After Rafe and I exchanged a glance and a mutual head-nodding shrug, we got back into his truck and followed Mr. Valera’s big old Buick to Chilson and the Lake View Medical Care Facility.

I’d expected Marguerite to be a female version of Mr. Valera. Siblings and all that. But any family resemblance I might have seen was eclipsed by Marguerite’s lustrous black hair, combed smooth and pulled into a loose, thick braid that draped over one of her shoulders.

“Gorgeous,” I said quietly, trying to tamp down my hair envy.

Her eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open as Mr. Valera pulled up a chair next to her bed. Well, more one eye than the other, technically. The stroke had done its cruel damage to her left side, and everything from eyes to toes wasn’t working anywhere near normal.

“Afternoon, oldest sister.” Mr. Valera kissed her forehead and took her good hand. “I brought youngsters for you.” As he made the introductions, Marguerite fastened her gaze on Rafe. “Ah,” Mr. Valera said. “You still have an eye for the handsome ones, don’t you?” He chuckled, and Rafe—a man I’d thought unembarrassable—went pinkish.

“Nice to meet you,” Rafe said. I said the same thing, but Marguerite didn’t give me a single glance.

“She’s not herself,” Mr. Valera murmured. “Truly, she’s not. It’s the stroke.”

My eyes stung with tears that he felt the need to apologize. “No worries,” I whispered.

“Darling sister.” He tugged gently on her braid. “The daffodil bulbs you planted last year on the south side of the cottage are in full bloom. They look as glorious as you said they would. Once again, you were right and I was wrong. Why do I ever question you?”

These were words practically guaranteed to get a response, but he might as well not have spoken as far as Marguerite’s actions were concerned. Apparently this wasn’t going to be one of her good days.

Then I had a flash of brilliance. I elbowed Rafe. “Ask her,” I said. “About the you-know-what.”

“Me?” Rafe went a deeper shade of pink. “But—”

“She’s right.” Mr. Valera kept his focus on his sister. “Go ahead and ask.”

Rafe cleared his throat. Inched a bit closer to the bed. Cleared his throat again. “Um, Marguerite? We were just wondering about your family’s statue. The one by Vittorio Conti. No one can find it. Did you send it out to be cleaned?”

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.