Careful to keep his voice out of range of the old man to his right, Lou told his father what he had shared with Gilbert Stone. When he was finished, Dennis fixed him with the same sort of curious stare he typically reserved for people with excessive body piercing.

“That is odd,” he said. “One or two weirdos might be a coincidence. Five or six is a trend—unless, of course, you’re overreading things.”

“Always possible.”

Lunch arrived, and after one bite, Dennis Welcome appeared to have become a convert to the church of Millie Neuland.

“Call me delicious,” he said to the reedlike waitress, brandishing his cheeseburger with two hands.

She favored him with an enigmatic smile that might have announced she no longer considered him a form of pond scum.

“Fresh food makes all the difference,” she said.

“Yeah? Just how fresh are we talking about here?”

“Fresh as in everything we serve is local. Produce. Meat. We even bake our own bread.”

“I would call that fresh,” Dennis said, wiping away the juice from another bite of cow.

Lou smiled to see his father so upbeat. With on-the-job injuries, recurrent layoffs, the premature death of his beloved wife, and one financial disaster after another, the man had not had it easy. But one could rarely ever tell.

Without warning, Iris planted her palms on the counter and leaned in close to Lou. “I overheard you boys talking about John Meacham,” she whispered. “You know, a bunch of the crunchy granolas around here are talking about having some sort of memorial service for the victims.”

“That’s nice,” Lou said, sensing where the woman was heading.

“But they’re also talking about including the murderer. I mean, he is a murderer. Seven times over. I say burn the box they’ve got him stashed away in and flush those ashes.”

Lou stopped eating and fixed the woman with a baleful stare. “Dr. Meacham was a friend of mine,” he said, sensing he was about to boil over. “He had a wife. Children. It’s fine for you to have an opinion on matters, but your opinion is getting close to spoiling my meal.”

Iris lost color, topped off Lou’s iced tea from a pitcher, and then left, muttering.

“I told you that Graham called, didn’t I?” Dennis said, changing the subject with the subtlety and grace of a rampaging rhino.

Lou groaned. “Dad, I said I wanted to enjoy my salad. Now, thanks to you and Olive Oyl over there, my chance of doing that is gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about that you tripped yourself up. Graham didn’t call you. He never calls anyone he doesn’t have to. My guess is you called him.”