Robin removed the Weekly Weird News column from her purse and handed it to her. And then she waited for her to get to the third paragraph—the one that described a young police officer named Nicola Crane who had posted the bail for Kathleen Sharkey, the mad wax figure thief. Kate’s a good friend, Officer Crane had said back then. She’s a good person. She’s just going through a difficult time. Nicola looked up from the page, her expression calmer than Robin had expected.

“All right. You got me. I knew Garrison’s mother.”

“How?”

“She helped me out when I was young. Got me into foster care. We spoke occasionally as grown-ups. I tried to help her . . . Look, I haven’t brought it up with anyone because I don’t want word getting around. Poor thing can’t rest in peace even as it is.”

“Did my mom know her?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” she said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. That son of Kate’s was a handful and then some. Pretty much scared me off having kids of my own.”

“What was so bad about him?”

“He was always sneaking out. Never minding her. Got into fights at school all the time, and not because he got picked on. He was just . . . mean. His mother was endlessly upset by him. Endlessly disappointed.”

“Couldn’t he have been acting out to get her attention?”

“First of all, Kate was a single mother working two jobs while battling an addiction. She gave him all the attention she possibly could.” She took another sip of her drink, cringing this time. “Also, as someone whose parents died when she was very young, I’d have killed for half the attention that little brat got.” She cleared her throat. “Screw it if that sounds harsh.”

Robin took a swallow of her coffee. “Really?”

“Okay, think about this,” Nicola said. “I probably saw Quentin Garrison at least half a dozen times, and I was in contact with Kate right up until he was a young teenager. And I know we all age, but when he approached me after the funeral, I recognized him instantly. He, on the other hand, had no idea who I was. I know I look different than I did fifteen years ago. But I have the same friggin’ name, and it didn’t even register with him. Now if that isn’t the dictionary definition of narcissism . . .” She took another wincing sip. “God, this latte should be a criminal offense.”

“You want some of my coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Nicola took a sip. “Nothing like getting a bad taste out of your mouth.”

Robin gazed at the opened red velvet box, the necklace inside, sparkling serenely. “How long are you in town for, Nikki?”

“Just a few more days. My dog-sitter says they’re about to mutiny.”