"None of your business, boy," snapped Cora. "Just stay away from me. We'll do our own little version of a Cold War standoff. Peaceful coexistence. Just remember, I'm the one with the intercontinental ballistic missiles."

October, 1970 Dear Gilbert: It's just after one in the morning, but I can't sleep, so I thought I'd write you a letter. I'm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, at a Best Western motel. I spent the morning calling on accounts. I was supposed to head up to Green Bay this afternoon, but the fall weather is so beautiful, I decided to take the rest of the day off. I ended up in a park walking around an old lighthouse. I guess I'm still a loner at heart. I'm with people so much of the time that I can't wait to get in the car and drive away. Anywhere, just to be out in the open, by myself, with nobody wanting anything from me. It's funny, but the longer I live, the more responsibilities I seem to acquire. They feel awfully heavy, sometimes, but I gotta keep on pluggin, right? Can't let the assholes get me down.

I guess maybe I haven't told you everything about my life. I am not, as they say, an open book. I know times are tough where you are, but it's not all wine and roses out here on the outside either. I figure there are all kinds of prisons, Gil. Sometimes I think the ones we make ourselves are the worst.

But, hey, I can't complain. I got a nice pay hike last month. Bliss is proud of me, and that always feels great. She made a special meal for just the two of us a couple of nights ago. She's been working real hard on her paintings. You know what I think of all that. She's talented, but she needs a break. When I go to drug shows and sales conferences in other parts of the country, I always try to talk up what she's doing. I even bring photos along. Before we got married, I promised her that I'd help her get a show at one of these hot new galleries. Maybe I was just shooting off my mouth. Sometimes I do that. Hell, I'm a salesman. I do it all the time. I thought I could sell her just the way I sell sunglasses, but so far, no go. And she wants it so bad. I guess I don't know the art biz the way I know drug sundries.

Anyway, I better try to get some sleep. I've got to make up for lost time tomorrow. Hang in there, Gil.

Your friend, J. D.

29.

All the way from St. Paul to Rose Hill, Sophie fought an internal tug of war. Should she get involved with Nathan Buckridge again, even on a very limited basis? She was genuinely intrigued by the prospect of watching him develop a restaurant at New Fonteney. She'd be fascinated to see anyone develop the space. From her brief experience of the old monastery, she knew the dining room would be amazing. And knowing Nathan, the food would be, too.

And yet, since it had nothing directly to do with restaurant reviewing, how would Bram interpret her interest? She'd examined the situation from every angle, her personal feelings included. If Nathan could just get it through his thick skull that Bram came first in her life, if she didn't have such a clear sense that Nathan was simply biding his time until he could make another move on her, it might be possible to remain friends. But the way it stood, any connection between them seemed very foolish indeed. The question was an old one. Could an erstwhile beau ever become a friend? Or more accurately, could an old boyfriend who didn't want to leave romance in the past ever be trusted?

Finding Nathan in her office today had been a shock, but perhaps a necessary reminder that the sexual electricity between them hadn't gone away. She didn't want it to be there, but it was. She was probably playing with fire to even consider getting together to look at the blueprints. She might as well drink liquid drain cleaner or throw herself in front of a bus.

It was dusk by the time Sophie pulled her car into the Washburns' backyard. She cut the motor and sat for a few moments drinking in the small-town quiet. She was a city person, born and bred, but she appreciated the change of pace. As she opened the door and was about to get out, her cell phone squawked. Grabbing it off the passenger's seat, she clicked it on.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Rudy!" She hadn't heard from her son for several days. "How's everything going?"

"Fine. I should be back home by Friday night at the latest."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm eating my way south from Duluth."

She smiled at the image.

"I just had dinner at the Blue Ox in Kettle River."

"How was it?"

"Great. I took lots of notes. They have a battered fresh walleye in cornmeal and ground hazelnuts that's to die for. It's served with wild rice pilaf mixed with dried cranberries, fresh rosemary, and lightly sauteed fennel. Really terrific food. The place was packed."

"How many cafes have you visited?"

"Oh, probably thirty you could call legitimate, not a franchise or glorified bar. I'm getting tons of new recommendations as I go along, so I've been altering my route accordingly. I could easily stay out here another month, but I'm getting kind of homesick. I've got lots of material we can use, so I think I've done my job."

"Admirably."

"Listen, I was wondering if you'd heard from that old guy I talked to last week-Morey Hall. Did he ever call you with the information you wanted?"

"He did." She went on to explain what he'd told her about Jim Newman, a.k.a. John Washburn, and one of his many wives, Viola Little. "Have you run into anybody else who recognized Washburn from the photo?"

"Actually, I have. Three people, to be exact, all in Pearl, Wisconsin. And all one-hundred-percent positive they remembered him. But they knew him as J. D. Washburn, not John."

"Interesting. He probably used his initials back then."

"You've got three other names, right?"

"Morgan Walters, Jim Newman, and Glen Taylor. Washburn either has three separated-at-birth doubles, or he led an active social life."

"That's an understatement."

"You've been a huge help, Rudy."

"Have you decided yet what to do with the information?"

"Not really. Actually, I just got to Rose Hill. I'm sitting in my car in the Washburns' backyard. I'm spending the night. Tomorrow morning, Bernice and I are going to put our heads together about that recipe contest, see if we can come up with the winners."

"Good luck," said Rudy. "I'll call when I get in."

"Be safe, sweetheart."

"You, too. Later, Mom." The line clicked off.

Sophie stuffed the cell phone into her purse, retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk, then walked through the thick grass to the steps leading up to the back deck. As she was about to ring the doorbell, she glanced at the picture window directly next to her. The heavy drapes were pulled, but a crack in the center allowed her to see inside. It was almost dark out now and there was a light on in the living room. Sophie's eyes bulged in horror as she saw Milton take Mary into his arms and kiss her passionately.

"Oh, Lord," she whispered, looking away. But she couldn't resist. Her gaze swung back to the window. Stop it! she ordered herself, but she wasn't listening to her boring inner voice anymore. Obviously they hadn't heard her drive in. If she rang the doorbell now, would they wonder if she'd seen them? What were they doing! This was just one more complication in an already complicated family.

Sophie waited. After a minute, she looked again. This time, Mary and Milton were sitting down on the couch. Milton held Mary's hands in his.

Giving it another full minute, Sophie finally rang the bell.

Milton appeared at the door a few seconds later. "Sophie, hi," he said, welcoming her inside. "Bernice told us you'd be arriving this evening."

"Is she here?" Sophie asked, waving to Mary. The air inside the house was deliciously cool. Outside, the temperature was still in the low nineties.

"No. She's at the hospital. And when she's done, she's meeting her friend, Angelo, for a drink. She asked me to make sure you got settled in. You can use the same room as before. Clean towels are in the bathroom. You know the drill. Oh, and help yourself to anything in the refrigerator."

"Thanks," said Sophie.

"I was just about to give Mary a lift over to the hospital."

Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking tired. "Good to see you again, Sophie. We've been eating a lot of meat loaf since your last visit."

Sophie smiled. "I'll bet you have." And that's when she saw it. The tattoo.

Milton noticed her looking at it. "It's a snake," he said, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt.

"With a red eye," said Sophie, feeling a jolt of adrenaline rocket through her body. When she looked back at Milton, she tried to find the young Morgan Walters in his whiskered and aging face. It was impossible.

"Something wrong?" Mary asked.

"Wrong?" Sophie repeated, stepping back against the kitchen counter for support. "No, nothing's wrong." Her gaze returned to the tattoo. "It must hurt a lot to get one of those done."

"Nah," said Milton, "it's not bad. Course when you're young and full of yourself, you don't admit that anything hurts. Tattoos are something that can make a guy feel more daring than he really is. They're silly, but that's an old man's perspective."

"We better get going," said Mary. She was holding her own overnight bag.

"Here, let me take that," said Milton. As he headed for the door, he looked back over her shoulder. "Don't expect me home right away, Sophie. I'll probably stay at the hospital for a while."

"No problem." She felt dazed. Confused. Like someone had changed the rules on her in midgame.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Mary asked, looking concerned.

"Don't worry about me. I just need to eat something." At least she could still lie convincingly.

"Try the meat loaf labeled number four," said Milton. "It's my favorite."

"I'll do that," said Sophie, her mind reeling at the idea that a man with his history could stand there and offer her something as prosaic as dinner suggestions.

From this moment on, Sophie would forever associate meat loaf with Rose Hill, snake tattoos, bigamy, and murder.

30.

It was nearing midnight when Bernice and Angelo walked silently down a dusty dirt road toward Ice Lake. On such a sultry summer night, with the smell of freshly cut grass lingering in the air, Bernice couldn't help but feel that the lake's name had the kind of irony only a Minnesotan could truly love, living as they did half the year in tundra, the other half in a sauna.

In the dark, Bernice couldn't see Angelo's face very well, but she could feel his hand wrapped gently around hers. When she left New York in June, she never expected to see him again. She'd made a decision. She had her reasons. And yet, here she was, her unruly hair sprayed into submission, her mouth painted a deep mulberry, wearing her feminine clothes, as she thought of them-a long flowing Indian print skirt, a brightly colored cotton shawl, and a neckline that revealed just a hint of roundness. She was still the nearsighted daughter of the ex-mayor, the big-boned, awkward intellectual, the middle-aged woman in clunky shoes with a full-blown case of frowziness, but for some unknown reason, she felt softened around Angelo, and strangely content.

In the last few months, Bernice's life had come untethered, like a balloon escaping from a small child's hand. She could see it floating over the trees, tossed by whatever air current happened to come along. She hated not being in control of her emotions. She preferred thinking to feeling, action to passivity. Her psychological slide had started in New York, and then because of her father's problems, she'd slid still further, if possible even more wildly, with no end in sight.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Angelo, leading her to a bench by the water.

"Nothing," she said, sitting down next to him, keeping a few protective inches between their bodies.

"It's not nothin'," he said, kissing her hand.

"Why do you say that? I was just enjoying the quiet."

"You're grinding your teeth, Bernice. You only do that when you're upset."

How could he love her? She was such a klutz.

"Come on, you can tell me. I'm here to help."

You're here to complicate my life, thought Bernice. You're here to get your way. But she didn't say it out loud. That fact that she didn't made her feel even more like a bowl of emotional mush.

"Is it about what happened this morning?"

She turned to him. "What happened this morning?"

"Cora Runbeck. She came to your parents' house with a shotgun."

"She what? Who told you that?"

"Your Uncle Milton. He and Plato talked to her. Your mom stayed inside. Seems someone broke into Cora's house last night, tried to kill her."

"That's awful!"

"Yeah. Bad news all around."

Absently, Bernice lifted her hand to her teeth so she could bite her nails. "Who'd want to hurt her?"

"Isn't it obvious? The same person who murdered Kirby is after her now. Cora said she had the goods on your dad, whatever that means. And if anything happens to her, the information will go straight to the police."

In the moonlight, Bernice searched his face. "Does that mean she thinks someone in my family tried to kill her?"

"Sure. She's not stupid. Except this time, it couldn't have been your father. My guess is, he didn't kill Kirby either."

"Of course he didn't."

Her indignation hung in the air for a moment, then he continued, "If she was thinking clearly, she'd go to the police now with what she knows. But from what Milton said, I got the impression she has the blackmail money and she isn't about to part with it. It makes her a sitting duck."

"But she said if anything happens to her-"

"Come on, Bernice. Use your imagination. There are a hundred ways around that."

"There are?"

He patted her knee.

"But . . . what does she have on my father?"

Angelo shrugged. "Don't worry. She won't use it."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'll take care of it."