“Sure thing.”

“Meanwhile, if you don’t mind my saying so, your life turned out great.”

She looked around with satisfaction. “It did, didn’t it? Trick is to figure out what you want and set your mind to it.”

“How’d you go about it?”

“You might not believe this, but I’m a maverick at heart. Born and raised Catholic, but when I finally decided to get married, I found me a nice Jewish boy. Everybody thought I’d turned hippie because I kept my maiden name instead of taking his. Both our mothers had conniption fits, but so what? The two of us are so stubborn, neither one of us will convert.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Ten-year high school reunion. I’d known him since grade school. You have no idea how cute he is. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time.”

“A classmate. That’s perfect.”

“You bet. Little Bobby Fried. He was always the better of the two.”

Marsha Heddon followed me out the front door and stood on the porch fanning herself while I returned to my car. I fired up the engine and drove off, keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror until I turned the corner and lost sight of her. Two blocks farther on, I pulled over to the curb and shut the engine down. It was time to take stock.

I’d been following much the same path Pete had taken, though he’d been operating on another plan: running a background check on Ned Lowe, or such was the claim. I assumed he was tracking Ned’s family of origin in hopes of confirming or debunking rumors of his pathology. The only suggestion I’d heard on that score came from Taryn Sizemore, whose opinion was colored by her history with him. I was willing to believe he was strange, but I had no proof he’d broken into Ruthie’s house or my office. In the meantime, it was my job to place Lenore’s Bible and her rosary in her daughter’s hands.

I left Burning Oaks at 4:00. I made good time. The back roads were more appealing as the March light waned. I passed the farm stand where I’d purchased asparagus, but neither the old fellow nor his daughter was there. I didn’t look directly at the parched fields and I avoided the sight of the riverbed, which was dry as a bone. I was still rejoicing at my good fortune at having wrapped up the day’s work without having to spend another night away from home. If Clara Doyle remembered to pass my phone number along to Stanley Munce, it would be well worth the time and energy.

27

Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking space and grabbed my overnight case, the asparagus, and my shoulder bag. I locked my car and headed for the studio. I felt great about being home until I rounded the corner of the studio. Henry’s backyard had been stripped. The last of the dead grass was gone and, while the fruit trees remained, the shrubs had been pulled up by the roots. Granted, the drought had killed them, but even brown, they’d been a reminder of the yard in its glory, back in the days when water was plentiful. The two Adirondack chairs had been stacked to one side. The remaining topsoil was so dry and powdery, a passing breeze would lift it in a cloud and bear it away.