I unlocked my apartment door at 5:15. I’d been away since Thursday morning, and the living room was stuffy, smelling of old cleaning products and hot dust motes. I put my portable typewriter on the desk. I had two messages from Cheney, asking me to call him when I got home. I tried his number and got a busy signal. I didn’t have a duffel but my newly purchased clothing was folded and packed in a handsome plastic bag. I trotted up the spiral stairs and unloaded the bag.

I fired up the kettle and made myself a cup of tea, which I sipped while I sat at the kitchen counter and sorted through my notes. I thought it was entirely possible that I’d already spoken to Violet’s killer. The motive might have been anything-jealousy, hatred, greed, revenge-but I knew the killing itself was cold-blooded because the hole had been dug well in advance of the burial. The killer couldn’t have been sure the necessary equipment would be on the scene unless he’d set it up that way. When Violet disappeared, her money had disappeared as well. Ostensibly, she’d taken possession of the fifty thousand dollars in her safe deposit box. She’d also borrowed two thousand from her brother and five hundred dollars from her mother, in addition to the jewelry she’d stolen. So where did all the money and the jewelry end up? It was always possible the stash would be found in the car, but if the killer knew she had it, why not help himself to the money before he bulldozed the dirt back into the hole?

He had to be someone she knew and probably a local, since he was sufficiently familiar with both the Tanner property and the building of New Cut Road to feel assured he’d have privacy. He must have had a cover story to account for the time he’d spent digging the hole. That meant he was either his own boss, in which case he could take all the time he needed, or if he was a nine-to-five kind of guy, he was off on vacation or he’d called in sick. With the holiday weekend, he might have had the time off.

Foley Sullivan was still at the top of my list. Granted, I’d found the man sympathetic, but he’d had years of practice declaring his innocence. I believed him when he spoke of his love for Violet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her.

I went back to the notes I’d taken after talking to Chet Cramer. I couldn’t see what he had to gain, but I didn’t rule him out. He didn’t strike me as a fellow with much experience operating heavy equipment, but I’d jotted down an offhand remark he’d made. He’d said you could always hire somebody to do your dirty work.