She saw someone working on the engine of a red and silver Beaver in front of a large empty hangar and walked over to introduce herself. She’d had her fill of shoveling snow off two sets of wings, and if she could find someone to paint her planes she’d need a place out of the weather for the paint to cure.

The mechanic, skinny, white, in his thirties, wearing Carhartt bibs he might have inherited from his grandfather, gave her the hangar owner’s contact info. She tapped it into her phone.

Watching her, he said, “Would you like to meet me for a beer sometime?”

She flashed her wedding ring. “Married.” She smiled at him to make sure that he understood the implied “if only” in her refusal. “Sorry.”

His grin was gap-toothed and charming. “Worth a try.”

She laughed and went back to her Forester with maybe just a little swash to her buckle and drove to Sunset Heights. Sybilla was already seated at a table in a small cafeteria that smelled strongly of Clorox and overcooked pasta. No cloth napkins here, but they did have table service in the form of a smiling teenager dressed in a blue and white striped apron. “Fried salmon steaks and a tossed salad today, Mrs. Karlsen.” She smiled at Wy. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

“Water is fine for me,” Wy said.

“Vodka martini, three olives,” Sybilla said.

“Coming right up, Mrs. Karlsen.” She reappeared in a moment with tall glasses of ice water and a small pitcher for refills.

“So nice that you could join me for lunch today, dear,” Sybilla said.

“If you hadn’t called I’d be eating a PBJ standing over the sink.”

Sybilla chuckled. “My good deed for the day.”

The salmon when it came was not overcooked, an almost impossible feat in an institutional setting. Wy was impressed, and laid in with a will.

“How is your young man settling in?” Sybilla said.

“He’s at work on a case.”

Again she saw that kind of click at the back of Sybilla’s eyes, where in an instant she seemed to be tracking everything said to her. “He has a case?”

“He does.” Wy hesitated.

Sybilla sniffed. “Afraid to upset the old lady, Wy? Is it Erik?”

Wy paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

This time Sybilla snorted. “I thought you said you came from a small town.” She sighed. “I warned him.”

It took a moment for her words to register. “I beg your pardon? You warned Liam?”

Sybilla huffed an impatient sigh. “Not Liam. I warned Erik, when he came here to ask if he could rent my cabin.”

“Erik? Erik Berglund?”

Sybilla looked annoyed. “Of course, Erik Berglund. Unless someone else has been murdered this week I don’t know about. In which case your young man would certainly have been posted to the right place.”

Wy put down her folk and said brightly, “Sybilla, why don’t I call Liam and see if he can join us for dessert?”