"Well, have you ever seen anyone around? Squatters? Anyone who might have broken in? People hanging around, doing stuff to the house? The cable guy?"

Derek must have thought I was stretching the point, because he rolled his eyes. I rolled mine right back at him and focused on Venetia.

"No one who shouldn't be here," she said promptly. "There were some squatters in the bas.e.m.e.nt once, but that's two or three years ago. I called the police on 'em, but they up and left before anyone could move 'em out. The man from the lawn care company cuts the gra.s.s every couple of weeks, and twice a year, someone comes out to service the heating system. Once in a while, a handyman will nail down a loose roof shingle or clean out the gutters. But if you're asking if I've seen anyone suspicious hanging around, the answer is no."

"I see," I said. "Thank you, Miss Rudolph."

She waved me aside. "You make sure your kitties stay out of my catnip, Miss Baker. And you, too, young man." She looked up at Derek for a second as she trotted past him and out the door. He shut it again just in time to stop Jemmy and Inky from following. Both cats skidded to a stop, tucked their plumy tails around their haunches, and gave him identical, affronted looks. Jemmy, the more vocal of the two, complained loudly.

"I brought some cat snacks," I said, heading for the kitchen and the bag I had left there in the morning. "Maybe that'll make them happier."

"Unless it's catnip, I don't think so," Derek answered, "but it's worth a try."

"So Venetia Rudolph-what a name!-never saw or heard anything spooky." I dug out the cat treat box and gave Inky and Jemmy a fish-shaped crunchy each. "Or anyone hanging around, either."

"So she says," Derek said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Why would she lie?"

"She's a closet romantic and she was hunting for the ma.n.u.script of Tied Up in Tartan? She's the next door neighbor, and she's lived here twenty-five years. She might have had a key this whole time. Most people hide a key outside or give one to a neighbor to keep."

"That's true," I said. In New York I'd given the girl in the apartment across the hall a copy of my key, just in case I lost mine. Here in Waterfield, Kate had a copy, and so, of course, did Derek. It made sense that one of the Murphys would have given their neighbor, Venetia Rudolph, a key to their house for emergencies. Or to another of the neighbors. "Guess I'll have to read Tied Up in Tartan now, to see what's so exciting."

"Like you needed an excuse," Derek said. I smiled.

We left the house around six, scrambling because we were running late. Derek's dad, Ben Ellis, and his wife Cora had invited us for dinner, and Derek wanted to please his dad by being on time. He loved his dad dearly, and always worried that he had disappointed the older man by not taking over his medical practice. Derek had, in fact, gone through both medical school and a four-year residency before deciding that he wanted to be a renovator instead of a doctor. That was when Melissa decided she'd had enough of being Mrs. Derek Ellis and wanted a divorce. The marriage had been rocky for a while, Derek had told me, but it was the career change from physician to glorified handyman that had been the final blow.

The older Ellises lived in a beautifully maintained Victorian cottage in the Village, i.e., the historic district. Aunt Inga's house-my house-was a few blocks away, and so was downtown Waterfield, with Derek's bachelor pad, as well as Kate's B and B. We knocked on the beautifully carved front door just a few minutes after six thirty P.M., looking as good as we could under the circ.u.mstances. Derek keeps a clean dress shirt in the car for when he has to do a quick change to meet a potential client-or a dinner date-and knowing where we'd be going, I'd made sure to bring a change of clothes, too. The dress was one I had designed myself-yellow background with black silhouettes of cats arching their backs along the hem, and black piping.

Dr. Ben met us at the door and ushered us into the great room; that combination of kitchen-living room-den that's become so popular over the last couple of years. Derek had added it to the old Victorian house some five or six years ago, when he first decided to do remodeling and renovation for a living. I guess Dr. Ben had wanted to do what he could to give his son a good start in his new profession. Everyone in town knew the Ellises, and everyone who was anyone had seen the kitchen addition and loved it. I loved it, too. It was bright and sunny and open, with terra cotta tile on the floor, lots of green plants, and French doors leading out onto the deck that Derek had also built, and from there into the garden, which was Cora's domain.

Dr. Ben's second wife was a lovely person, and I enjoyed her company. She was a few years younger than her new husband, in her early fifties to his sixty or so, and a widow. According to Kate, who knew everything, even things that had happened long before she came to Waterfield, Cora's late husband had been an alcoholic and a mean drunk. Derek, who adored his stepmother, put it more strongly: The late, unlamented Glenn Morgan had been a drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d who enjoyed knocking his wife around, and he'd got what was coming to him when he got hit by a car late one night as he was staggering home from an all-night binge at the Shamrock. Ben Ellis had already known Cora for a while by then, from treating the various injuries her husband had inflicted upon her over the years. They waited a suitable year before getting married, and were still acting like newlyweds four years later.

Cora, a short, plump brunette with lovely blue eyes and a sweet smile, was busy at the stove when we came into the kitchen, her fluffy hair standing out in a halo around her flushed face. "We're having chicken fajitas," she explained over her shoulder. "Oh, hi, Derek." He bent to kiss her on the cheek and to steal a piece of deliciously browned chicken out of the pan at the same time. He stuck it in his mouth and blew on his fingers. Cora giggled.

"Can I do anything?" I asked, hoping she'd say it was all under control. I'm not much of a cook, having always had only myself to cook for and no real inclination to learn. My former boyfriend, Philippe, preferred eating out, and when we didn't, when he had something else to do, I had usually just nuked a bowl of macaroni and cheese or mixed up some tuna salad for myself.

Cora smiled, delighted. "Would you like to make the guacamole?"

"Sure," I said, relieved. Even I could mash a couple of avocados in a bowl.

"Excellent. And Derek, would you mind helping your dad set the table?"

Derek declared himself willing and able, and we all got to work. Cora stood by my side for a minute or two to make sure I knew what I was doing before going back to whatever it was that was simmering on the stove, filling the house with the spicy aroma of Mexico.

"So how are things going over at the house?" Dr. Ben asked when dinner was on the table and we'd all held hands over grace. Derek had his mouth full, so it fell to me to answer.

"I guess it's going as well as can be expected. We've done most of the tear-out. Kitchen cabinets, carpets, wallpaper. We're leaving the toilets and light fixtures where they are until we're ready to replace them."

"Tomorrow I'm going to sh.o.r.e up the floor," Derek added. "Rent a handheld hole digger, pour some concrete, and set up some metal posts to get the floors level before we start putting in the new kitchen." To me he added, "I may be a little late picking you up tomorrow morning. I have to stop at the hardware store first, and they don't open till nine."

I nodded. I had no problem with that, not being an early riser under the best of circ.u.mstances.

"I knew Peggy Murphy, you know," Cora said unexpectedly. Both Derek and I turned to look at her. She added, "Glenn and Brian both used to drink at the Shamrock. They were both hot-tempered, and sometimes they'd get into it. I met Peggy at the police station one night, after Roger Tucker, who was chief of police back then, had arrested them both for drunk and disorderly conduct."

"I didn't know that," Dr. Ben said.

"We never talked about it," Cora answered, with a smile. "She was long gone by the time you and I met." She shook her head, looking down at her food. "It still amazes me sometimes, to think of what happened to her. There, but for the grace of G.o.d, and all that."

She took another bite of food while Derek and I looked at each other, not quite sure what to say. Dr. Ben was the one who got the conversation back on track.

"I never had to take care of Peggy Murphy at the clinic. Are you saying that her husband used to knock her around? I don't remember any injuries or bruises or anything on the body."

"Well, he must have had some issues," Cora said reasonably, "to do what he did."

Couldn't argue with that.

"What made him do it?" I asked. "Didn't he leave a note or anything? Some explanation for why he decided to murder her?" I looked around the table.

"If he did, I never heard about it," Dr. Ben said. "Although the police probably didn't tell me everything. They called me in to p.r.o.nounce time of death, and to make sure there wasn't anything that could be done for any of the victims, but I wasn't involved in the investigation beyond that. The bodies went to Portland, to the medical examiner's office, for autopsy, and there was no doubt what had happened, anyway. Brian Murphy killed his wife and her parents, who were in town on a visit, and before his son could come back with help, he killed himself. The gun was his, and the fingerprints on it were his as well. The boy saw his dad walk from the master bedroom to the guest bedroom, where his grandparents slept, with the gun in his hand, after the first shot had woken him up."

"And the police didn't find any other reason why he might have wanted to go out in a blaze of glory? Was he sick? Depressed? Was his wife leaving him for someone else and threatening to take Patrick, and he decided if he couldn't have her, no one could?"

Across the table from me, Cora moved on her chair. Our eyes met for a moment before she looked down. I glanced at Dr. Ben, but he seemed to have missed the byplay. So had Derek, apparently. When my boyfriend is involved in something he enjoys, like eating, he doesn't care about anything else. I've gotten used to it. Sometimes, it's even convenient.

"If the medical examiner found anything wrong, I didn't hear about it," Ben Ellis said, "and I never treated Brian, either. I only ever saw Patrick. And whatever Brian's problems were, they didn't extend to hurting his child. I never saw anything wrong with the boy beyond the usual childhood complaints. Measles, flu, the occasional broken bone, a few st.i.tches from falling off a bike or out of a tree . . ."

Cora looked over at him, a question in her eyes. Obviously she was well aware of the fact that broken bones, bruises, and cuts are common signs of abuse.

The doctor shook his head. "The boy didn't show any of the symptoms of abuse. He was a healthy, normal child, well-adjusted, and seemed genuinely happy and fond of his parents. I'm sure the injuries were gotten the way they said, by falling off bikes and out of trees."

That was something to be grateful for, anyway. What had happened was still just as horrific, and the boy was still just as alone, but at least the nightmare hadn't gone on for long.

When dinner was over, I offered to help Cora clean up while the men made themselves comfortable in the re cliners. It seemed the least I could do, and I wanted to talk to her. Bending over the sink, I asked softly, "Was Peggy Murphy leaving her husband, Cora? Were her parents helping her move? Is that why he killed her?"

Cora avoided my eyes. "I don't know, Avery."

"Was she having an affair with someone?"

She shrugged, her softly rounded body moving gently under a printed cotton blouse. Cora is a very comfortable person, someone you'd have no qualms confiding in, knowing she'd know the right words to say and would make you feel better after you'd told her everything. I wondered if Peggy Murphy had felt the same way. "I don't know that, either. Although I wondered."

"About what? Or who?"

Cora hesitated. "A few months before the murders, Peggy changed. Colored her hair to get rid of the gray that had crept in, bought some new clothes, and started wearing makeup. . . ."

I was rinsing dishes in the sink then handing them to Cora to put in the dishwasher. "Who was she seeing?"

"I'm not sure she was seeing anyone," Cora said. "She went to work when Patrick started kindergarten. At some antique store downtown. Part-time, so she could get home before the school bus dropped him off in the afternoons."

"And that's when she started changing?"

"A few months later," Cora said, and shut the dishwasher door decisively. "Help me serve the coffee, Avery. I baked a cake, too. There are cups and plates in the cabinet and forks in the drawer."

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, opening the cabinet door. I'd worry about Peggy Murphy and her phantom lover later.

5.

It wasn't until we pulled to a stop outside Aunt Inga's house-my house-on Bayberry Lane that I realized what I had done.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" I turned to Derek, my eyes wide, "we have to go back!"

"To Dad and Cora's?" He put the truck back into gear, and we rolled away from the curb again. "Why? What did you forget? I have a key, if you left your purse there."

"Not your dad and Cora's. The house on Becklea. The cats!"

"Oops," Derek said, his voice a lot calmer than mine. I fisted my hands.

"How could I have been so stupid? The poor things, they must be terrified!"

"Jemmy and Inky are cats, Avery," Derek said, turning the corner. "They're used to being alone, they're safe inside the house, and if you're worried about the footsteps scaring them, keep in mind that cats consort with witches. They're used to supernatural phenomena. In fact, they're probably curled up somewhere, sound asleep."

"If you think you can talk me into leaving them there until tomorrow . . ."

Derek shook his head. "I'm driving, aren't I? All I'm saying is that you needn't worry. They're fine. If you wanted to leave them until tomorrow, they'd still be fine, if a little upset."

Undoubtedly he was right. Jemmy and Inky were used to their own company. They didn't care much for mine, that's for sure. Being alone wouldn't bother them. Nor would the footsteps, if they came back. Being without food was another story. That would make them angry. But they'd survive overnight. Especially if there were mice. Still, Aunt Inga had left me the responsibility of taking care of Jemmy and Inky, and this was how I rose to the challenge?

Fifteen minutes later, we were back at the house at Becklea. Derek turned off the engine and turned to me. "Here we are."

I nodded, not making a move to get out of the car. "Looks spooky, doesn't it?"

"It's just because it's vacant and unlit," Derek said, with a look around. "We should turn on the porch light before we leave again."

"Are you sure that's all? That it doesn't look . . . creepy?"

Derek shrugged. "If it looks creepy, it's only because you're projecting. If you didn't know what happened here, it would just look like an empty house. Or even an occupied house with n.o.body home. You can't tell from here whether anyone lives here or not."

"That's true," I admitted. Derek looked at me.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"You mean you weren't planning to? Yes, of course I want you to come with me. I can't handle both Jemmy and Inky on my own."

"You wanna hold my hand, too?"

"I wouldn't mind," I admitted. Derek grinned.

"C'mon, then. Let's get this show on the road." He opened his car door. I did the same, and we met on the gra.s.s beside the truck. "Last one to the porch is a rotten egg." He took off, laughter trailing after him. I let him run. I was wearing a dress and high heels, and besides, I enjoy watching him move. So while he ran h.e.l.l for leather toward the front door, I minced across the gra.s.s in my pumps, doing my best to avoid sinking the three-inch heels too deeply into the ground.

By the time I reached the porch, Derek had already dug his keychain out of his pocket and managed to fumble the correct key into the lock. "After you," he said with a bow, taking a step aside as he pushed the door in and fumbled for the porch light switch. I opened my mouth to respond in kind-"No, no; after you!"-because I sure as heck didn't want to be the first one into the dark house. But before I could get a word out, we both froze where we stood, mouths open, while a scream cut through the air. High-pitched, shrill, terrified. The hair at the back of my neck stood at attention, and goose b.u.mps popped up all over my body.

"One of the cats?" Derek asked, his voice amazingly steady, though not without a faint tremor. My own teeth shook like castanets when I answered.

"Don't think so."

"There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Of course not."

"Somebody's messing with us."

I nodded, teeth chattering. He plunged into the house, and a moment later, the dining room chandelier came on. Derek stalked into the kitchen and from there into the den, lights blazing on in his wake, while I stood where I was, trying to force my feet to cooperate but failing miserably.

A minute later he came back into the living room. "No cats."

"No cats? But . . . where are they?"

"No idea," Derek said. "They must have gotten out somehow."

"Oh, no." I looked around, not knowing quite what to do or where to start looking. Then something struck me. "How could they get out? We didn't leave any windows open, did we? And we locked the door, right?"

"Right," Derek said. "Seems there's a way out we don't know about. Either that, or someone else has a key to the place."

"I'm not sure I like that idea," I said, after a beat. He looked at me.

"I'm sure I don't. Let's go. We'd better see if we can find them." He brushed past me, and headed down the stairs to the yard again. I was just about to follow, more slowly, when I heard a door slam.

"What in blazes is going on here?"

I minced down the stairs to the gra.s.s. Derek was halfway across the lawn by now, but he turned so we were both facing Venetia Rudolph's house.

It was going on eleven P.M., and the older woman must have been all tucked up and ready for bed. She was wearing plaid pajama pants under a dark dressing gown, and on her feet were mannish slippers. Her gray hair was standing out around her head, and she was obviously annoyed. "What is the meaning of this?" she added.

I glanced at Derek, who said politely, "The meaning of what, Miss Rudolph?"

"That . . . that . . . squealing!" She looked from one to the other of us.

"One of the cats," Derek said, at the same time as I asked innocently, "What squealing?"

Venetia Rudolph snorted. "Bad enough that you're carrying on inside the house all day, but do you have to do it outside, too? At night?"