“Where’s the sign? Never mind. You left it with your head.”

“I could hardly walk back into town wearing a beaver head.”

She pointed this out as if he were slow-witted. He suspected she wouldn’t have been walking back into town wearing a beaver suit, either, if she had anything on underneath it. “I didn’t see a car parked back there,” he said. “How did you get out here in the first place?”

“The owner’s wife dropped me off after my Camaro picked this morning to permanently give up the ghost. She was supposed to come back an hour ago to pick me up, but she didn’t show. I was trying to figure out what to do when I saw a certain scumsucker whip by in a Ford Focus I helped pay for.”

“The boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“The one you’re getting ready to murder.”

“Keep pretending that I’m kidding.” She peered around her tail. “There’s the church. Hang a right.”

“If I drive you to the crime site, does that make me an accessory?”

“Do you want to be?”

“Sure. Why not?” He turned onto a bumpy, semiresidential street where some scrappy ranch-style homes sat on weedy lots. Although the town of Rawlins Creek was only about twenty miles east of Denver, it didn’t seem to be in much danger of becoming a popular bedroom community.

“It’s that green house with the sign in the yard,” she said.

He pulled up in front of a stucco ranch where a metal deer stood guard over a row of sunflower whirligigs and a sign reading ROOMS TO LET. Except some comedian had drawn a big letter I between the TO and LET. A dirty silver Focus sat with the motor idling in the drive. Next to it, a leggy brunette rested her hips against the passenger door and smoked a cigarette. As she saw Dean’s car, she straightened.

“That must be Sally,” the Beaver hissed. “Monty’s latest loser. Me being her predecessor.”

Sally was young, thin, with a big rack and lots of makeup, which put the sweaty-haired Beaver at a distinct disadvantage, although showing up in a sporty Aston Martin with him at the wheel might have evened out the playing field. Through the windshield, Dean saw a long-haired, artistic-looking dude in small, wire-rimmed glasses emerge from the house. This could only be Monty. He wore cargos, along with a woven shirt that looked like it had been handmade by a band of South American revolutionaries. He was older than the Beaver—maybe midthirties—and definitely older than Sally, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen.