He nodded.

"And if I give it to you, I get the money?"

"That's right."

"Is it hot?"

"Hot?"

"Stolen. Pilfered. Swiped," she said, disgusted by his ignorance.

"No, ma'am. It's clean. Unmarked. I swear." He might as well use the jargon she seemed to expect from him.

"Okay, so continue."

"I've heard you've got the goods on John Washburn. You can keep whatever it is you found. I just want to look at it."

"How come you're so interested?"

"I been thinking about asking his daughter to marry me. But if her father is as corrupt as everyone says, I'm not so sure I want into the family. You don't just marry the person, you know; you marry the whole megillah."

"Tell me about it," said Cora.

"So help me out. I'll make it worth your while."

"You must really have it bad for Bernice."

"Not so bad that I'm not gonna be careful."

She nodded her approval.

"What do you say? Will you talk to me?"

"It's no skin off my nose if you find out what a bastard that John Washburn is. Bring me the money." She lowered the gun, but didn't put it down.

Once Angelo was up on the porch and Cora had fingered the bills, making sure they were the genuine article, she excused herself saying she'd be back in a second. She entered the house, shooing her little gray cat back with her foot, and locked the door behind her.

Angelo sat down on a metal glider, a satisfied smile on his face. You could always count on a human's baser instincts to help you get your foot in the door. He hummed "Satin Doll" as he waited, thinking that his years as a businessman had served him well. He knew how to play people like a concert violinist played the violin.

Cora returned a few minutes later carrying a brown manila envelope. She tossed it to him, then sat down on a wooden rocker. She was still holding the shotgun, not about to take any chances. "There they are," she said with a note of triumph in her voice. "The letters."

"Letters?" Angelo repeated.

"Eight of 'em. Proof positive that John Washburn was both a bigamist and a murderer. To be fair," she added, "I'm positive about the bigamy, but not totally positive about the murder part. You can draw your own conclusions."

"He actually had more than one wife?" Of all the evils Angelo had imagined, bigamy wasn't even on his list.

"Yup. And I think he killed one of 'em. He was a traveling salesman, you know. They're notorious. Let me tell you, those letters are hot stuff. Somebody in that family of his tried to murder me over them just the other night. I nearly had a heart attack right there in the closet."

"You hid in the closet?"

"You bet your boots I did. Whoever broke in ransacked the place. But they didn't find what they were looking for," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Angelo drew out the packet of letters and looked at them. All handwritten. All clearly originals. "If I were you, I'd put these in a safe deposit box."

"Think so?"

"You're not safe as long as they're here. Even if you made copies, you'd want these if you ever had to go to court."

"Maybe you're right."

"While we're on the subject, who do you think broke into your house?"

She hesitated this time, sitting back in her chair and rocking for a few seconds before answering. "You're not going to like it, so brace yourself. I think anybody in that family is capable of murder. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"You're not suggesting Bernice-"

"Sure I am. Bernice. Mary. Milton. Plato. Any of them could've done it." She lowered her voice. "The gun had a silencer on it. Made my legs turn to jelly just to hear that sound in my house. I can't get it out of my head. It's a terrible thing when a woman doesn't feel safe in her own home."

"A silencer, huh," Angelo repeated. "But . . . you didn't actually see anyone?"

"Sonny, I was so far back in the closet by the time that ghoul came into the bedroom, you couldn't have pried me out with a blowtorch."

Angelo grinned. He didn't know if it was the right reaction, but her feistiness amused him. "Look, while I'm thinking about it, let me give you my card." He pulled one out of his vest pocket. "I've written the number of my cell phone on the back. You can reach me day or night."

He stood up halfway and handed it across to her.

She took it and studied it briefly, then used it to fan her face. "Can't imagine why I'd ever need to call you, but thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Go ahead," she said, nodding to the letters. "Read 'em. I suppose I should offer you something to drink, but it seems kind of funny-you sitting here drinking my coffee while I've got a shotgun pointed at you."

"I had plenty of coffee at breakfast."

"Good. Then . . . go on. Let me know what you think. I'll just sit here and count the twenties. Not that I don't trust you, you understand. Just . . . just don't do anything funny. I'm not taking my finger off the trigger."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Mrs. Runbeck, I'm not a stupid man." He smiled at her, then opened the first letter and began reading.

32.

Sophie sat at the Washburn's kitchen table, doodling on a piece of notebook paper. The morning had been spent with Bernice, taste-testing what she considered to be the twelve best meat loaf recipes. Bernice had baked them all in the past few days and then reheated them for Sophie's evaluation. She'd also prepared small sandwiches of each. A cold meat loaf sandwich was part of the necessary equation.

To make the recipe selection easier, Bernice's assistant had typed out every single submission on a separate sheet of paper, numbering them from one to nine hundred and seventy-eight. She'd sent the typed sheets to Bernice without the person's name or address attached, just to keep everything on the up and up. It made the selection so much easier. Bernice didn't have to read all the personal notes attached to the recipes or decipher hard-to-read handwriting.

Sophie expected the submissions to cover the gamut of what was being served today in American homes, but even she was amazed at the variety. She and Bernice lamented the fact that they hadn't divided the contest into Best Traditional Meat Loaf, Best Ethnic Loaf, and Best Poultry Loaf. The only point that was non-negotiable for both of them was that a meat loaf should contain meat. Vegetarian loafs could be wonderful, but they didn't qualify for the contest. That decision eliminated a good hundred and fifty recipes from contention, which was just fine with Bernice. After an exhaustive examination of the submissions, she didn't care if she ever looked at another meat loaf recipe again. Most were fairly derivative, so she quickly pared the list down to thirty-six, then twelve, and this morning, they'd picked the best three.

After the final decisions had been made, Bernice phoned her assistant in Minneapolis and asked her to pull the winners' names. In a matter of seconds, they had the results. First prize went to Sally Halverson of Two Harbors, Minnesota. Second went to Ronald Kellogg of Rochester. But the third prize was the kicker. Cora Runbeck of Rose Hill, Minnesota, had won with her recipe, "No-Nonsense Meat Loaf."

Bernice wasn't happy. As a matter of fact, for just a moment, Sophie could see her toying with the idea of throwing third prize to someone else. But her sense of fairness-and her appreciation for the ironic-finally won out. She asked her assistant to type up letters of congratulations to the winners.

As soon as she was off the phone, Bernice begged Sophie to take over for her, handle all the events the paper had planned to help celebrate the winning recipes. Bernice said her father was too ill for her to return to work right now. Besides, she couldn't possibly deal with Cora Runbeck personally, not after everything that had happened. The powers that be at the paper might not like it, but nobody could make her do something she didn't want to do! Her voice rose to an emotional crescendo. Sophie assured her she wouldn't need to come in contact with Cora, that she'd handle it. By noon, Bernice had calmed down enough to drive over to the hospital. She needed to relieve her brother by twelve-fifteen.

And that left Sophie, sitting at the Washburns' kitchen table, wondering if she'd made a big mistake. All morning, she'd been dying to tell Bernice what she'd learned-that her father was totally innocent of any wrongdoing. That Milton was the culprit and John was just trying to protect him. Sophie was positive now that Milton was the man she'd known as Morgan Walters. The snake tattoo cinched it. She'd simply jumped to the wrong conclusion when she'd found that snapshot. Instead of John, Milton had been standing with his arm around Mary. And he still had his arms around her.

Sophie wondered how long their secret romance had been going on. She guessed that John didn't know about it; otherwise he wouldn't be trying to protect his brother. She assumed that John knew about Milton's past, and yet he clearly still loved him. Maybe, thought Sophie, he didn't know everything.

On the scratch paper in front of her, she'd written three names. Laura, Viola, and Bliss. Three of Milton's wives. Perhaps there were others. He had another wife in St. Louis, though Sophie didn't recall her name or when they'd married-not that it mattered. Everything bad that had happened to the Washburns in the last month all came down to Milton. He was the bad penny. The manipulator. The bigamist. The murderer. He'd not only killed Kirby Runbeck, but possibly one or more of his wives. He was an evil man and he had to be stopped.

The one big question Sophie still had was, why had Kirby Runbeck blackmailed John instead of Milton? From what Bernice had said, Milton had far more money than his brother. More to the point, why not go straight to the man who had the most to lose? Why try to squeeze money out of a relative?

"Where'd you get those women's names?" came a voice from behind her.

Sophie turned around to find Angelo standing by the sink. For such a big man, he had the stealth of a cat. Last she'd heard, he was on his way to the bank and would be gone most of the day. She'd met him for the first time at breakfast and could tell right away that he and Bernice were an item. They were an odd couple. Then again, it was a good thing physical attraction wasn't limited to people with movie-star looks or nobody would have a sex life.

Angelo seemed like a nice enough guy, very solicitous of Bernice. Sophie was pretty sure he was the same man she'd seen across the street from the house two weeks ago, the night that she'd spent in Rose Hill because of the storm. The fact that he could have starred in The God-father gave him a menacing patina, although he was probably just an average guy with nothing dangerous about him.

He cracked his knuckles and repeated his question. "Where'd you get those names?"

"I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm light on my feet." He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. "I didn't think you knew Bernice and her family all that well."

"I don't."

"Then how come-" He stopped before he finished the sentence, his gaze dropping once again to the names on the scratch sheet.

In that instant, Sophie realized his question wasn't just idle curiosity. He must have recognized the names. That meant he knew about Milton. When he looked up, she could see by the serious frown on his face that she was right. "You know, don't you? About the bigamy. About all the rest."

"Does Bernice?" he asked, his tone a mixture of eagerness and worry.

She shook her head.

"God, I'm so glad." He hesitated for a few seconds, as if he wasn't sure he should go on, then plunged ahead anyway. "This is going to kill her."

"How long have you known?"

"I suspected the worst ever since Runbeck died. But I didn't learn the details until this morning. I've been walking around for the last hour, wondering what I should say to Bernice-wondering if I should say anything at all. How did you find out?"

"I spent a night here at the house a couple of weeks ago.

While I was sitting in the living room, I came across an old snapshot of what I thought was John and Mary on their first anniversary. Except, I knew the man in the photo by another name. Morgan Walters. He was married to a woman named Laura. I recognized his face, as well as the tattoo on his left arm."

"Tattoo?"

"A snake with a red eye." She paused. "How did you find out?"

"I paid off Cora Runbeck to tell me what her husband had on Washburn. She still has the letters."

"What letters?"

"The letters that the bastard wrote to a friend in prison. It's all there. How he and this buddy of his robbed a bank in the late fifties. The friend got caught and sent to prision, but Washburn made off with two hundred thousand dollars. Then his many wives. Maybe even a murder or two." He filled her in on all the details. "Runbeck must have discovered the letters and used them as blackmail. Cora's holding on to them for dear life because she thinks they're the only thing keeping her alive. She may be right. Somebody tried to kill her the other night. If Kirby had information on Washburn's past, whoever killed him must have figured Cora had the same information."

This was all news to Sophie. Clearly, she and Angelo had both discovered pieces of the puzzle, but neither of them had the entire picture.

Angelo took a sip of coffee, then set his cup down and pushed it away. "Bernice is so close to her dad. Always has been. She thinks of him as a saint. Well, I mean, until the last year when he went a little nuts with the vitamin pills. But that's small stuff."

"But . . . we're not talking about John Washburn here; we're talking about Milton Washburn, right? Milton was the bigamist. The one who robbed the bank. The one who may have murdered one or more of his wives."

Angelo narrowed his eyes. "Milton? The uncle? Hell no, I'm talking about John Washburn. The letters were signed J. D. Cora told me John's middle name was Arthur, but the J's got to stand for John."

"But Milton's the one with the tattoo."

They stared at each other.

"Maybe J. D. is a nickname," Sophie said finally.

Angelo looked off into space. "That doesn't make sense. It has to be John. He was the one being blackmailed."

"Let's go over this again," said Sophie. "Who do you think put the bomb in Runbeck's truck?"

"Plato," Angelo said flatly.

Now Sophie was even more confused.

"He was trying to protect his dad. And I can prove it. There was a book in John's library, a sort of terrorist manual. Inside was a recipe for nitrogen tri-iodide."

"The stuff that was used to blow up Runbeck's truck." Angelo's eyes opened wide. "How did you know that?"

"I've got my sources, too."

"You've really been busy since you found that snapshot."

She shrugged. "I had to find out if I was right about the man in the photo."

"Well, I caught Plato searching for that book just the other day. I'll bet you he left it in his father's bookcase thinking nobody would ever look for it there. But after his dad confessed, Plato remembered where he'd left it and wanted to get rid of it. Except, I'd come across the title before. I grabbed it off the shelf the day before the police arrived with their search warrant. Thank God I did or they would have nailed John's hide to the wall."

Maybe Plato made a mistake, thought Sophie, just like she did. Jumped to the wrong conclusion about his father. After all, John did pay Runbeck the blackmail money. The fact that he'd withdrawn one hundred thousand dollars from his bank accounts proved it. He couldn't look any more guilty if he tried. But he wasn't the one with the tattoo.

"Who do you think murdered Runbeck?" Angelo asked.

"Milton," said Sophie, every bit as unreservedly. "He's the one with the past. If he robbed a bank, he probably used the money to start his business in St. Louis. It all fits."