"Well, Erin's not speaking to me right now, at least not if she can help it. I guess you've been included, as well"

"Mommmm!" Erin almost sounded like a teenager, the word was so angst-ridden.

"I'm sorry you have to stay at your friend's house for a while," I said.

"Oh, that's okay. I like it over there. We get to watch TV all we want, and Zoe has a Playstation, and her mom gives us donuts for snacks." She didn't look at her mom, but I could tell she was trying to push her mother's b.u.t.tons.

"Oh. Well. That's good, then," I said.

Meghan gave me a wry look. "Go load your backpack, and I'll take you to school," she told Erin.

Sighing dramatically, Erin slid off the chair and walked toward the stairs, still reading her book.

"Why's she mad at you?" I asked.

"She's not, really. She's mad at her father and her grandmother, but they aren't around. I'm handy. Plus, I'm safe. She can be angry with me and know I'll still love her just the same."

"Lucky kid."

"Yeah. Unless I kill her."

I laughed.

"Will you be here when I get back?" Meghan asked.

I nodded.

"I've canceled all my appointments for today. Starting tomorrow I'm treating everyone in-home for a while-the atmosphere here is off, and I need my mindset to be right in order to give my clients the relaxation they pay me for. Tonight I've got an infant ma.s.sage cla.s.s over at the clinic."

"Okay. I'll be here when you get back from the school." "

I might be a while. I have to talk with them about Richard.

And Grace. Besides the fact that I don't know what they're up to, maybe it'll put them on high alert regarding Erin's safety in general." Stress leaked through the seams of Meghan's usual aplomb.

"That's fine," I said. "But I think Ambrose's overreacting a bit. What happened to me yesterday was just someone taking advantage of an opportunity."

"Yeah, well, we don't know what kind of 'opportunity' they could decide to take advantage of next time."

"I'm ready," Erin said from the doorway.

"Let's get going, then." Meghan picked up Erin's duffel from the hallway. "I'll drop this at Zoe's on my way back so you'll have it when you go over there after school." She looked at me. "Sorry, that's going to make me even later."

"That's okay. Stop worrying."

She shot me a glance that said to shut up, she'd worry if she wanted to.

"Bye, Bug," I called. The door shut on Erin's farewell.

I dumped my cereal down the sink and heated a bowl of chili from the night before in the microwave. Adding cheese and onions, I took it to my workroom, holding the hot bowl with a dish towel and working my way down the stairs. My body seemed to be loosening up the more I moved around. Maybe I should go run around the block.

Maybe not.

While I slurped chili I checked my website. Two more orders since yesterday morning. I processed the buyers' credit cards, then typed up packing lists and printed them out, taped together two more shipping boxes, and gathered the merchandise to fill the new orders. Now twenty boxes marched down the counter in a neat row, waiting to be packed and weighed before I logged onto the UPS website to complete the labels and prepay shipping. Then to the UPS drop-off counter and they'd be on their way.

This process was simple but not fast. The last week had been anything but run of the mill, and I'd lost a lot of work time. Winding Road bookwork had piled up, my inbox overflowed with unanswered e-mail, the Christmas bazaars loomed, and I hadn't even begun to put together updated product pamphlets. The undone tasks, myriad and insistent, buzzed at the edge of my attention as I packed and invoiced and printed and labeled.

But Walter remained foremost in my mind. Why had someone been creeping around in Walter's house the night Officer Owens discovered me there? If they'd been looking for something, had they found it? If they had, why would they set the fire? For that matter, if they hadn't, why would they set the fire? Was the murderer the same person who burned down Walter's house, or could we be dealing with two nutcases?

That thought accelerated the pounding in my head, which in turn reminded me to find the arnica. I shut down the computer and went into my storeroom. One shelf is devoted to products I custom-make for Meghan to use in her ma.s.sage therapy or that we use for ourselves.

I made the arnica salve by infusing olive oil with dried arnica flowers, either by heating it gently or by letting it sit in a jar in the dark for a month or so. Then I mixed the infused oil with melted beeswax to create a cream. Since shelf life at home wasn't much of an issue (and neither was liability), I didn't even bother with adding antibacterial preservatives like grapefruit seed extract or Vitamin E.

Of course, the one morning I needed a boatload of the stuff, the tiny tin was almost empty. Rooting through an a.s.sortment of jars and bottles, I located the Mason jar full of olive oil and arnica flowers. That would do. Skip the beeswax step and just smear on the infused oil. But when I opened the jar and sniffed, I decided a little lavender oil would mask the dusty cooking-oil smell of the contents, as well as add additional healing properties. I strained and mixed until I had a bottle of concentrated arnica oil from which the gentle scent of Lavandula angustifolia wafted.

On my way through the kitchen I put my bowl in the dishwasher and grabbed a Diet c.o.ke out of the fridge. All my healthy eating was going to h.e.l.l in a handbasket, but that was the least of my worries. I took a shower, hot then cold, and slathered on the arnica oil. I dressed in faded cotton hiking pants and a longsleeved T-shirt, threw on a faded flannel shirt over the top like a jacket. After struggling with my braid for a brief time, my elbow finally won, and I gave up. The phone rang as I finished wrapping a hair band around my ponytail, and I picked up the receiver in the upstairs hallway.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Sophie Mae?"

"Yes?"

"Barr Ambrose here. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"Jeez, how long do you think I sleep in?"

"You looked pretty worn out last night." "

I feel better this morning. What's up?" I asked.

"Can you come down to the station?"

"Oh, G.o.d. Now what?"

"I need you to file a formal report regarding the truck incident yesterday, and then I want you to show me where it happened."

"Um, okay. Is this afternoon okay?"

"No sooner?"

"I'll try, I really will. It's just that my morning is pretty booked. Unless this is another 'come down here or I'll send a patrolman' thing."

"No. I just want to get moving on this."

So did I. "How long do you think it will take?"

"Hour or so"

"Tell you what. I'll come over right now, so I won't be holding you up." I'd make it back before Meghan came home. Probably.

"Really?" He sounded surprised. "Well, that'd be great. See you in a little bit."

As I cradled the phone, I mentally kissed my morning good bye. Between going over to the police station and following up with Meghan about what Ambrose had told us the previous evening, the orders I'd been hoping to ship would have to wait. Maybe I could do it all this afternoon.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

ON THE WAY TO the police station I thought about why someone would try to kill me. I'd done a pretty good job of avoiding the question since yesterday. Now I took it out, dusted it off, and gnawed on it a while.

I didn't know squat about who killed Walter, had no hard evidence of any kind about anything. Instead, I possessed an abundance of useless speculation and what ifs. Was I getting close? I couldn't imagine how. Were they afraid I would get close? Well, in that case whoever had tried to run me down the previous afternoon had far more confidence in my investigative abilities than anyone else did, including me.

Someone thought I knew something I didn't.

My next thought threw a chill down my spine, despite the warmth from the truck heater. If they a.s.sumed I knew something, they also would a.s.sume Meghan knew. Ambrose was right. We were both in danger. And though Erin wouldn't be expected to know anything pertinent, if the person behind all this became desperate enough, they might not balk at using her as leverage.

Oh, for heaven's sake. This was getting ridiculous. We weren't living in some movie of the week. Get a grip on your imagination, Sophie Mae. It was even possible the driver of that truck simply hadn't seen me, that my near miss hadn't been anything personal. But the rationalization felt meager and unsubstantial to the part of me that knew better.

It wasn't until my tires screeched pulling into the police station parking lot that I realized how fast I'd been going. Urgency gripped me like a fist, propelling me through the building to Ambrose's desk. I must have looked like I knew what I was doing since no one stopped me, but that was a joke, now, wasn't it? Because I had no idea.

I pulled up short when I saw that Officer Danson, wearing navy slacks and a pressed oxford shirt, sat talking with Ambrose. Today the detective's string tie was a deep green disc of malachite, with a thin silver ring around it. It glowed against his ivory cotton shirt, worn with tan slacks and the requisite cowboy boots.

They both looked up, and Danson turned in her chair to send a disapproving scowl in my direction. I'd guess she came in before her regular shift to talk with Ambrose about our burglary, only for him to take her to task for not telling him sooner.

"Give me a minute, Sophie Mae?" Ambrose asked, and I nodded, backing out into the reception area.

He hadn't looked angry; he'd looked exhausted.

Green molded-plastic chairs sat in a row along the front window, but in deference to my hip, I chose to lean against the wall. A young woman with a cadet patch on her uniform instead of a badge walked by and raised her eyebrows in question. I answered with a smile I hoped exuded confidence. She walked on, her curiosity somehow a.s.suaged.

After a few moments Danson came around the corner, directed a curt nod my way, and shouldered past me to the door. I walked to Ambrose's desk and sat down in the chair she'd vacated.

"I hope she's not in trouble."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"About the break-in, not telling you. I'm sure it was just a miscommunication."

"It was, and I'm partly to blame. But I don't have time to review every call in case it happens to impact one of my cases. Everyone's busy, of course."

"Isn't our burglary one of your cases?"

"Technically, but there's only one of me, so unless there's a problem we let patrol follow up on things like that. Don't worry, I'll be keeping an eye on it, now that I know. My sergeant may have had something to do with keeping it quiet, too. He's very political, and wants me working on this other thing."

"The toilet paper bandit?"

He looked surprised, then chagrined. "But I talked with him this morning and, given the fire and the attack on you, he's willing to pursue Hanover's death as suspicious."

"That's big of him." I tried to smile, but he saw something in my face.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

I shook my head. "Nothing new. But I've really screwed up, haven't I?"

Ambrose leaned back in his chair. "Well, maybe there was something in one or more of those boxes you took, and now someone sees you as a loose end."

"So now what do I do? Take out an ad in the Eye saying I didn't find a thing in the boxes, and would whoever took them please not try to kill me anymore?"

Ambrose smiled. "I doubt they'd believe you. You're not always truthful." "

I was kidding."

"So was I" But he wasn't, not entirely.

And he was right. I hated it, but he was right. If I'd turned the papers over to him immediately, I might not be in this trouble now. I'd been looking for something recognizably important, a will or insurance policy or threatening letter, but I could have easily missed something subtle, something even more important.

"Did your housemate make arrangements for her daughter to stay someplace else?" Ambrose asked.

I nodded. "She'll be at her friend's. And Meghan is talking to the school about d.i.c.k, so they'll be keeping a careful eye on her."

"Good. Now, I need you to write down what happened with the truck yesterday."

He got up and went to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and flipped through file tabs until he found the one he wanted. He drew out a form and placed it in front of me on the corner of his workstation. Then he took a pen out of his drawer and pushed it across to me.

"How much detail do you want?" I asked.