I have lived in Ogilvie long enough to know that nobody will have the nerve to bring up the subject of Miss Louisa, who was Miss Zula’s mother, and so I suppose it’s up to me. I don’t hold much with modern psychology and prying into personal matters, but in this case I do believe you must know the mother to understand the children, all three of whom I watched grow up. There’s an old saying, spare the rod, spoil the child, and Miss Louisa lived by it. Her rod was made of hard words, which any caring person can tell you may leave a scar worse than any slap.

Your Name: Sister Ellen Mary. I am Father Bruce’s housekeeper, and you may find me at the rectory at Our Lady of Divine Mercy. Though if you’d like to talk to me, you had best be quick about it. I am ninety years old and wait daily for the Good Lord to tap me on the shoulder.

By the end of their first full week in Ogilvie, Angie had established a routine: up long before Rivera and Tony ever stirred, she went down to the screened porch that overlooked the garden and the river, where she waited on an ancient black-and-white-striped couch until the coffee was ready. Then she took her cup with her to the riverfront and sat in the cool of the morning, planning her day, making lists in her head, and contemplating running away.

It had been a surprisingly productive week for the simple reason that she was spending most of her day and her night, too, working.

“This is good stuff.” Rivera was looking at Angie’s binder when she said this, the one she carried with her everywhere on a shoot. There were three full pages of notes from her talk with Sister Ellen Mary at the rectory, all about Miss Zula’s family history and her mother. Rivera made a notation of her own. “I didn’t think you’d been out of the house long enough to do an interview, Mangiamele.” She looked up with a grin. “If you get this much done without distractions, we have to find a way to put John Grant back in the hospital, once he gets out.”

“He’s not in the hospital,” Angie said, “and you know it.”

“Well, then he’s in hiding,” Rivera said. “So the small-town rumor mill is going full tilt. The latest is that he got blood poisoning and they had to take his leg off. Hey,” she said, holding up a hand, palm out. “I’m just the messenger.”

“And where did you hear this?” Angie asked. “At the quilt shop?”

“Fat Quarters is the source of all knowledge,” Rivera agreed. “I do hear interesting things from the men on the Liars’ Bench outside the barbershop, but I’ve come to the conclusion that Pearl’s shop is better.”