She blinked once. Blinked again. Her lips started to move and we all leaned in, waiting for, hoping for, yearning for her to speak.

Then she did. Only it wasn’t the breathy whisper we’d anticipated, not the cracked voice of age and disease. When she said her one word it was strong and sure.

“No.”

And a tear trickled down her cheek.

*   *   *

“I am not jumping to conclusions.” It was the umpteenth time I’d said so and I was going to keep on saying so until Ash Wolverson acknowledged the innate truth of my statement.

“Minnie . . .” Ash sighed. Looked at Rafe. “Hey. Buddy,” he said. “Help me out here.”

Rafe laughed. “Side with you against my fiancée? How stupid do you think I am? No, don’t answer that.”

Ash made a grunting noise. “You could at least toss some questions at her theory. You must have some, right?”

“Sure.” Rafe slid the bottle of ketchup across to his friend. The three of us were eating in our dining room, looking for all the world like actual adults. Ash had dropped by to give us a half-full bucket of drywall mud that he wasn’t going to use and we’d told him to stay and eat. Rafe had fired up the grill for the first time since October and I’d opened a bag of chips, which went along just dandy with the hamburgers and the grilled red peppers.

Rafe picked up his burger, loaded with lettuce, tomato, cheese, and bacon, with two hands and raised one index finger. “Question number one. Was Marguerite’s hair natural or dyed? She was, what, eighty years old. Can’t be natural, right?”

“Mr. Valera said it is.” I added another pickle to my burger. “I asked him when you stopped at that jigsaw puzzle. Runs through the female line in their family.”

“Yeah? Huh.” Rafe took a bite. Chewed and swallowed. “Okay, question number two. How big is that stolen sculpture?”

Mr. Valera had told me that, too, as we’d waited for Rafe to find “just one piece” to fit into the hallway puzzle. “Heavy, but not huge.” I held out my hands to illustrate. “It’s made of some metal. About eighteen inches high and a foot around, set on a black granite base. He’s going to look through photo albums for a picture.”

What he’d actually said was, “I suppose I have to report it as stolen to keep everyone happy.” He’d made a face, then brightened. “Maybe I can wait and see if someone else notices. Last thing I want is to get the frightful thing back.” But then he’d remembered how much his sisters—particularly Marguerite—loved the object and grumbled that he’d talk to the sheriff’s office first thing on Monday.