"And Walter was engaged to her?"

"According to her. She's got a big of ring."

Mrs. Gray set her teacup down and leaned back in her chair. "Well, I'm both glad and saddened to hear that."

I knew what she meant. Nice things had started happening to Walter after years of difficulty, and he ended up dying. It felt horribly unfair.

Looking at my watch, I excused myself, thanking Mrs. Gray for the tea and the story. A red pickup with Cadyville Fire Dept. on the door was parked in the alley, and, knee deep in the blackened leavings of Walter's house, a man in navy coveralls cut out a piece of stained blue carpet pad and placed it in an aluminum can like the type paint comes in. I paused for a moment, but my stomach growled, urging me home.

TWENTY-ONE.

BACK IN OUR KITCHEN, I grated cheese over leftover rice pilaf and popped it in the microwave. Walter's story kindled mixed emotions. First came pity, but I pushed that aside. He'd received enough of that in his life; he didn't need yet more of it from me now that he was dead. But I couldn't help feeling sorrow for a life wasted, for a gentle soul abused by greed and just plain nastiness. Anger at the selfishness and cruelty of his young wife. Anger, too, at Walter for being such a victim. His mother must have been frustrated by Walter's complete acquiescence to Cherry's early abandonment, his inability to get over it and get on with it.

After lunch I threw a load of laundry in the washer, then went down to my storeroom and turned on my computer. I found several soap orders from my website. Investing in the site had been a good business decision, and Erin had helped me put it together. Until now, filling my Internet orders once a week had been adequate, but now early Christmas shoppers had started checking items off their lists, and twice the usual number of orders awaited my attention. I'd have to check every day if I was going to be able to keep up with holiday orders. With so much to ship, I'd show Kyla how to pack up boxes and see about hiring some holiday help for the crazy time coming in December. In the meantime, I set to work processing credit cards and whipping out invoices and packing lists.

As I typed and printed, I fantasized about hiring an accountant. But even when I could afford one, I'd still have to do the order fulfillment paperwork, and today it seemed to take forever to process the orders from the site. Once I had the packing lists, I dropped each into an appropriately sized box and lined them on the counter by the storeroom, ran upstairs to switch laundry from washer to dryer and put another load in the washer, and hurried back downstairs to deal with my e-mail. Though I'd whipped through half of it by the time the laundry dried, queries from customers, entrepreneurial newsletters, and a request for follow-up from one of my suppliers still remained in my inbox.

They'd have to wait. At two o'clock I left Kyla a note to concentrate on packaging the holiday soaps, took the basket of laundry up and distributed clean clothes to each of our bedrooms, patted my hair down, and brushed my teeth. Halfway down the stairs I spun around and went back up to the bathroom, where I applied some eyeliner and lip gloss.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, Meghan came out of the ma.s.sage room, Brodie trailing behind her. If Erin isn't home Brodie follows Meghan around, waiting outside the door when she's with clients. If Erin is home, Brodie follows her. I rate only when I'm the only one around, and even then he usually lies in front of the door, waiting for one of his girls to return.

My housemate tried to keep the hour after Erin got home from school free so she could find out about her daughter's day and get her started on homework. I told her about Kyla coming, and she said she'd watch for her and let her into the workroom downstairs.

c.o.c.king her head to one side, she gave me a look and asked, "Where're you going now?"

"Beans R Us. Like I said this morning, I want to know more about Debby and Jacob."

"Going to stop by the Gold Leaf?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."

She smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing. You look nice."

"Shut up."

"Oh, stop it. You think the guy's cute. No harm in that."

I grabbed a rain jacket off the hook and grumbled my way out the door, embarra.s.sed like some adolescent girl caught in a crush.

The sky scudded with clouds above, and rain spit unevenly toward the ground. I smiled to myself and tugged my hood up, hoping this kind of weather would drive some of Walter's cronies into the coffeehouse. Maybe I'd luck out and find Debby and Jacob themselves.

The scent of freshly ground coffee beans welcomed me into Beans R Us, causing an instant craving for a steamy latte. As the same spike-hired woman from the other night took my order, I surrept.i.tiously examined her eyebrow ring. Eyebrow rings were okay, I mean, if you went in for that kind of thing. But the other stuff, the jewelry that can get all tangled up in bodily functions, like blowing your nose or eating spaghetti-or some things I chose not to dwell on right then-I just didn't get. But then again, the idea of committing to living with an image tattooed on your, well, anything, for fifty years I found nearly as unnerving as a marriage proposal or the little plus sign popping into view on a home pregnancy test.

While the milk steamed, I inspected the tables. Two women huddled together over notebooks and pamphlets. At first I thought they were students, until I spotted the Bible and overheard enough of the conversation to realize they were readying a presentation for their church. They both looked worried, so apparently it wasn't going so well. At a table by the front window, a man in a rumpled suit read the Seattle Times and slurped on a grande something-orother. Abruptly reaching the bottom of the cup, he made an irritating sucking noise to get every last drop, rose, folded his paper, tossed the paper cup in the garbage, and exited.

Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea after all.

"Here you go," the barista said and handed me my latte.

"Do you remember me?"

"Yeah" She didn't seem happy about it. Too bad.

"You know Jacob and Debby?"

"Yeah"

"Can you tell me their last names?"

No.

I sighed. "Please? I need to talk to them."

"Well, I don't know their last names."

"Oh" I thought a moment. "If I left a note, would you give it to whichever one comes in first?"

"I guess."

"Can I borrow paper and pen?"

"Sure, why not." Loaded with sarcasm, which I ignored. My confidence that either of them would receive the note I scribbled out didn't exactly soar.

Out on the sidewalk, latte in hand, I debated. How much did I want to talk to the cute bar owner? Well, he was good-looking and good at his job, which was admirable. No ring; not that I could count on that since some men don't wear them. But as I wandered down and sat on a park bench looking out over the river, I became aware that a kind of obligation compelled me to pursue this mild attraction. A sense of duty to ... myself? Convention? The theft of my dead husband's ring had stirred up emotions I'd thought successfully tamped down for good. I'd played the grieving, relationshipphobic widow too long. Time to get on with my life. I didn't want to end up like Walter, wasting time on the past until it was too late.

Okay. Might as well go in and see what happens.

Inside the tavern two men sat along the back wall beyond the quiet pool tables, mesmerized by the sports news on the big TV in the corner and drinking beer out of pint gla.s.ses. And, I noted, the blonde-haired owner was standing at one end of the bar, sifting through receipts and making notations. He looked up when he heard the door open, smiled an automatic smile, and returned to his task.

"What can I get you? Oh, hi!" None other than Donnette, d.i.c.k's Donnette, stood behind me asking for my drink order. "What's your name again? I'm terrible with names. But I never forget a face."

People say that all the time, and I'm tempted to ask what good remembering a face is if you don't have any idea who it belongs to.

"Sophie Mae. And you're Donnette, right?"

"Right! You want a beer?"

"What do you have that's diet?"

"c.o.ke"

"That's it?"

"Uh huh." "

I guess that's what I'll have, then." Not that I needed more caffeine after that double latte. What I would need soon was a restroom.

Behind the bar, she reached for a gla.s.s, scooped ice into it, and squirted Diet c.o.ke out of a hose.

"Did you know Walter Hanover?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Walt. Older guy, gray hair in a ponytail, wore yellow suspenders all the time."

"Huh uh."

I handed her some ones. "I guess until about six years ago he was in here a lot."

"I've only been here a couple a months" Donnette stuck a straw in my gla.s.s and went into the back. I stared at Mr. Ponytail, willing him to look at me. Finally, he did. I smiled. He nodded. Raised his eyebrows a fraction. And waited. He had no idea who I was. Feeling like an idiot, I motioned him over. Putting down his pen, he walked to where I sat.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions," I said.

He frowned. "What kind of questions?"

"About Walter Hanover. Actually, I want to know more about his fiancee and a friend of his."

"Hey, you were in here the other night, right? Sorry-didn't make the connection."

"No problem," I said, trying for breezy. "What's your name?"

"Chuck. So do I know this fiancee?"

I described her, and Jacob while I was at it.

But Chuck shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. You sure they come in here?"

No, I wasn't. "Maybe not." And as I said it, I glanced outside and saw the pair in question walking by the window.

"Well, speak of the devil," I said. Putting my drink on the bar, I slid off the stool. "They just walked by. Probably going to the coffeehouse."

"Hey," he said, and I turned with my hand on the door handle. He held up a copy of the Cadyville Eye. "This you on the front page?"

I strode to the bar. "Can I have that? Thanks." His look of surprise followed me out the door. That he'd so readily recognized my currently coifed self as the wreck in the photo did little for my self-esteem.

As I entered Beans R Us, Jacob helped Debby out of her ratty jean jacket like it was a mink stole. They took a table by the window. The snotty barista saw me come in and made a show of taking my note over to them, saying something and nodding in my direction. Thanks for nothing, honey.

Jacob glanced my way without changing expression. Debby, on the other hand, didn't look very happy. Stepping over to them, I fumbled for what to say.

I started with, "May I sit down?"

Jacob surprised me by standing up and pulling out a chair. "You betcha. Take a load off, So-fee Mae." He said it like it was a nickname. "Your friend's Meg, right?"

"Meghan. Yes."

Debby finally spoke. "So what do you want?" Her skin hung on her face, slack and pasty. No makeup and red-rimmed eyes. Her hands trembled on the table. She saw me looking and clasped them together to make them stop.

I answered her question with another. "Did you hear about the fire?"

She blinked. "What fire?"

"The one at Walter's. Sat.u.r.day night. We didn't get a chance to tell you yesterday at the service."

She shook her head, and her clenched hands turned white around the knuckles. "What happened?"

At the same time, Jacob asked, "Anyone hurt?"

The barista brought them coffees. The scent of hazelnut drifted from Debby's cup. Jacob took his black, and I bet he would have preferred to get it in a chipped brown cup from the diner down the street than in this joint.

I said, "The place burned to the ground. But no one was hurt."

"Wait a minute. Hey, Luce!" Jacob called.

"Yeah?" she responded from behind the counter.

"You gotta paper round here? The one came out today?" He turned to Debby. "I saw somethin' about a fire on the front page, walkin' by the newsstand."

"Here you go," I said, and handed him the one I'd confiscated from Chuck.

Lucky me, Luce brought a copy over, too. She looked at me. Looked at the front page. I closed my eyes.