"Hey, Cora," he said, walking up to the table. "How are you?"

"I've been better," she said, taking a last sip of water.

"Sure, I understand. I was up at my cabin last weekend doing some repairs. Can't believe Kirby wasn't with me. I sure do miss him. I know how hard it must be for you." Glancing at her plate, he added, "Something wrong with the pork chop?"

She turned the plate around so he could see the center. "It's pink. I don't think a person should eat pink pork."

Melvin scratched his chin. "No, Cora, you're right. I'll have to say something to my cook. Hey, maybe you're still hungry."

She wasn't, but she nodded anyway. You never knew when somebody in a restaurant was going to feel bad for serving you inedible food and give you a deal.

"Why don't I buy you a piece of our famous apple pie?"

She looked up at him pitifully. "Why, that would be very kind of you." But she didn't smile. Not yet.

He cocked his head and stared at her a moment. "Ah, why don't I throw some ice cream on that. Apple pie needs a scoop of ice cream."

Now she smiled. As he motioned to the waitress to get her attention, then barked the order at her, Cora said, "Melvin, I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute. Privately."

"Me?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, sure. I thought that's what we were doing."

She nodded for him to sit down. He looked kind of uneasy, like a mouse sticking its head out of a hole, looking for the cat. Too bad. He could give her one minute of his time. "You know, Melvin," she began, picking up her unused spoon, dipping it in her water glass, then wiping it off with her napkin, "after Kirby died, I found a diary he'd been keeping."

"A diary," repeated Melvin, this time scratching his snow-white hair. "Kirby didn't seem like the diary type to me."

"I was surprised, too, but there it was, tucked inside his tool box in the basement. It was awfully sad for me to read through it."

"I imagine."

"He talked about a place that was very special to him. Said that before he died, he wanted to bury the diary under this special tree, so that there'd always be a piece of him there."

"Really." Melvin didn't look very interested. He was starting to get squirmy.

"In a way, I take it as a last request. Except, I don't know where the tree is, Melvin. I thought maybe you might. He called it the Devil's Tree."

Melvin gave her a blank stare. "The Devil's Tree?"

She nodded.

He thought for a moment, crossing his arms over his thick stomach, then shook his head. "Can't say that I ever remember him talking about anything like that, Cora. Sorry."

Her spirits sank. A second later, the pie arrived. Wasn't that just like life, she thought. One minute you're up, full of hope, the next minute you're flat on the floor. And then somebody serves you pie. Cutting off a bite with her clean spoon, she thanked Melvin for his time.

As he edged out of the booth and started to walk away, he stopped. "You know, Cora," he said, turning around and resting his knuckles on the table. "There was this one tree. It's up near my cabin. The tree's dead but it's still standing, and you always see a lot of crows in it. Kirby wanted to build a deer stand in a tree about ten feet away from it once, but he was afraid that the crows would scare off the deer. Those birds make such a racket. Anyway, I could be wrong, but it seems to me that I remember him referring to it as a Devil's Tree once- because of all the black crows, and because it was still standing when by all rights it should have fallen over long ago. I thought it was kind of funny at the time, but also kind of true."

Cora thought it was creepy. "That's fascinating, Melvin. What kind of tree is it?"

"A weeping willow."

"You own that property, don't you? The cabin and the property surrounding it?"

He nodded. "Ten acres."

"I don't suppose you could tell me how to get there? If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to bury that diary just like my dear husband wanted."

"Sure, Cora. Anything you want." He grabbed a clean napkin from another table, pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, bit off the plastic tip, then drew her a quick map. "You can't miss the tree," he said finally, pushing the napkin toward her. "It's due north of the cabin, right along the river."

"I'm sure I'll find it."

"You're welcome to use the cabin while you're there." He wrote down his secret hiding place for the spare key. "I only go there on weekends."

"Thanks, Melvin. You're a good friend."

"If I see some fresh digging, I'll know it was you burying your piece of Kirby. Well," he said looking over his shoulder, "I've got to get back to work."

"You do that," said Cora, tucking into her piece of pie, resisting the urge to jump up and shout Eureka!

April, 1964 Dear Gilbert: Thanks for your letter. Sorry to hear your parole was rejected. Maybe next time it'll be different. Also, sorry to hear you've been under the weather. I suppose those prison doctors aren't the best and the brightest, but they'll fix you up. I don't think too many people die of bronchitis. Hey, I'm joking. Of course they don't. But when something like that lingers a long time, it's hard to live with. If I could, I'd send you some of my wife's chicken soup. Viola's the best cook. I'm actually getting fat. Hey, didn't I promise to send you a picture of her? I'll include one before I seal up the letter. She's a little older than me, and maybe she's not the best-looking woman I've ever laid eyes on, but I think she's wonderful. She's just what the doctor ordered after a long stretch on the road.

Life's been pretty good to me lately. Got a new company car. It's a Chevy station wagon, but it's got a lot of zip. Handles real well. I love being out in the country. Who would have thought a city boy like me would end up traveling the back roads to a bunch of hick towns.

Believe it or not, Viola's got me real interested in classical music. Every now and then I can pick up a radio station in the car that plays the classical stuff. You know, Beethoven, Brahms, Bach? Viola gives piano lessons. She's also the town librarian. I suppose you could say she's refined. I like that. And I've really grown to appreciate Chopin's etudes, and Wagner. Man, that Wagner had some major darkness in him to write the way he did. And you know me. I was born angry. That music makes me want to drive a hundred miles an hour, roar like a banshee. When I listen to it I feel powerful, strong, like I could live forever.

I guess it's hard to explain about the music, how it makes me feel, but when you grow up thinking you're nothing, that your dad didn't care enough about you to even stick around and see how you turned out, things get to you in a way they don't get to other guys. I never thought music would help me, but it has. My brother seems to be able to live with what our dad did, but for me it still hurts. I could never just abandon someone, just walk away and never come back. I remember thinking in high school that I hated my dad's guts so bad, if he showed up, I'd beat him to death with my bare hands. I still would.

Hey, here I'm going on about my childhood and yours was even worse. Kids are so important, man. But you have to teach them right from wrong. Hell, if anybody knows about wrong, it's me and you, right?

Hang tough, J. D.

16.

Sophie sat behind her desk in her office at the Maxfield Plaza, punching in the work number of Laura Walters's best friend, Rebecca Scoville. She'd found Rebecca's home number in the Minneapolis area phone book and had left several messages on her answering machine to no avail.

Earlier in the day, she'd driven out to Deep Haven, the suburb where Rebecca lived, hoping she might talk to her in person. Pulling up in front of an attractive two-story brick home on a quiet, tree-lined street, she hopped out of the car and proceeded up the winding walk to the front door. After ringing the doorbell she waited, but when nobody answered, she took a pen and a notepad out of her purse. She was composing the message when a woman popped out of the neighboring house and headed in her direction.

"Morning," said the woman, tucking her T-shirt into her running shorts. "You looking for Becca?"

"That's right." Sophie backed up so that the neighbor could pull the mail out of the slot.

"I'm Sandy Revas." She flashed Sophie a friendly smile.

"Sophie Greenway. Is Rebecca out of town? I've left her several phone messages but she hasn't returned my calls."

"You a friend or a client?"

"Neither," said Sophie. "We've never met. I was hoping to ask her a few questions about a woman we both used to know."

Sandy brushed a lock of brown hair away from her forehead. "Becca's out of town on business right now. That's why I'm taking her mail."

"If you don't mind my asking, what does she do for a living?"

"She owns an investigation and security agency. Northstar Investigations."

"She's a P.I.?"

"Yeah, but don't call her that to her face. She loathes the way books and TV portray people who do professional investigation for a living. It's nothing like Magnum, P.I.-or Kinsey Millhone."

Sophie smiled. She already knew that. But she'd never give up her crime novels. "Do you know when Rebecca will be back?"

"I don't," said Sandy. "Call her office. Someone there will probably know."

"Northstar Investigations," repeated Sophie.

"It's in Minneapolis, near the Art Institute."

Sophie thanked her, then returned to her car and headed back to the hotel. She made it just in time for a staff meeting. An hour later she was in her office punching in Rebecca's work number.

Three rings later, a male voice answered, "Northstar Investigations."

"I'd like to speak to Rebecca Scoville, please."

"She's not in. Can I take a message?"

"When do you expect her?"

"Well, I thought she'd be in this afternoon, but now I hear it may be the end of next week. If it's urgent-"

"No," said Sophie. She left her name and number and asked that Rebecca call her as soon as possible. Feeling thwarted but still hopeful, she sat at her desk and worked on hotel business until six, when she finally quit for the day and headed up to her apartment.

She found Bram ensconced on the balcony overlooking downtown St. Paul, with Ethel, their elderly mutt, lying next to him. In his gym shorts and T-shirt, he looked hot and sweaty, as if he'd been working out. It wasn't like him to use the fitness center on the eighth floor. Generally, when the elevator passed the dreaded spot, he'd close his eyes or make the sign of the cross to ward off evil vibrations. Exercise was so unlike him, Sophie wondered what was up. His shoes and socks were resting next to his chair, and his bare feet were propped up on the iron railing, the only part of him in the sun. He was also drinking a beer. Grabbing her own beer from the refrigerator, she joined him. "How was your day?" she asked, giving him a quick kiss and Ethel a quick ear rub, then lowering herself wearily onto the chaise.

"Are you asking me or the dog?"

"Whoever cares to answer."

Without raising her head from the terra-cotta tile, Ethel looked up at Sophie with unusually baleful eyes.

"She's in an ugly mood."

"She isn't the only one."

"What's wrong, honey?"

"Don't ask."

"No, really. I want to know."

"I am so out of shape."

She laughed, glad that it wasn't something more serious. "Join the crowd."

"But it looks good on you."

"Please. I need to lose ten pounds before Christmas. Otherwise-" she drew a finger across her throat. "-it's curtains for all my slinky holiday outfits. I'll have to walk around in a tent."

He sipped his beer, looking morose.

"Bram?"

"What?"

"Are you really concerned about your weight? You're a gorgeous, handsome hunk of a man. There are guys out there who'd kill to look as good as you do."

"At my age. Why didn't you finish the sentence, Sophie?"

"You can't be serious."

"Don't humor me." He sat up, then leaned forward in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You know, honey, maybe you should get a physical. You haven't had one in years."

"I hate doctors."

"And I hate dentists, but if I don't go see one occasionally, my teeth will fall out."

"Let's change the subject."

He really was in a rotten mood. "Okay," she said, not sure what else to do. "Did you interview someone today, or was it the usual Baldric-inspired free-for-all?"

"Don't you remember?"

She'd been so preoccupied for the last few days, she was ashamed to admit she didn't. Then it struck her. "The governor?"

"Give the lady a cigar."

"How did it go?" Finally, she felt she'd hit on a topic that could pull him out of his funk.

"It was a blast, Soph. Jesse Ventura is the best guest I've ever had on. He's funny, quick, and he says what he thinks. I mean, the guy doesn't sound or act like any politician I've ever known. The phone lines were lit up like a Christmas tree for the entire hour."