“He called right before she did. He says she’s blown the whole thing out of proportion. He admitted he was unhappy about the photograph, but now he’s fine with it. He says she’s the one who’s going off the deep end and he’s seriously concerned.”

“He thinks she’s cracking up?”

“Well, yes. I mean, he said he didn’t want me to worry, but of course I do, which is why I’m calling. I know it’s an imposition, but is there any way you could stop by the house and make sure she’s okay? As Dad points out, if she’s drinking again, we could end up with a mess on our hands.”

“I don’t mean to sound cranky, but why don’t you do that? She’s your stepmother.”

“They live in Cottonwood, which is closer to you than it is to me. I have a doctor’s appointment in forty minutes, so I don’t have time to get down there and back. All you have to do is reassure her he’s cooled down. He said he talked to her this morning ’til he was blue in the face. He thinks she’s close to a nervous breakdown.”

“What if I knock and he comes to the door? He’s already in a rage.”

“He’s not home. He called me from work. He has meetings this morning and he won’t be free until noon. He’s making his annual photographic retreat and he leaves town first thing in the morning. He’s taking the afternoon off work to get everything done. I wouldn’t press you to go down there, but he reminded me in the past she’s talked about, you know, doing away with herself.”

I could feel a tickle on the back of my neck, a spider of fear crawling along my collar.

“Give me the address and phone number.”

• • •

The drive to Cottonwood took less than fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure what Celeste would make of my appearance on her doorstep. Her fight with Ned was obviously none of my business, but if she didn’t want to talk to me, she could simply say so. I cruised the neighborhood, searching for the house number, which fell in the middle of the block. I parked on the nearest side street and walked back.

Celeste and Ned Lowe lived in what was probably a sixteen-hundred-square-foot one-story board-and-batten house painted a soft gray, with a shake roof, solar panels, and a living room with a bay window. I was guessing two bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen in desperate need of rehabilitation. There was no sign of Ned’s black sedan in the driveway. The garage doors were closed and I had no way of knowing if his car and hers were tucked away inside. I’d have to take April’s word for his being tied up at work.

I rang the bell, staring out at the driveway while I waited. There was an older-model aluminum-and-galvanized-steel Argosy Motorhome parked in the side yard, white with a brown stripe that ran around its middle. The back end of the vehicle was rounded, and a unit affixed to the top suggested a working air conditioner. The license plate read FOTO BIZ, which I assumed referred to Ned’s photography.