"Is her car still here?"

He nodded. "It's parked in the garage, which is unlocked as far as I know. You're welcome to take a look."

There was a tapping at the door and the handle turned. Lucinda rattled the knob impatiently, her voice muffled. "Nord, what's wrong? Are you in there?"

He gestured toward the door. I crossed and unlocked it. Lucinda turned the knob abruptly and pushed her way in, almost banging me in the face. She stared at me, apparently assuming I'd locked the door on my own. "What's this about?"

Nord strained to raise his voice. "I told her to lock it. I didn't want any further interruptions."

Her body language shifted from suspicion to injury. "You might have mentioned it. If you and Miss Millhone have private business to discuss, I wouldn't dream of interfering."

"Thank you, Lucinda. We appreciate that."

"Perhaps I've overstepped my bounds." Her tone was frosty, the content designed to generate apologies or reassurances.

Nord offered neither. He lifted a hand, almost a gesture of dismissal. "She'd like to see Reba's room."

"What for?"

Nord turned to me. "Down the hall to your right –"

Lucinda cut in. "I'll be happy to show her. We don't want her wandering around on her own."

I glanced at Nord. "I'll get back to you," I said.

I followed Lucinda down the hall, noting her stiff posture and her refusal to look at me. When we reached Reba's room, she opened the door and then stood in my path forcing me to squeeze by her. Her eyes trailed after me. "I hope you're satisfied. You think you're so helpful, but you're killing him," she said.

I locked eyes with her, but she was far more practiced than I at delivering the withering glance. I waited. Her smile was set, and I knew she was the sort who'd find ways to get even. Lucinda, the bitch indeed. She stepped into the hall. I shut the door and locked it, knowing she'd get the point.

I turned and leaned against the door, making a visual survey, taking in the whole of the room before starting my search. The bed was made, a few personal mementos neatly arranged on the bedside table: a framed photo of her father, a book, a scratch pad, and a pen. No clutter. No clothing on the floor. Nothing under the bed. A phone, but no personal address book. I went through the desk drawers, uncovering items that must have been there for years: school papers, exam books, unopened boxes of stationery, which were probably gifts – certainly not her taste, unless she favored kitty-cat cards with cute sayings on the front. No personal correspondence. Dresser drawers were neat.