“Thank you, there’s nothing.” Her voice hitched, then faltered. “It’s been such a shock. We always thought—”

“Yes, I know. Please, don’t think you have to talk to me or be polite. I only called because somehow—” She broke off, passing a hand over her hair. “I don’t know. I feel as though I’ve set it all off.”

“It’s better to know the truth.” Joyce’s voice became suddenly calm. “It’s always better to know. I worry about Mother.”

“Is she all right?”

“I’m not— I’m not sure.” Maggie sensed fatigue now, rather than tears. She understood that form of grief, as well. “She’s here now. The doctor’s with her.”

“I won’t keep you, then. Joyce, I understand we hardly know each other, but I would like to help. Please let me know if I can.”

“I will. Thank you for calling.”

Maggie replaced the receiver. That accomplished nothing, she reflected. It accomplished nothing, because she didn’t know Joyce Agee. When you grieved, you needed someone you knew, the way she’d needed Jerry when her parents had been killed. Though she knew Joyce had a husband, Maggie thought of Cliff and the way he’d taken the woman’s hands, the look of concern on his face, when he’d spoken to her. He’d be there for her, Maggie mused, and wished she knew what they meant to each other.

To give her excess energy an outlet, she switched on the rented sander.

The sun was low, the sky rosy with it, when Cliff drove toward the old Morgan property. His mind was full of questions.

William Morgan murdered. He’d been shot, buried on his own property; then someone had covered the trail by sending his car into the river.

Cliff was close enough to the Morgans and to the people of Morganville to know that every other person in town might’ve wished William Morgan dead. He’d been a hard man, a cold man, with a genius for making money and enemies. But could someone who Cliff knew, someone he’d talk to on the street any day of the week, have actually murdered him?

In truth, he didn’t give a damn about the old man, but he worried about Louella and Joyce—especially Joyce. He didn’t like to see her the way she’d been that afternoon, so calm, so detached, with nerves snagged at the edge. She meant more to him than any other woman he’d known, yet there seemed to be no way to help her now. That was for Stan, Cliff thought, downshifting as he came to a corner.

God knew if the police would ever come up with anything viable. He didn’t have much faith in that after ten years. That meant Joyce would have to live with knowing that her father had been murdered and that his murderer still walked free. Would she, Cliff mused, look at her neighbors and wonder?

Swearing, Cliff turned onto the lane that led to the Morgan place. There was someone else he worried about, he thought grimly, though he didn’t have the excuse of a long, close friendship with this woman.