“Well, I pray a bit too,” she said, almost pleased. “Alex, my ex-husband, was a state biologist. He retired. This is his house; I’m but a tenant. Alex lives in the village. He couldn’t stand to look at this place anymore.”

“Your daughter-in-law returned to California.”

“Linda went to Healdsburg. Wine country. Fire country.”

Despite her stoic demeanor, her evident distrust, June Pruitt wanted to talk. Her cadence, her word choices, the thematic body, were typical of educated people who voluntarily interview with the police and other professional snoops. She’d rehearsed.

“Linda attended USC,” I said. “Parents deceased. Siblings in Utah and Montana. She’s a color specialist.”

“Yes, she freelances for various agencies.”

“What is that?” I’d already researched the basic answer. The question was designed to appeal to her intellect, her inclination to lecture.

“It’s rather opaque. Let me try. A client owns a fast-food restaurant. Linda helps him choose colors to achieve specific goals. A relaxed environment would feature softer tones. Want people to buy and then move along promptly? Discordant colors. That’s a simple example. Linda and her occupation are hardly simple.”

“Fascinating. As for your husband, I’d prefer to interview Dr. Pruitt as well. Assuming I could get him on the line.”

“Giving you the cold shoulder? That’s his way. He considers the matter settled. I’ll call him. He needs to participate in this . . .” She absently twisted her wedding band. “My other children live abroad. Sean and Linda never . . .” She folded her hands and I realized that they were nearly as large as Badja Adeyemi’s; and then the sibling likeness materialized. “I presume you know what happened—what they claim happened—to Sean.”

“I’ve read the file.”

“You’ve read the file.” The flatness of her voice matched her expression. “It claims he committed suicide. No reason given. Oh, well, the implication is that he was depressed and mixed medications with some kind of drug—”

“A hallucinogen,” I said.

“Yes, a hallucinogen. Then he went to work, drove to a remote area on the site, and . . .” She blinked and swallowed. “And I don’t believe that’s the whole story.”

“Why not?”

“Did the file happen to mention the paramedics or the staff at the medical examiner’s office stole his wedding ring?”

“No. The report’s a sketchy piece of work, I’ll admit.”

“Isn’t it, though? That’s the kind of people I’m dealing with. The kind of people who steal a dead man’s wedding ring.”

“How long was Sean on antidepressants?” I said.

“Many years. He struggled with clinical depression since his youth.”

“Yet you don’t agree that he could’ve committed suicide.”

“He didn’t. We discussed his condition on numerous occasions; its symptoms, the treatment. He didn’t exhibit suicidal ideation. Depression afflicted him like a low-grade fever; always nagging. The worst symptoms manifested as lethargy. At his very worst, his very lowest, he’d lose interest in work or socializing and retreat to his books and papers. Employment proved a challenge. He was a model employee at his best.”