I nodded. Because even though the dishwasher was giving me the feeling that things were okay, Pug was dead, killed by an unknown assailant, and Ryan was still missing. Things were definitely not right.

Half an hour later, I was back at the Coffee Corner, and Keegan was saying the same thing. Today, her hair’s color streak was lavendar, matching her fingernail color. I wondered which had come first, the nail polish or the hair color, but decided this wasn’t the time to ask.

I’d just told her that public opinion was moving against Ryan and she’d put her chin up and said, “That’s just not right. What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’? He hasn’t done anything!”

“You don’t think so,” I said, “and I don’t think so. But until we can find proof, the police will still be looking for him.” The stubborn look on her face didn’t fade, so I kept talking. “Have you found out anything that could help? Anything at all? You never know what might turn out to be important.”

She shook her head, her long straight hair flowing over her shoulders as she did so. “How do you prove a negative? There’s nothing to find because he didn’t do anything!”

And we were back to denial. Which was loyal of her and all, but wasn’t exactly useful.

I listened to her describe how Ryan helped a neighbor of theirs round up horses that had wandered through a broken fence, citing that as proof of his innocence of anything and everything, and began to wonder at her vehemence.

How could she be so sure? Was it pure trust? Or did she know something she wasn’t telling me? Or . . .

A brand-new idea crept in, one that I didn’t like in the least.

What if . . . maybe Keegan herself was involved with the robbery and death of the security guard. Could that be why she was so sure Ryan was innocent? Could Keegan be the link between Ryan’s disappearance and Pug’s murder?

Maybe I needed to find out what Keegan had been doing the day Pug was killed.

*   *   *

Sunday evening, I was back at Three Seasons, back on my stool, back watching an extremely pregnant chef finalize dessert preparations.

“You sure I can’t do something?” I asked.

She snorted. “I can’t believe you asked that question in a serious way. What makes you think I’d let you touch anything in my kitchen other than that stool?”

“Temporary insanity,” I said. “I’ll get over it soon.”

Kristen, who had been glaring at me with an intensity that had reminded me of Eddie when the water in his dish had a cat hair in it, stopped staring and nodded. “Nice to know you’ve given up on making me take it easy.”

“Oh, I haven’t. We haven’t. Just taking a break, is all.”