I pick up the pace. The path curves and then straightens. The parking area comes into view twenty yards ahead. I see the hood of the Tahoe and dented steel of the guardrail. The telephone poles that run along the road. The trees open up and we step into bright sunlight. Heat slams down on me like a hot cast-iron skillet. I feel wilted and dirty as I head toward the Tahoe. I’m stepping over the guardrail when I notice the bottle propped against the shady side of a post.

I bend, pick it up using one of the tissues. The lower half of the bottle is basket covered. The label is crinkled, peeling and stained, nearly indecipherable. My brain pings when I see the word Chianti.

“I think I found something,” I hear myself say.

Tomasetti comes up behind me, looks at the bottle. “If you’re thirsty, I’m more than happy to take you to McNarie’s.”

“Mary and her lover drank a bottle of wine right here at Miller’s Pond a few weeks ago. She mentioned it in her diary. I’ll have to check, but I think she mentioned the wine was from Italy and said something about the bottle.”

He looks skeptical. “Kind of a long shot.”

“There’s only one place in town that carries this kind of Chianti,” I tell him. “Hire’s Carry-Out, a little place out on Highway 83. I’ve got a date, in the diary. If they can identify the buyer, we might get a name.”

“Worth a shot.” But he doesn’t look too excited. Maybe because it’s not a crime to drink cheap Chianti here or anywhere else.

Still, it’s worth a try. I drop the bottle into the bag, and we start toward the Tahoe. Without realizing it, we’ve picked up the pace. Two bloodhounds that have caught a scent, however faint.

Neither of us speaks again until we climb into the Tahoe. Tomasetti starts the engine, throws the vehicle into reverse. “So how do we get to Hire’s from here?”

I call T.J. from the road and ask him to get Mary Plank’s journal off my desk and skim through it for an entry that mentions wine. After several minutes, he finds it.