"You mean," said Jenny, his voice dialed up to full dour, "this is going to be a biweekly event?"

Plato gave a curt nod. "Now, Viv, why don't you sit down and give us your news flash." He could see she was just bursting to tell.

"Sure thing," she said, looking a little hesitant. "It's just . . . with you here, Mr. Washburn . . . I mean . . . I feel a little funny. It's about your father."

Plato stiffened. "What about him?"

Viv glanced at Jenny again, then pulled out a chair. Instead of sitting down, she rested a knee on top of it. "Well, see, I was just talking to Doug Elderberg. It seems that before Kirby Runbeck's death, he made two deposits into a newly established savings account at the First Bank of Rose Hill. Fifty thousand dollars each time. That's one hundred thousand dollars," she said eagerly. "Where would a man like him get that kind of money?"

"Maybe he played the stock market," said the cement-faced woman.

Viv's eyes took on a fiery glow. "He closed the account the day before he died. Doug also told me that a month or so before his stroke, John Washburn withdrew fifty thousand dollars in cash from one of his accounts at Wells Fargo. Then, a week before the stroke, he closed out a bank CD for the same amount and took the money in cash. They can't prove it yet, but they figure Washburn was paying Runbeck some kind of hush money."

"Blackmail," said Jenny, a note of triumph in his voice.

"That's hogwash," said Plato, his fist hitting the table. "I'm sure there's another explanation."

"The sheriff's office thinks it was blackmail, too," Viv continued. "They've got a B.C.A. guy down here from the Cities helping them with Runbeck's murder, and he agrees. After John Washburn confessed to the murder, they went looking for a motive. They don't have all the specifics yet, but they figure it's only a matter of time before they do."

"That should be our lead headline on Saturday," said Jenny, glaring defiantly at Plato. "Runbeck obviously had some information on John Washburn that Washburn didn't want made public. So he paid for Runbeck's silence. Paid twice. I'll bet Runbeck was hitting him up for more when Washburn went tilt. Killed him instead of paying him."

Plato erupted out of his chair. "That's enough! What you're saying is pure speculation, with no basis in fact. I know my father, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's incapable of murder. I have no idea why he withdrew so much cash, nor do I know how Kirby Runbeck came by his money, but there's no connection. If you run that headline on Saturday, Mr. Jenny, or if there's mention of any of this in the paper, you're fired. You're all fired," said Plato, slamming the door on his way out.

14.

"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Washburn," said Deputy Sheriff Doug Elderberg. His eyes cast down, he turned and trotted back to his waiting squad car.

Mary stood in her front doorway and watched him drive away. Would this nightmare never end? John had been making good progress. One side of his body was still terribly weak, and his speech was garbled and slow, but the doctors assured her he was out of danger-for the moment. He was on medications that should help prevent another stroke, although nobody was issuing guarantees. If only his spirits would improve. But how could they? His brain function didn't seem to be impaired. He knew he'd admitted to a murder, and the sight of police officers outside his hospital room door couldn't have passed his notice.

Dragging herself back to the living room, Mary crumpled onto the couch to think. Doug had come by to inform her that her husband had withdrawn one hundred thousand dollars from two of their accounts at Wells Fargo in the last month, and that just before his death, Kirby Runbeck's personal worth had grown by exactly the same amount. Doug wanted to know if Mary was aware of her husband's actions. She assured him she wasn't, that all their accounts were set up so that only one signature was necessary to make a transaction, but she wasn't sure he believed her.

Tipping her head back against the cushion, Mary had a sinking feeling that the horrific events of the past few weeks were all her fault. John hadn't killed Kirby-that was never an issue-but if he hadn't, why admit to it? Mary had been with him the night he learned of Kirby's death; she'd witnessed his reaction firsthand. His blood pressure must have shot through the roof. Almost immediately, he began complaining of a headache and weakness on his left side. "Oh, John," she whispered, closing her eyes. "What have I done to you?"

The sound of a ringing phone interrupted her concentration. Instead of getting up to answer it, Mary let the machine pick it up. After a few clicks, she heard Bernice's voice say, "I'm leaving the hospital for a few hours, Mom. Thought I'd let you know. Plato's here now, so don't feel you need to come down. The nurse took Dad to physical therapy a few minutes ago, and they've scheduled him for more tests. He'll be busy most of the afternoon. So stay home and try to relax, okay? Bye."

Thank God for her family, Mary thought. Whenever there was a crisis, no matter what the current squabbles, everyone rallied. They were good kids. Kids, she thought, smiling at the word. You knew you were old when your kids were middle-aged.

Mary's thoughts turned to Milton. He didn't have any children. When he was in his twenties and thirties, he'd lived a nomadic existence. He barely had any photos of himself from that time, with the exception of the ones she and John had taken at birthdays, anniversaries, or when he just happened to stop by. After all these years, it was still amazing to her that two brothers, only two years apart, raised in the same home, could be so different. John took life-and his responsibilities-so seriously, while Milton was a free spirit. Even so, both of them were successful professionally, and both seemed to have a nature that required a great deal of personal solitude.

Over the years, John had grown to be a pessimist, always seeing the glass half empty, while Milton was still as optimistic as the day they'd first met. Social scientists used to insist that the way a person was raised was everything. If anyone was to blame for a bad outcome, it was the mother. But now, it seemed the experts had changed their tune. Mary had recently read an article that said modern social scientists felt human beings were far more a product of their genetics than anything else. In the battle of nature vs. nurture, nature had won. So how did that explain Milton and John? It was a useful theory, blaming your faults on your DNA, but before Mary swallowed it whole, she wanted to wait for the next study.

Picking up a framed photograph on the end table next to her, Mary examined the snapshot of Bernice and Plato, aged four and seven, flailing like starlings in a small plastic pool in the backyard. Even then, they were already who they would become, if only she'd had eyes to see. Bernice was such a secure little child, very confident of her abilities. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. Plato, on the other hand, always seemed to be walking around in a fog of indecision, unsure which toy to play with, which TV show to watch. He instinctively understood life's infinite possibilities, and that knowledge seemed to confuse him into inertia. He was also far more concerned about pleasing his father than Bernice was. Both Plato and Bernice were unusually bright, even precocious, kids. Perhaps that's why Mary had such a hard time raising them. Most of the time, Bernice behaved as if she didn't need any help, while Plato was always awash in indecision. Again, two children raised in the same home, yet so different. And each one difficult to mother.

As she set the picture back down, she heard a car pull into the yard. Milton had returned. By the time she reached the kitchen, he'd come through the back door carrying a copy of the Wednesday Rose Hill Gazette under his arm.

"The police were just here," she said, feeling a rush of emotions so conflicting they almost took her breath away.

Milton moved to the counter and set the paper down. "What did they want?" he asked, keeping his back to her.

"It was Doug Elderberg. He said John gave Kirby Runbeck one hundred thousand dollars before he died."

Milton turned around. "Did he say why?"

"He didn't know. He thought maybe I did."

"Do you?"

"No!"

Seeing her distress, Milton put his arms around her. "The police asked me a bunch of stupid questions, too. But they're fishing, Mary. They don't know anything for sure."

"Neither do I," she said, breaking away from him.

Milton followed her into the living room. "Mary, I don't mean to sound like a broken record, but I'm worried about you. It won't do John any good if he gets better and you get sick again."

"I'm not sick."

"No, of course you're not," he said patiently. "But the stress you're putting on yourself isn't good for you."

"John's in that hospital bed because of me."

"Ridiculous."

"Is it?" She whirled around to face him. "When I found out about my cancer, it threw John into a panic. He went a little crazy, Milton, because of me. Everyone saw it. All those gallons of carrot juice, the hundreds of bottles of vitamin supplements. He was trying to control his world so that nothing else bad would happen."

"I realize that, Mary."

"That's why he called you to come stay with us. He knew he couldn't handle it on his own. He's a proud man, Milton. He's never lost control of his world before."

"I was happy to help."

She felt tears burn her eyes. "But you did more than help. While John was growing more and more distant, you were there. Why did you always have to be there, Milton? Why did you have to be so damnably kind?"

"Mary-" He stepped closer to her.

"I didn't mean to fall in love with you. How did that happen?"

"I don't know," he said softly. He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away again.

"John must have found out."

"Why do you say that?"

"Maybe he sensed it. Or-what if Kirby saw us? We were acting like teenagers, Milton. Picnicking in the woods. Going to motels."

Taking hold of her firmly by the arms, Milton looked her square in the eyes. "Do you think I wanted to hurt my brother? Do you think I planned this? You needed your life back, Mary. All John wanted was to stay home and figure out new ways to cook seaweed. I didn't mean to fall in love with you, either, but I did. I can't take it back."

"We should never have spent so much time together."

"Maybe, but the doctors all said you needed fresh air and . . . hell, some fun in your life. You were getting better every day, but you needed to get out of the house. Somewhere along the line, John forgot how to have fun, Mary."

"And you never did."

He held her eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know," she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, crushing her in his arms. "I'm so sorry. This has gotten so complicated."

"What are we going to do? I can't leave John. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it now."

"I wouldn't ask you to. But don't expect me to walk away either. Not when your life is in so much turmoil."

She relaxed into his arms, welcoming his embrace, but knowing at the same time that she had to stop leaning on him. "What if Kirby did see us? Maybe that's what he was blackmailing John about."

"John would never give a jerk like him money to keep quiet about an affair, not even one his wife was having with his brother."

"But this is a small town. You don't know what it's like here."

"Look, if John had suspected anything, he would have come to me and knocked my block off."

"Then why did he give Kirby that money?"

She could feel the muscles in Milton's back tense. "I was alone with him for a few minutes today, Mary. I tried to get him to talk about it. I even gave him a pad and pencil and asked him some questions."

"And?"

"Nothing. Whatever he's thinking, he's got it locked up inside him."

"If it's not us, then . . . what?"

Milton kissed her gently, then stood back. "My brother isn't perfect, Mary, but the guy's a rock. Always has been. When we were kids, I thought he was insufferable. He tried to be both a brother and a father to me, and it didn't work. He was always so cool, so tough, and I tried to be just like him, but I'm sure he hated me sometimes, hated it when his little brother tagged along. I never understood John's kind of integrity, Mary. Plus the guy seemed to be blessed with this incredible Lady Luck." He turned around and smiled at her, adding, "He found you, didn't he?"

She could feel her face flush.

"If anybody's got skeletons in his closet, it's me. John's lived an exemplary life. I was the one who was the crazy kid."

"Tell me about your skeletons," she said, watching his reaction.

"Oh, no," he said, the old twinkle back in his eyes. "A man of mystery is far more intriguing."

"Really."

He nodded, but his good humor was already fading. "We've got to find a way out of this mess, Mary." He drew her into his arms again, speaking quietly into her ear, as if he was afraid to say the words out loud. "My brother isn't a murderer. He must be protecting someone. And the only people he cares about that much are you, me, Plato, and Bernice."

"Are you saying one of us killed Kirby?"

"We've got to face facts. If John isn't guilty, one of us is."

15.

When Cora Runbeck entered the Prairie Lights Cafe on Wednesday afternoon, the place was packed with hungry diners. Ever since Sunday, she'd been wracking her brains, trying to figure out where Kirby could have hidden the one hundred thousand dollars. The police had stopped by to question her about it, but she said that Kirby had never mentioned it to her. That was the truth. She wasn't about to let them see the map Kirby had left behind in her old recipe box. If what Doug Elderberg told her was true-that her husband had likely been blackmailing John Washburn-well, too bad for John. If she found the money, as far as she was concerned, it was hers. She was due for a break in this life, and that money was it.

The key to the map seemed to be the location of the Devil's Tree. In a rather offhand, low-key way, she'd been querying her friends and neighbors about it. That nobody had a clue what it meant led her to believe it was something Kirby had made up. If that was true, if the location of the tree existed only in his head, then she might as well forget it. She could look for the tree for the rest of her life and never find it.

But Cora refused to admit defeat. That's why she was here today.

Easing into a booth, she waited for a waitress to bring her a menu. Kirby always raved about the meat loaf sandwiches with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, but she was more of a Denver omelet person herself. Or sometimes she liked the pork chop dinner, which came with mashed potatoes and gravy, a vegetable, usually green beans although sometimes it was carrots, and a small red Jell-O, cranberry, and Cool Whip salad.

Decisions, decisions, she thought, glancing over at the lunch counter. Sitting on the stool closest to her was a middle-aged man laughing with one of the waitresses. Something about his voice struck a familiar chord. He was foreign sounding, like the people on NYPD Blue. She turned her hearing aid up to high, wishing she were just a little closer. With his classy pin-striped suit, expensive shoes, diamond pinky ring, and his black hair slicked straight back from a high forehead, he reminded her of a ballerina in a barnyard. In a small town like Rose Hill, he was totally out of place. And then it hit her. She'd heard that voice before.

Several weeks ago, just after her eye surgery, she'd been lying on the couch in the living room when she heard some fella talking to Kirby out on the front lawn. She was positive it was the man sitting at the counter. When Kirby finally came inside, he seemed shaken up. It was so unlike him that she asked him who the man was, but he just grunted, said he didn't want to talk about it. She'd forgotten about the incident until this very minute. Who is that man? she thought to herself, watching him take a fat money clip out of his pocket and toss some cash on the counter. Once he was outside, he dashed across the street to a dark sedan. Cora watched through the window as he drove away. She wondered what her husband had been talking to him about.

After she was served a glass of water, Cora concluded that she was in a pork chop mood today. The waitress took her order, then sauntered back to the kitchen. Cora hated the decor in the Prairie Lights. It was much too country for her tastes. This wasn't Texas, for goodness sakes; it was Minnesota. The man who owned the restaurant, Melvin DuCharme, was a transplant from Norman, Oklahoma, so maybe there was a reason for it, but it was still annoying. Melvin was an old buddy of Kirby's. They liked to drink beer together at the Timber Wolf Tap over on Myrtle. They also fished together in the summer and hunted in the winter. Kirby didn't have all that many friends. He wasn't a friendly kind of man.

As Cora sipped her water, she watched two young fellows from her church sit down in the booth directly across from her. They were talking so loudly, she couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

The man with the beard said, "I was up near Grand Maris last November. Shot six grouse one afternoon. Couldn't believe there were so many around the cabin."

"I've been mostly bow hunting," said the other man, the one with the longish blond hair.

"Yeah, I bow hunt, too," replied the first man, "but I'm not a very good shot. I'm better with a rifle."

"My uncle and I nearly got us a six-point buck last December, just south of Hibbing. It was standing behind this big old oak. When I aimed, I held my breath because I figured I'd hit the tree, but I got it in the haunch. Not my best shot. It took off and we ran after it, following the blood through the snow. But then I saw it run close to a tree and the arrow broke off. We tailed it a while longer, but we never found it."

"Too bad," said the man with the beard.

How utterly ghastly, Cora thought. The poor animal. Terrified. Running through the woods bleeding from an arrow in its side. She would never understand the pleasure men got from chasing animals around with guns and bows. Where was the sport in that? Her father had never been a hunter. Sure, he'd lived on a farm since he was a little boy so he understood that if you ate meat, you had to kill it first. He'd slaughtered his share of pigs and chickens, even a few cows, but he still couldn't fathom why men poured out of the city every fall heading for the big woods so they could blow their toes off, or cripple some poor critter in the woods. He always maintained it didn't really qualify as a sport unless you gave the animals guns, too. He usually got a laugh when he said it, but Cora thought it made sense.

She was glad her food finally arrived so she could think about something else.

Kirby used to pack his gear every fall, and he and Melvin DuCharme would drive up to Melvin's cabin on the Cottonwood River. Knowing them, she assumed they spent more time guzzling beer and peeing in the woods than they did sitting in a deer stand. Kirby rarely came back with anything other than a hangover. She wondered who Melvin would take up to his cabin this November. Might get kind of lonely for an old guy up there all by himself. Kirby said the cabin didn't even have electricity or running water. Melvin heated it with wood. Men certainly had a different idea of fun than she did.

The pork chop was a disappointment. It was tough and the center wasn't cooked enough. She ate the vegetables and the potatoes and gravy, but she left most of the chop sitting on her plate. Cora didn't like to spend a lot of money eating out. For the price of a meal in a restaurant, she could make three at home.

Wiping her lips daintily with a napkin, she waited for the check. Instead of her waitress, Melvin DuCharme pushed out through the swinging kitchen doors and entered the main part of the cafe. Just the man she was looking for. As he headed toward the cash register, he spied her sitting in the booth. She could tell he didn't really want to stop and say hi, but he was stuck. Unlike Kirby, he had some semblance of manners. She waved her hand, yoo-hooing at him pleasantly.