"You're here about Mac?" he asked. "Have there been any new developments?"

Small gold-rimmed glasses perched on his beaklike nose. Wrinkles jogged from the corners of his eyes, his mouth. Thick folds creased his forehead and his neck, disappearing beneath the white collar of a turtleneck beneath a checkered sweater. His watery brown eyes were bright, intelligent. Thin white hair striped the top of his head, combed back into a neatly trimmed style. The barest hint of white stubble whispered along his jawline, his chin.

"Not really," I answered.

"We're here tracking a loose end," Aiden said. "Mac's granddaughter, Christa, overheard him on the phone the night before he disappeared."

"He was telling someone he'd do what he pleased," I said, "and for that person to mind his own business. That person was you, wasn't it?"

Fred nodded, smiled. "I remember. Mac could be a stubborn old geezer."

"What had Mac been referring to?" I asked, smiling at Fred's affectionate tone.

"Same old argument we'd been having for months. His health."

Aiden said, "The cancer?"

"Mac wanted to die on his own terms, and not go through with the treatments his doctor recommended. I didn't like that decision."

The Globe was open on the coffee table. The Lone Ranger's antics had big headlines. Preston was probably seething with jealousy. "You were trying to convince him to do the chemo?"

Fred smiled again, revealing a set of big teeth that had to be dentures. "I was nagging him like an old woman. Mac didn't take it too kindly. Told me he'd do what he pleased and I should mind my own business."

It corroborated what Christa had told us.

"I hate like hell that was our last conversation."

"How was his relationship with Jemima?" I asked.

"Mac's the quiet type," Fred said, "but he'd get to talking about Jemima every so often. The relationship was strained at best. He gave her money every month so she could pay her bills. He didn't like having to support Rick, but he didn't want to see Christa suffer because of Jemima's bad taste in men." His glasses slipped and he pushed them back up his nose. "Mac wasn't real crazy about that husband of hers. Never had been. Always thought Rick had a hold over her she couldn't break free from."

"What do you think happened to Mac?" Aiden asked.

"I've been working that over in my head since he turned up missing." A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the flue. "I miss my friend and want to blame someone for his being gone, but I can't help but feel, deep down, that Mac..." His voice trailed off.

"Took his own life?" Aiden asked.

"I think whatever happened," Fred said, "it was Mac's choice."

25.

"Do you have a few more minutes?" I asked Aiden as I pulled my seat belt across my lap.

"To do what?"

"Fred's sweater reminded me of something."

"A checkerboard?"

"Ha. Ha. No. Christa mentioned Mac had been wearing a hideously ugly sweater the day he went missing. He bought it from a local consignment shop."

"I'm not following, other than you made the leap from one ugly sweater to another."

"Consignment shops track their inventory, right?"

He started the car. "Right."

"Then the shop has a record of who owned that sweater before Mac." I adjusted the visor. "I might be able to get a reading from the previous owner on the whereabouts of that sweater now."

"Might?"

"Clothes are tricky. It all depends on whether my ESP will recognize the sweater had more than one owner. I've never tried to do a reading on an item from a consignment shop before. I don't know if it will work, but I know it definitely won't unless I try. I need to get the name of the person who owned the sweater before Mac."

Aiden swung the car around, drove across the narrow bridge back toward the main road. "I don't think the shop will willingly give out that information."

I gave him a wide smile.

He rolled his eyes. "Of course. That's why you wanted me to come along. I feel so used."

I laughed. "A badge goes a long way in convincing someone to impart information."

"All right," he said. "Where is this place?"

"I'm not exactly sure. Christa mentioned it was in Hingham. How many consignment shops can there be?"

"Wait a sec." He pulled off to the side of the road. From the backseat he pulled forth a thick portfolio. Thumbing through folders, he said, "I have Mac's file in here somewhere." He pulled it out, opened it.

"What are you looking for?"

He thumbed through police reports, statements from Mac's doctor, Mac's phone records, witness statements, bank statements, and finally pulled out a sheaf of paper stapled together. "Mac's credit card bills." His index finger slid down page after page. "Here," he said, tapping. "Early December. 'I'll Take Seconds Consignment.' Mac spent just under one hundred dollars."

I was looking at the statement over his shoulder. "That's a lot of money at a consignment shop."

"In that area, it might be an upscale consignment shop. I know right where it is, just a couple blocks from my place." He pulled back onto the road, drove well over the speed limit.

That's right. He didn't live far from Hingham Center, in a dilapidated old Victorian he was slowly putting back together. "How are your renovations going?"

"Slow. I have some vacation time I need to take or lose forever, so I've placed an order for hardwood flooring. As soon as it comes in, I'll be calling in favors from friends to help me lay it." He glanced at me. "And stain it. And varnish it."

"Okay, okay. I'll help." He'd done more than enough for me. "And I can probably wrangle Sean to help, too. Maybe Cutter if he's back in town. Marisol can swing a mean paintbrush, though if Butch will be there, she might suddenly have the flu."

Marisol had dated Butch, Aiden's roommate, for a month or so before Butch broke it off with her. She hated being dumped.

"Butch moved out."

"When?"

"A couple of weeks ago. His family decided to expand their chain of markets and sent him to North Carolina to oversee the construction and running of the new store there."

"Will you look for another roommate?" I was thinking of Sean. If he wouldn't move in with me, at least he could be a little closer than the city.

"I don't think so."

Well, there went that idea.

"Butch and I went way back," he said. "College buddies. Having anyone else there would be strange."

His cheeks colored slightly, and I had the sudden feeling he was thinking about Em. Marisol was right. We had to do something soon to push them together.

In Hingham, Aiden took the farthest exit off the rotary. The town center was filled with every kind of business, from bookstores, to boutiques, to several coffee shops. We parked in a diagonal slot in front of shop with I'LL TAKE SECONDS written in bold font on an awning above a wide glass window. Written on the window itself, in small letters, was A CONSIGNMENT SHOP. I supposed the qualification was needed to avoid confusion with a clock shop-or a really good diner.

A bell jingled when we entered and a woman behind the counter looked up from her book. "May I help you?"

"I hope so," I said. "We're looking into the disappearance of Mac Gladstone."

"The man with the dog," she said, nodding. "I've been reading about the case. So sad. What brings you here?"

"Well, the day he went missing he was wearing a sweater he bought from this shop. We're hoping to find the original owner of that sweater."

The woman placed her book down, creasing the spine. "Oh my." I put her to be early fifties, and I wasn't sure if it was because she'd been reading, but she had a librarian air about her that reminded me of Abigail from the Thomas Crane library. Intelligence shone in her eyes, and she carried the same don't-mess-with-me attitude that Abigail did. Unfortunately, Aiden didn't have dimples to sway her.

"There are several problems here. First, I don't keep records of those who make purchases, only clients who leave items for consignment." Her eyes widened. "And second, even if I did know the original owner of the sweater Mr. Gladstone purchased, I couldn't possibly give out personal information belonging to that client."

I waited patiently for her to finish-quite a feat, as I was eager to get the information and go. I looked around for Aiden. This was where he needed to step in. He was standing at a rack of clothes, fingering a Hawaiian print shirt. I coughed. He looked up and the fabric slipped from his fingers.

Striding over, he introduced himself and let the woman examine his badge. He provided the dates Mac had been in the store and the fact that he'd used a credit card for his purchases. "There should be a trail, either electronic or paper. Or both."

By the time Aiden was done, she was blushing to the tips of her frosted brown hair. He might not have the power of dimples, but he had a no-nonsense cop look about him that terrified many people into complying with his wishes.

"I can return with a warrant if you prefer," he added gently, "if it would ease your conscience."

Her hand fluttered over her chest. "There's no need for formality. As this is a police request, I'm more than happy to do my part. It'll take just a moment."

When she turned, Aiden flashed me a triumphant smile. I thought he enjoyed throwing his power around.

The woman-her name was Madeline-alternated between tapping on her computer and checking a thick logbook.

I leaned toward her. "If it helps, I heard the sweater was absolutely hideous. Deep orange with confetti-like colored shapes all over it."

She lifted her head from her computer. "That sweater?"

"You remember it?" I asked.

"Hard to forget. It was early December and a woman came in with all kinds of ugly clothes. Her brother had just passed on and she was looking to unload his wardrobe. There was a mound of items on the counter I just couldn't accept. I have a reputation, you know."

Aiden and I nodded so she'd keep talking.

"About the time I was telling her I couldn't take any of her items, a very handsome, distinguished man came in. He saw the sweater on the counter and straight off asked if he could buy it. I certainly wasn't going to turn down a sale, but I can't express how shocked I was when he sorted through the entire pile on the counter and bought several of the items from that lot, including an equally ugly sky blue sweater with purple stripes, a ratty coat, and worn-out sneakers that barely had any sole left."

I held in a smile. Mac really must have wanted to get under Jemima's skin.

"I had a dickens of a time telling the woman I couldn't take the rest of her clothing. She simply didn't believe me when I said no one would buy them."

"Do you have the woman's name?"

Madeline flipped through the logbook until she found what she was looking for. "Orlinda Batista."

"Do you have an address?" Aiden asked, pulling out a notebook.

"Only a phone number," she said, reading it off the book.

Aiden jotted it down. "Thank you. We might be in touch if we need any more information."

"If I can help," she said, her eyes bright, "I'll be glad to."

She was so sincere I almost expected her to salute.

"Can I ask why you need to see the woman?" she asked. "How does the sweater factor in?"

Aiden glanced my way and must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. "Sorry, ma'am. That's confidential."

Her lips formed a little o, and she pressed her hands to her heart again.

Outside the shop, Aiden glanced at his watch. "I have to go back to work, and I need a little time to track down the address that goes with this phone number. Are you free tomorrow?"

"I'll clear my schedule if I have to."

I just hoped Orlinda Batista's palm held the energy I needed to find Mac. Unfortunately, I was losing hope he was alive.

26.

As soon as Aiden dropped me off at home, I dialed Marisol to run my plan past her.