and all I saw in that jail was a vending machine, and—Never mind.”

Mrs. Garrison gave a contemptuous snort and shuffled toward Dean. “You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Hotshot.”

Blue peeked inside. “Not his fault. He’s taken one too many hits to the head.” Giving in to her curiosity, she crossed the threshold.

Unlike the stark exterior, the inside of the house was cluttered and unkempt. Stacks of newspapers sat by the back door, and the gold-flecked ceramic floor tiles could have used a good scrubbing. Mail lay scattered across the French provincial table, which also held an empty cereal bowl, a coffee mug, and a banana peel. Although the house wasn’t scary filthy, it had a musty smell and a sour, untended look. A very old, overfed black Lab with a grizzled muzzle lay sprawled in the corner where some of the seams on the gold-striped wallpaper had begun to curl. The gilded kitchen chairs and small crystal chandelier gave the kitchen a gaudy Las Vegas ambience.

Nita raised her cane. “I’m calling the cops.”