This opened the floodgates and soon Grant and Frankel knew more than either had bargained for about Josephine Stuart King Tuttle (she’d refused to drop her first husband’s name when she’d married Maurice twenty years ago). The names and occupations of her children (they’d all moved away and Grant was starting to see why), her gallbladder operation (Frankel passed on looking at the scar), and Maurice’s dying three years earlier (“a summer cold that didn’t get better”) worked their way into the recital of events that led them to this alley.

As for the theft and return of the Sonata, she didn’t have much to say. She’d parked it near the laundromat and had come outside with a full load to find it wasn’t there. When she hadn’t found her keys, she realized she must have left them in the ignition while struggling with her laundry.

“And how long were you in the laundromat?” asked Grant.

“Three loads, what’s that? An hour and a half, maybe?”

“And you didn’t see anyone approach the car?”

“Didn’t I just tell you I parked it down the street? Am I supposed to have X-ray vision and see through buildings like Superman?”

“No, of course not. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if you did?” asked Grant.

Josephine frowned. She didn’t seem to appreciate his attempt at a joke.

Frankel jumped into the breach. “Did you hear the car start up?”

The NYPD detective received a diatribe all his own—Josephine doing chapter and verse on the faults of industrial washers and dryers. “With that racket? I keep forgetting my earplugs. How am I supposed to hear a car a block away?”

Frankel ended up apologizing as well.

They finally got the whole story. She’d filed a stolen car report with the sheriff’s office. One of Barnes’s officers had given Josephine and her laundry a ride home. She’d been “stuck” there until she got a call that the car had been located.

“And now I’m going to be stuck again,” she practically moaned.

“I told you the department would provide a rental,” Barnes said.

“It’s not the same. I’ve got my stations and seat arranged just so . . .”

“I’m afraid it’s evidence in a crime, Mrs. Tuttle,” explained Frankel. “I’m sure the sheriff will return it good as new. He might even throw in an oil change.”

He gave Barnes a pleading look. The sheriff nodded, anxious to move on as well. “I think that can be arranged.”

This seemed to appease Josephine. Somewhat.

“I’m telling you right now, I’m not paying for mileage.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, ma’am.” Barnes indicated a uniformed officer standing nearby. “Officer Kelly will take you to the rental agency and get you settled.”

Josephine emitted a harrumph and crossed the street without saying goodbye.