Maggie struggled to keep her voice low and even, her eyes steady. “You followed your husband here?”

“William was here,” Louella told her. “He was here, and he had the money. I knew he was going to do something dreadful, something he’d have gotten away with because of who he was. There had to be an end to it.” Her fingers tightened convulsively on Maggie’s, then relaxed just as abruptly as her head fell back. “Of course, the money couldn’t be buried with him. I thought, no, if they find him, they shouldn’t find the money. So I hid it.”

“Here,” Maggie managed. “In the attic.”

“In the old trunk. I forgot all about it,” Louella said as fatigue washed through her voice. “Forgot until a few weeks ago, when they dug in the gully. I came and took the money out and burned it, as I should’ve burned it ten years ago.”

Maggie looked down at the hand that lay limply on hers. It was frail, the blue veins showing sharply against the thin ivory skin. Could that hand have pulled a trigger, sending a bullet into a man? Maggie shifted her gaze to Louella’s face and saw it was now serene in sleep.

What do I do? Maggie asked herself as she laid Louella’s hand carefully back in her lap. Call the police? Maggie looked at the peacefully sleeping, fragile figure in the chair. No, she couldn’t; she didn’t have the steel for it. She’d call Joyce.

She went to the phone and asked the operator for Joyce’s number. There was no answer at the Agee house. Maggie sighed and glanced over her shoulder into the living room at Louella, who was still sleeping. She hated to do it, but she had to call Lieutenant Reiker. When she couldn’t get hold of him, either, she left a message with his office.

Coming back into the living room, Maggie gasped as a figure moved toward her. “Oh, you frightened me.”

“Sorry.” Stan looked with concern from Maggie to his mother-in-law. “I came in the back. The dog’s sleeping pretty heavily in the kitchen. Looks like Louella might’ve given him part of a sleeping pill to keep him quiet.”

“Oh.” Maggie made an instinctive move toward the kitchen.

“He’s all right,” Stan assured her. “He’ll just be a little groggy when he wakes up.”

“Sheriff—Stan,” she decided, hoping the lack of formality would make it easier for him. “I was just about to call you. I think Louella’s been here most of the night.”

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed his own sleep-starved eyes. “She’s been getting steadily worse since this business started. Joyce and I don’t want to put her in a home.”