“People who kill other people don’t tend to stop and think how it’s going to impact the community,” Vince said. “They don’t stop in the heat of the moment and think Oh my God, there were all those murders here last year. Maybe I should wait.”

Franny ignored the edge of sarcasm in Vince’s voice. His mind was racing to try to make some kind of sense of a senseless act. “Was it a robbery or something?”

“No.”

“Oh my God. Someone just went to her home and killed her? At random?”

“We don’t think it was random,” Vince said. “In fact, I would say it was very personal with a lot of rage behind it. She managed to piss someone off to the point of no return.

“I remember you once telling me you know everybody worth knowing in Oak Knoll, Franny,” he said. “You run in some artsy circles. Have you ever heard anything negative about her?”

Franny looked uncomfortable. Vince sharpened his stare a little.

“She was single, independent, talented, and gorgeous,” Franny said. “A lot of not-single, not-independent, not-talented, not-gorgeous women are threatened by that. Surprise, surprise.”

“Women worried about someone stealing their husbands.”

Franny rolled his eyes. “Like anyone would want them.”

“Does anyone in particular jump to mind?”

“No, no. I’ve heard the odd catty remark, that’s all. She’s a sexy single mom—she must be a slut. That kind of thing. It’s 1986, for God’s sake,” he said. “Single women have children. Hello: The scarlet letter went out with the poodle skirt.

“What about her daughter?” he asked. “Where is she?”

“In the hospital,” Vince said. “Unconscious, the last I heard.”

That was the final straw for Franny. Color slashed across his pale cheeks and his eyes all but disappeared behind an angry brows-down squint.

“When you find who did it,” he said, “do the world a favor and just shoot him.”

“If only life was that simple,” Vince said.

“It should be,” Franny declared. “Bad people off the planet! Now! More wine for the rest of us!”

He raised his glass in a toast and tossed back the last of his cabernet.

Chapter 16

16

Sara walked around her sculpture, trying to concentrate, trying to focus and see the direction she needed to go. Nothing came.

She had a vision a week ago, when she started the project. It was supposed to be about strength and femininity. The metal—the strength—would bend but not break. From the wounded heart would flow feminine beauty in the form of hand-painted silk ribbons.

But as she looked at the piece now, she saw nothing but a mess of twisted wire and steel mesh. Car Wreck on a Stick. That was what it looked like.