Brad or Evan-she couldn't tell because of the garish Santa Claus mask-held a Christmas-light-covered kayak paddle over his head. The tiny bulbs twinkled like Disney fireflies.

She centered on the grinning Santa through the Canon's screen and snapped a couple of shots, then gave him a wave. Surrounding him were five other kayaks, all the paddlers wearing masks. There were two Santas, two elves, a Scrooge and a shark with glow-in-the-dark teeth and a Christmas wreath around its rubbery neck.

She walked along the crowded Embarcadero looking for a good spot on the dock to take photographs. The boys had loaned her their new Canon digital with a zoom lens. They'd worked the afternoon shift, giving her time to sit in the back office, read the instruction book and figure out the camera's bells and whistles. It was a relief to have something complicated and foreign to concentrate on. It certainly beat worrying about when Patrick would pop up like some papier-mache monster on a third-cla.s.s carnival ride. Unwanted surprises made her think of Love and her on-the-lam granddaughter.

Shock was not an accurate enough word to describe what she felt this morning at the feed store when she found Rett standing in front of her, her pale, round face tear-streaked, her expression, half-scared, half-mad.

"What's wrong?" Mel demanded, thinking the girl and Love had gotten into a fight.

Rett's haltingly told story made Mel soften her harsh tone. Her heart went out to the girl. She certainly knew what it felt like to go all stupid over a guy.

Except, a little voice inside smugly commented, she's a kid and you're thirty-five you-should-know-better years old.

After hearing the girl's story, Mel agreed to hide the banjo until Rett could talk to this guy. But Mel didn't promise not to tell Love what was going on. So, when Evan showed up, she asked him to drive Rett home, and she called Love. She didn't like getting involved with this-mediating family problems had been her least favorite part of being a cop-but Love was her friend. When Evan returned to the feed store, Mel went home, telling him she'd see them tonight. She didn't tell him about the banjo. The less people who knew, the better.

She walked along the Embarcadero, her eyes involuntarily scanning the crowd, searching for Patrick's ruddy face-an older version of Sean's lean good looks. It annoyed her that Patrick had the advantage, that he could show up any moment without warning, and she'd be forced to deal with him on the spot. How could she convince him that she didn't have any of Sean's stolen money? How could she keep him from ruining this new life she'd carefully constructed? She knew she should have told Love about her past a long time ago, but there never seemed to be a right moment. She was fairly certain Love would have understood, would have believed that Mel was innocent. At least she hoped so.

She turned up one of the short T-piers that led to the edge of the bay. People stood three deep next to the metal railing, waiting for the boat parade to start. The air was crisp and cold, and the crowd murmur was congenial as people sipped mugs of hot chocolate, coffee and apple cider. Kids ran in circles, frantic and chirpy as seagulls, high on salt water taffy, the laughing crowd and the coming Christmas holiday. In the distance, she heard a boat horn sound-three short blasts-the signal for the parade to begin. Antic.i.p.ating the boats, the crowd's collective sound rose, their laughter took on a sharp vibrato. A man with wide shoulders pushed in front of her without excusing himself. She shook her head but just turned around, looking for a less crowded spot when she ran right into August Johnson's broad chest.

"Hey, missy," he said. He wore his standard faded denim overalls and a red plaid flannel shirt.

"Hey, August," she replied, letting the camera drop to her chest, held in place by a thick strap. "I thought you and Polly reserved a table at the Shrimp."

His gray eyebrows furrowed. "Now what would we be doing with shrimp at a roundup? You know Mr. Hearst only serves tri-tip. Polly's back at the house making her pumpkin cobbler. She'll be coming by right about suppertime."

Mel stared at him a moment, at a loss for words. She searched his red-rimmed eyes for a twinkle, indicating that he was joking. They were friendly, normal-looking. This was August Johnson, Cy's father, the man who taught her how to drive a tractor, how to mend a barbed wire fence and tell the difference between a wild mushroom you could eat and one that would kill you.

"August, we're at the lighted boat parade." She talked slowly, choosing her words carefully. "In Morro Bay. The Christmas boat parade."

His heavy brows remained together. "We're going to the parade in Morro Bay, me and Polly. I'll pick her up in the truck right after I find those calves." He peered over Mel's shoulder, and she turned around, half expecting to see a herd of bawling calves waiting to be tagged and vaccinated. Instead, she saw a family of five dressed alike in green Christmas sweaters decorated with Rudolph and his red nose.

She lightly touched his forearm. "Let's find Polly. We have to help her carry that cobbler."

His eyes darted from side to side. He looked down, then back up and gave Mel a tentative smile. "Apples make good cobbler, but I believe I like pumpkin better."

"Me too," Mel said, gently leading him down the street toward the Happy Shrimp. "Let's find Polly. I bet she's waiting supper on us."

He nodded, going along with Mel with the trusting innocence of a child. That frightened her more than anything when she thought about all the psychos waiting to prey upon the weak and the helpless.

A block away from the restaurant they saw Benni Harper and Ford Hudson walking toward them.

"Hi, August," Benni called out. She wore a bright emerald cowboy shirt and a black felt cowboy hat with tiny green and red bells circling the narrow hatband. "You've got people looking for you, mister." She gave August a quick hug. Her animated face belied her worried eyes.

"We're going to pick up Polly," August said, smiling at her. "She's bringing her pumpkin cobbler to the roundup. Got calves waiting."

"I love Polly's cobbler," Benni said, looping her arm through his. "Let's go find her." Catching Mel's eye, she raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

August narrowed his eyes, peering over at Hud. "I don't recognize you, young man. You must be new. You can show us what you can do by tagging those calves. But be careful, the chute's been a bit cranky lately."

"Yes, sir," Hud said evenly, touching a finger to the rim of his gray felt cowboy hat. He wore dark jeans and a fleece-lined Levi's jacket. "I'll be real careful."

"We might be able to keep you on if you can do the work. But Mr. Hearst don't hold with slackers. Keep that in mind." He shook his head. "That's a mighty fancy hat to be wearing to work on calves. I'd put it on a post if I was you."

"Good idea, sir," Hud said, his face completely serious.

At that moment, Gabe, Benni's husband, walked up. "August, your beautiful bride is looking for you." He and Benni exchanged troubled looks.

"We're going to find her now," Benni said, tucking August's arm next to hers. They watched as Benni led August toward the Happy Shrimp.

"Thanks," Mel said when they were out of earshot. "I think he just got a little confused." She cleared her throat.

"Polly noticed he'd been in the restroom a little too long," Gabe said. "Hud and I went to check on him. When he wasn't there, we were hoping he hadn't gotten far."

"I ran into him a few minutes before you showed up," Mel said. "He thought he was going to a roundup at the Hearst Ranch."

"He worked there in his younger years," Gabe said. "Has he been evaluated by a doctor?" Gabe tugged absentmindedly at the corner of his thick, silver-laced black mustache. Though he wore faded Levi's and a dark red sweater, he still exuded a police chief's authority.

"Not that I know of," Mel said, resisting the urge to say "sir." "We have noticed some memory lapses for the last few months, but nothing like this. It started a little while after Cy died." She ducked her head, the last two words causing her eyes to burn. She didn't want either of these men to notice.

"Has he had any falls?" Gabe asked.

"He fell a few weeks ago, banged up his leg and sc.r.a.ped his head. He was alone in the barn when it happened, so we don't know how bad the fall was. He wouldn't go see a doctor. You know August."

"He's like my father-in-law, Ben," Gabe said, smiling. "Those old ranchers would sooner st.i.tch up their own legs than let, as Ben would say, a money-hungry sawbones near him. Drives Benni crazy."

"Love and I are doing the best we can, but . . ." Mel shrugged, not knowing what else to say. "Polly's going along with him. I think she doesn't want to face that he might have . . ." She couldn't finish the sentence. As superst.i.tious as it was, it felt like just saying the word Alzheimer's would make it a reality.

"There are people who can help," Gabe said gently. "Call his doctor and tell him or her what's going on. Sometimes it's best to let an outside person intervene. There are drugs now that can slow the disease down."

Mel nodded. "I'll talk to Love about it. Thanks."

He reached over and patted her shoulder. "Take care, Mel. And don't worry about August and Polly tonight. Benni and I will make sure they get home safely."

"I appreciate that. Love has her hands full with her granddaughter right now."

Gabe smiled. "So I've heard. Tell her from me that she has my deepest sympathy."

"Sure will." She turned and started walking away. In seconds, Hud was beside her, matching her long strides, his hands stuck deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"Nice to see you too," he said, b.u.mping her shoulder with his.

"See you later. I've got things to do."

"I could help. I could hold your . . . uh, purse. Hey, why don't you have a purse? All women carry purses."

She glanced over at him and frowned. "Stupid remark."

He grinned. "Cut me some slack, Ms. LeBlanc. I'm trying to work with what I have here."

"Leave me alone."

"When we're having so much fun?"

She stopped, turned and started walking the opposite way.

"Hey," he said, double-stepping to catch up with her. "Good evasive maneuver. Learn that in Sin City cop school?"

She stopped again and looked him in the eye. "Look, Mr. Hudson. I'm not going to play games. We both know I'm not some badge bunny who finds your adolescent patter amusing. I don't care to spar with you. I don't care to date you. I don't care if we ever speak again. You need to leave me alone. I've got enough problems in my life. Are we clear on this?"

He studied her a moment, then lifted his hands in surrender, his brown eyes opaque and unblinking. "My mistake. I apologize. I won't bother you again." He walked away and, for a moment, she felt like the biggest jerk in the world. He had been really nice to August.

"Hey, detective," she called. "Thanks. I mean, with August."

He lifted a hand and kept walking.

Okay, she thought. Well, okay. She again felt like a jerk, and sort of hurt. Then again, he asked for it. Man, she didn't need this right now. Forget him.

She went back to the parade and snapped another twenty or so shots of Brad, Evan and the rest of the kayakers. After some shots of other decorated boats, she decided to call it a night. The crowed made her nervous; it was hard to tell if she was being watched. Besides, the incident with August had unnerved her. Next to Cy, he'd been the other male constant in her life for the last three years, as close to a grandfather as she'd ever known. It pained her to see him lose touch with reality even for a few minutes.

The walk back to her house through the almost-vacant streets helped calm her nerves. She pa.s.sed the b.u.t.tercream, where she could see Shug through the window standing next to the Bunn coffeepot. He wore an Arkansas Razorbacks T-shirt and was chatting with Maria, one of the dinner waitresses. Only two old guys were in the cafe, sitting at the counter nursing cups of coffee. After the parade, people would start drifting in, wanting a bowl of Shug's homemade green chile-corn chowder or some of Magnolia's hot apple cider pie, with homemade cinnamon ice cream. All the shops on Main Street were open, waiting for customers to meander uptown from the Embarcadero, Christmas money burning a hole in their pockets. She paused briefly in front of Baytown Stained Gla.s.s to look at the stained gla.s.s hanging showing a detailed Christmas tree complete with angel tree topper. She'd thought about buying it, even though she was not much for decorating for the holidays. The colors of the gla.s.s, the incredible details of the toys under the tree and the ornaments fascinated her. She kept expecting someone else to buy it, for it to be gone when she walked by every day on her way to breakfast at the b.u.t.tercream. But it remained in the window. Waiting for her? No, it would just be one more thing she'd have to leave behind.

She turned the corner to her street, sticking her hands deep into her coat pockets. She was always forgetting gloves. Why didn't she just buy extra ones and keep them in her jacket pockets?

Most of the houses on her street were owned by retirees with plenty of spare time, so the yards and windows of most of them were elaborately decorated for Christmas with all manner of lights, blow-up Santa Clauses and waving snowmen. She'd been teased by her neighbors on both sides saying she needed to get on over to Target and buy herself some lights, join the neighborhood. They almost had her convinced. She inhaled deeply, tasting salt. The air was sharp with the scent of eucalyptus and pine, reminding her of the ointment her father used to smear under her nose when she had a cold as a child, telling her it would make her breathe better. She realized now that it was just illusion, that it only seemed like she could breathe better. It didn't do one thing to unplug her swollen nostrils.

She didn't notice anything was wrong with her house until she walked close enough to her front porch to set off her automatic porch light. An involuntary gasp burst from her lips. Painted across the pale blue expanse of her one-car garage in crooked black letters: THIEF.

NINETEEN.

Love Mercy Love didn't enjoy a minute of the parade because she was too busy looking over her shoulder for Dale to show up toting a scowling police officer. After Rett's little "solution" to her problem, Love felt the overwhelming urge to call Clint again. She held back, not wanting to appear completely incompetent. Not to mention she was a little embarra.s.sed by her volatile granddaughter. She'd figure something out.

Rett and Love agreed on a spot down by the aquarium. It seemed to Love there were more people at the parade than last year. All the restaurants overflowed with those who decided to watch the lighted boats in a more comfortable, less chilly environment. She'd seen the parade from behind a gla.s.s restaurant window herself a few times, but she preferred the brisk experience of watching the parade outside. Though the boats strung with twinkling lights, homemade painted Santa Claus figures and glow-in-the-dark Nativity scenes would have likely made people in New-port Beach or Huntington Harbour in Southern California laugh, she loved their small-town parade where the boats were owned and piloted by people who ate breakfast at the b.u.t.tercream, who Magnolia bought fish from or who had at one time or another shared one of Morro Bay's popsicle-colored sunsets with Love.

For someone who'd possibly guaranteed herself a stay in the San Celina County Jail, Rett seemed remarkably calm and happy. Was it a facade? One of the things that especially tugged at Love's heart was the fact that this girl and her sisters were strangers to Love. If she'd grown up close by . . . or at least visited once a year, Love would have babysat Rett, Patsy and Faith, brushed their hair, argued with them about bedtimes, watched Disney movies with them. Then maybe she'd be better able to discern Rett's motivation right now. Could she possibly be that uncaring or that foolish? Love snuck a glance at the girl's face while she laughed at a bunch of guys in kayaks-Brad, Evan and friends, Love a.s.sumed-and wondered if she felt any anxiety at all. Was it all just bravado? When Love was her age, if she had been in the same situation, she was certain she would have been huddled in the corner of her bedroom, waiting for the police to break down the door. Rett looked like she could just hop onto a kayak with the boys down there and paddle off to China.

After the parade, they pointedly avoided the topic of Dale when they walked back home clutching paper cups of hot chocolate dotted with tiny marshmallows. Rett chattered about the floats while Love worried about the San Celina police car she was certain would be idling in front of her house.

"I think the fishing boat with the twinkly lights set to the twelve days of Christmas was the prettiest," Rett said. "But I loved the kayak guys. I've never been in a kayak. I'd like to try one. I wonder if anyone's ever written a song about a kayak? That would be hilarious. But maybe kinda dumb. This parade was pretty cool. What else does this town do at Christmas?"

"That's about it," Love said. "You missed the lighting of the Christmas tree in the park. That was the first week of December. Some churches and civic groups will likely do some caroling. And there are a few Christmas programs and cantatas. But the lighted boat parade is pretty much the highlight of our city festivities."

"Well, it was pretty sweet." She smiled, looking, for the first time since she arrived, carefree and excited, like one of the college students at Cal Poly.

They turned the corner, and Love was relieved to see that the only car parked in front was her own dew-damp Honda Accord. Maybe Rett's threats to Dale had caused him to temporarily back off. Love knew that it was only a reprieve. He'd be back. By her blase att.i.tude, Rett obviously hadn't realized that yet. Or didn't care.

Rett was in her bedroom talking to Ace when her cell phone rang. It was inside her backpack, tossed casually on the floor next to the front door.

"Rett, your phone!" Love called, not certain she could hear it.

She flew out of the bedroom with Ace at her heels. "Thanks!" She punched it without checking the screen, her face animated until she heard the caller. Instantly, her smiling lips turned down at the corners.

"Oh, hi, Patsy," she said, her voice cool. She was silent for a minute before saying, "And why should I?" She listened a little longer, her lips straightening. Ace picked up an orange tennis ball, then dropped it at her feet. After a few seconds, he picked it up and dropped it again.

"Ace, not now," Love whispered.

He gave her a baleful look, looked back to Rett and picked up the ball again. She held out her hand and took the ball. She threw it across the room with a force that could have broken gla.s.s. Instead, it put a reddish orange mark on Love's ecru living room wall. Ace scampered after it with a happy, triumphant grin.

Love almost reprimanded her, then decided it would be better to just remain an observer. When Ace brought the ball back to Rett, she ignored him.

"That's too bad," she finally said to her sister. "I'm surprised Roy stayed as long as he did in our nutso family. Anyway, I can't come back now. I have . . . a situation here I need to take care of." She listened a little longer. "I have no idea. Why don't you call him? Bye." She punched a b.u.t.ton, stared at the tiny screen, then tossed it back in her backpack. "I'm almost out of minutes," she said, not looking at me. "Is there a Wal-Mart anywhere close?"

"Paso Robles," Love said. "What was that about?" She was sorry Rett hung up before she could say h.e.l.lo to Patsy. She would have liked to have heard her voice, asked her if there was anything Love could do for her. The poor girl had to be scared to death.

Rett shrugged, picked up the ball and raised up her arm.

Love felt a flash of anger. "Don't. I just had the living room painted."

"Sorry," she said and threw it gently underhand across the floor. Ace bounded after it, happy and oblivious in his doggie world.

"Is Patsy okay?" Love asked.

"I guess."

"Rett, it sounded like something is going on. Who's Roy?"

"Mama's third husband. He's leaving her. No surprise there. I knew he wouldn't stick around."

Her cynicism shocked Love a little, even though she knew that many kids her age experienced broken homes. She couldn't help wondering what would have happened had Tommy not died so young. Would he and Karla have made it, or would their marriage have become a statistic? Though Love knew her son had been profoundly in love with Karla, she suspected by some of the hints he'd dropped during his phone calls home that their marriage was already starting to fray at the edges.

"Why not?" Love asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"They didn't really, like, love each other," she said, flipping back a strand of hair.

Love almost said, and how would you know, then decided that it would be better to remain impartial. "That's too bad," she said instead.

Rett shrugged again, apparently not concerned about any other woman's disappointment in love. "Whatever. She'll find someone else eventually. Mom's real good at that. She's pretty, like Patsy. That makes it easier."

I'm not going anywhere near that subject, Love thought. "How is Patsy feeling? Physically, I mean."

"Don't know. Don't care."