"Of course, if. But how can we know unless they question him?"

She pressed her lips together. "I don't want Erin to think her father is a thief."

"She already thinks he's a thief. Can it be that much worse if it turns out he really is?"

"But...

"But nothing. If d.i.c.k stole my stuff I'm not letting it slide. I know you want to protect Erin. But she's not stupid, far from it. It might be better if she knew what her father is really made of."

Meghan rubbed her face with both hands. "G.o.d, I hate this." She looked over her fingers at me. "You really think he did this, don't you?"

"Well, I don't have a better candidate. He'd know we were at the funeral, and he knew where we kept the key. Which we don't keep there anymore, by the way," I said, taking the key out of my pocket and handing it to her. She dropped it in the front of the silverware drawer.

"I could have left the door unlatched," Meghan said.

"But the key was moved. I saw the old indentation where Erin put it."

"We saw Richard right after the funeral."

"But we didn't see him in the chapel. He could have been here during the service."

"What about Debby or Jacob, or both of them? They didn't like it when we were going through Walter's things the other day. Maybe they thought we took something." She paused. "Which we did."

I shook my head. "They were at the funeral, right where we could see them"

"They came in late."

"Okay. You're right. Who else?" I asked. I didn't point out that Jacob and Debby didn't know where we kept the spare key. But we hadn't hidden it in the most original spot, now that I thought about it, and it was possible that they, or someone else, could have found it.

"A stranger. Or someone who reads the obituaries and plans burglaries for when friends or family will be attending the funeral."

"They'd have to know we were friends."

"What about someone from the funeral home? I'd like to know if there've been any other break-ins when someone was at a funeral," Meghan said.

"I'm sure the police would track that kind of thing."

"Oh, fine. Now you think they're perfectly competent."

"Sure," I said, "except when they're accusing me of murder, arson, or stealing my own jewelry. Then I think they're d.a.m.n incompetent. But seriously, in case you're right I'll be happy to ask about other funeral-related crimes when I tell them about d.i.c.k tomorrow."

Meghan sighed. "Okay. I can't stop you. But you won't be paying the price if you're wrong. I will. And so will Erin."

"I don't think I'm wrong," I said.

"You never do," she said, and got up to try and salvage some dinner for Erin to eat.

I headed upstairs. Might as well haul Walter's paperwork downstairs so I wouldn't forget to take it to the police station in the morning. Oh, by the way, Detective Ambrose, here's a bunch of Walter's stuff I forgot to mention. Now, would you mind running out and finding my wedding ring?

Opening the door to the spare room, I flipped on the light. A moment later I was back in the kitchen.

"I was wrong," I announced.

Meghan turned from where she was slicing an apple. "What?"

"I was wrong. It wasn't Richard. Someone else used the key. And the jewelry they took was just icing on the cake."

"The cake being?" She looked like she didn't really want to know the answer.

"Walter's papers. They're gone." It hadn't occurred to either of us to look in the junk room after discovering the burglary.

Her face cleared. "Richard wouldn't want those. Why would someone else take them, though? I thought you told me they were useless."

"But whoever took them couldn't know that. Maybe they thought there was something incriminating in those boxes."

"But you didn't find anything?"

I shook my head. "Huh uh. But there's something they don't want discovered. That has to be why they burned down his house."

She took a bite of apple and chewed it slowly, swallowed. "Ambrose won't be very happy about the papers being missing."

"I'm not going to tell him," I said. "If we hadn't brought them over here they would have gone up in flames. So it's a moot point."

"You know, I bet he'd disagree with that." She walked to the doorway with a plate of food for Erin, then turned. "How could anyone know we had the papers?"

I shook my head.

But I thought about it while I did the dishes. At least two people might have noticed the files had been removed. I'd already hauled the boxes over to the house before Debby and Jacob had shown up at Walter's that day. They'd both seemed upset, Debby especially, and with good reason as Walter's fiancee. But I couldn't quite get a handle on either of them. And I wanted to know more about the relationship between her and Jacob.

My head had begun to throb, but I made a cup of tea and went down to my workroom anyway. I'd thought of a couple things I could do to try and find the thief-and Walter's murderer if they were one and the same. I had to finish the soap for Kyla to wrap when she came after school because I wouldn't be around tomorrow afternoon.

I released the bars of glycerin soap from the PVC half-pipes I used for molds and was slicing them into generous slabs when I realized I'd have to check with Meghan to see if she'd be here when Kyla came. The spare key wasn't outside anymore. I'd told my helper where it was, and she'd actually used it once or twice.

Kyla wasn't behind the theft. I was sure of it. She wasn't that kind of kid, and besides, she wouldn't have any more reason to take three boxes of paperwork than Richard would. And I didn't think she'd have told anyone about the key. Or would she? I reminded myself to ask her tomorrow, just to make sure.

The soap looked good. Streaks of blue swirled in pure white in the peppermint, and I'd mixed a little copper metallic soap colorant in with the red that swirled in the cinnamon, so it glittered when turned in the light. If these proved popular with customers, maybe I could add green and white bayberry, or orange and white sandalwood.

I lined the fifty or so soaps on the clean counter to cure overnight, tossed the molds in the dishwasher, and set it going. Checking the lock on the back door, I found myself looking out the window at Walter's, half expecting to see the light burning in the window. Only the dark hulk of the charred remains greeted my eye.

It was almost ten o'clock. Trudging upstairs, I could hear mother and daughter talking in Erin's room, lower- and higher-pitched murmurs down the hall. Erin usually didn't stay up this late, not on a school night, and she'd probably be crabby in the morning. Light peeked out from under the closed door to the spare room; I'd left the light on in my haste to tell Meghan about the missing boxes.

I opened the door and went in, inspecting the floor between the rocker and the hobbyhorse. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Then I spied the box under the window. Either the thief hadn't noticed it, or hadn't deemed it worth carrying downstairs. I lifted it to an open s.p.a.ce and began pulling out the contents.

In addition to ten or so framed pictures, I'd thrown in a ceramic bank shaped like a chicken, a locket that seemed to be rusted shut, an old Bible, a book on baseball collectibles, a field guide to Pacific Northwest birds, and three otter figurines formed of Mount St. Helen's ash. That was it. Sighing, I placed the items back into the box. I'd take them by Tootie's this week.

On impulse, I grabbed Walter's baby picture, flipping the light off on my way out. In my bedroom, I propped the photo in the gaping emptiness on my dresser. Serious eyes gazed back at me, strange in the infant's face.

"Sorry about all this, Walter," I said. "But I will figure out what happened. I promise."

NINETEEN.

I SHUFFLED INTO THE kitchen Tuesday morning, still in my pajamas. Meghan and Erin greeted me with broad smiles on their faces. So much for the ill temper I'd expected from both of them; apparently I'd been the sole recipient of the morning grouchies. They kept sneaking glances at each other. Whatever was up, I could only hope it was something good.

Pouring a bowl of granola, I joined them at the table. Erin grinned around a mouthful of toast and peanut b.u.t.ter, and shoved the Cadyville Eye across the table to me.

"What's this?"

"Take a look," Meghan said, eyes wide and amused.

Unfolding the paper, I scanned the front page. For a moment I pitied that poor woman in the lurid black-and-white photo right under the headline. I'd already started to turn the page before I did the double take.

"Oh no," I groaned.

"How come you didn't tell us your picture was gonna be in the paper?" asked Erin, delighted at my expense.

"Because, smarty pants, I didn't know. And if I'd been asked, I'd have said 'no, thank you"'

It had to be the second picture that d.a.m.n photographer had taken the night of the fire. In it, I wore my white-and-blue-striped pajamas, the ones still waiting to be washed because they smelled like rotten smoke, and my fluffy blue bathrobe. The sprigs of light hair sticking out around my face stood in high relief against the dark, smoldering ruin behind me. My eyes, squinting against the light and smoke, were half shut and puffy, as if I'd been crying when that Valkyrie accosted me with her camera. It looked like I was reaching toward the lens in supplication, when in reality I'd been trying to shield my face from the glare of the flash. And let's not forget the crowning touch: the lovely smear of black charcoal across my cheek.

Maybe no one would recognize me.

Then I read the caption: "The blaze that burned a house to the ground Sat.u.r.day night devastated neighbor Sophie Mae Reynolds." How had that blasted woman discovered my name? The story, as I expected, contained few details about the actual fire, though the reporter had connected it with Walter's death. The Eye called it suicide, so apparently that was still the official story from the Cadyville police department. But so much for anonymity.

"Why would they run this picture? I didn't even talk to the reporter. Oh, G.o.d. I look awful!"

"At least you weren't wearing those." Meghan pointed down at my yellow ducky slippers.

"It wouldn't have mattered," I said, irritated. "You can't see my feet." Like I'd wear my ducky slippers out in the mud like that. Sheesh!

Meghan tried to wipe the humor from her face and look sympathetic. "Pictures with people in them are more interesting than pictures without. And you do look rather, um, dramatic."

I glared. "That fire was plenty interesting-and dramaticwithout any contribution from me."

Erin finished her breakfast and loaded up her backpack for school. Meghan put on her coat; she was taking Erin to school early, both to explain to the teacher why her daughter hadn't finished her advanced placement math homework the night before, and to give Erin a little extra time to work on it.

I flipped through the rest of the paper without really paying much attention to it. The Eye wasn't known for its stellar reporting, and since it was a weekly, all the stories were pretty much old news by the time it hit the streets.

But an article about the mayor caught my attention. I perused it, waving distractedly to Erin as she shouted good-bye from the hallway. When I was done, I put the paper down and sipped my coffee, considering.

Apparently, someone had been hara.s.sing the mayor. It sounded serious, except said hara.s.sment had taken the form of toilet paper streaming from the numerous maples towering in the front yard of his million-dollar home on the outskirts of town.

Could this really be the case Zahn wanted Detective Ambrose to work on instead of finding out what had happened to Walter? For heaven's sake, toilet papering trees was kid's stuff, not some terrorist activity. But it would explain the sheepish look on the de tective's face when I'd asked what was more important than solving a possible murder. Yes, thinking back on it, he'd been downright embarra.s.sed. Well, no wonder. G.o.d knew what would happen if they caught someone egging the mayor's car on Halloween.

I flipped the paper into the recycle bin and did my breakfast dishes. Then I took a shower and put on a pair of nice slacks and a crisp white shirt. Looking at myself in the full-length mirror in the hallway I thought about what jewelry would complete the look. Something understated, but cla.s.sy. I stood in front of my dresser, looking at Walter's baby picture, before it hit me: I didn't have any jewelry, cla.s.sy or otherwise. Just the pair of gold stud earrings I'd worn to the funeral yesterday and my watch. A wave of anger washed over me as I threaded the studs through my earlobes.

My goal was to appear professional, but approachable. First, I'd canvas the neighbors, find out if any of them had seen someone around-or in-our house yesterday afternoon during the funeral. Later, I'd head down to Beans R Us. We didn't know nearly enough about Debby and Jacob, and I needed their last names before I could find out more.

And maybe I'd stop at the Gold Leaf Tavern, say h.e.l.lo to the owner, the guy with the ponytail and the wonderful eyes. If I was thirsty. And had time...

Meghan had returned from dropping Erin off at school and had fifteen minutes before her first client showed up, so I told her my plan as she set out scented oils, lit candles, and plugged in the small fountain in the corner of the ma.s.sage room. She frowned, but didn't try to talk me out of it.

"Be careful," was all she said.

I walked down the block until I had to crane my neck to see our front yard, and started knocking on doors. But at nine a.m., not many people were home. I didn't know the harried woman who answered my knock with a baby on one hip, a toddler clinging to her leg, and the television blaring behind her, but she couldn't help me. The retired couple who lived next to her came to the door together, radiating suspicion. Even after I'd explained about our burglary they thought I was trying to sell them something. Mr. Harpol, a widower who owned a Pembroke Welsh corgi like Brodie and sometimes stopped by for iced tea on summer evenings so the two dogs could socialize, had been at Walter's funeral, too. So had our friend Bette, a potter by trade, who answered her door in canvas pants and a ratty old sweater, both liberally splattered with clay slip. Both expressed horror at our break-in, and promised, after lengthy conversations, to be extra vigilant.

I made notes of the people who weren't home. As my list grew, discouragement infiltrated the determined optimism with which I'd begun the enterprise. But I'd started, and I hate to leave something half done, so I worked my way back up the other side of the street. Only four people answered their doors; two had been at Walter's funeral, one hadn't been home the day before, and the last, glaring at me out of red-rimmed eyes, told me he worked nights and had been asleep. More notes, and then I went around to the street behind us. Our house was hidden from the view of most of those homes, but I plodded from one to another anyway, hoping I'd at least find someone who saw a strange car in the alley that afternoon. No such luck.

Walter's landlady, Mrs. Gray, I saved for last. She was a talker and had been known to take offense if you rushed off after initiat ing a conversation. Mrs. Gray fit her name to a T. Iron-gray curls clung close to her scalp, her pewter-colored eyes sparkled under long lashes, and she opened her door wearing one of her a.s.sortment of gray tracksuits.

Inviting me inside, she brewed tea while I told her about the theft.

"That's terrible!" she said when I had finished my tale of woe.

I nodded while stirring honey into my Darjeeling. "So I'm going from door to door this morning to see if anyone saw anything that might help us catch them. Him. Whomever."

"Well, I'm afraid I was at the funeral the same time you were," Mrs. Gray said.

"I know. But we left pretty early, and of course we don't know exactly when they were in the house. You didn't notice anything right before you left, did you?"

She shook her head. "I can't think of anything." Then, "Well, I do remember one thing. I can't see that it would be of any help, though."