I didn't mean it to sound like that."

"So why are you wondering if you were really friends now that he's dead?"

So much for worrying that Walter's mother might be a bit vague. I made a decision.

"I went over to his house last night." I told her about the door being open, about discovering her picture there, the intruder who got away, and about Officer Owens finding me. I told her about finding the receipts for the donations. I ended with, "So I guess I was thinking that there's an awful lot I don't know about Walter. It's not that I expected him to tell me every detail of his life or anything. But frankly, what I'm the most surprised about is that he didn't tell Meghan or me about you. I'd think he'd mention his mother to his friends."

Tootie's gaze had dropped to her lap as I spoke, and when she raised her head I saw tears in her eyes. "We weren't on the best of terms."

Oh, G.o.d. "I'm sorry."

"So am I, though I doubt he'd believe it." She stopped speaking, and I had no idea how to fill the silence. So I just waited while she gazed into s.p.a.ce, remembering. Or regretting. Then her eyes found mine again.

"When the police told me he died, I wondered how he'd done it. Not whether, but how. A bullet? A bridge? Or had he finally managed to drink himself to death? Now you come and tell me about an intruder in his house. About his money, which he apparently had even more of than I was aware." Bitterness grated through her voice, delivered from a throat constricted by grief. "But I didn't think he'd drink drain cleaner. Probable cause of death was esophageal asphyxiation, they said, when I pressed. They were afraid an old lady wouldn't want to know the details. I had to insist."

"Perhaps they wanted to spare you."

Her narrowed eyes told me what she thought of that notion. "Miss Reynolds-Sophie Mae-I understand that you knew him, but really, what is your interest in my son's death?"

I opened my mouth to tell her how I wanted to help with the funeral arrangements, but found myself saying, "Walter died in my workroom. I found him. He drank lye in my workroom, and I want to know why."

Her brow furrowed. "Your workroom?"

I nodded and explained about my soap making and about finding Walter, couching things as gently as I could while trying not to insult her obvious intelligence. Her impa.s.sive face revealed no reaction to my words, and my voice gradually trailed off.

This is ridiculous. What are you doing here, Sophie Mae?

"I think I understand," she said.

Maybe, but I doubted it. I didn't even know if I understood.

I stood up. "I'm sorry. I never should have come here. I thought you could tell me something about Walter that would shed some light on what happened, but I was wrong, so wrong, to ask you ... please forgive me."

"Sit down."

Reluctantly I perched back on the edge of the chair. I wanted out of there as fast as possible.

"I don't know if I can help," she said. "As I mentioned, Walter and I were not on the best of terms. I had judged him for years, blamed his unhappiness on his own weakness, his insistence on living in the past, and his drinking. Eventually he visited less often, and six years ago he stopped drinking and also stopped coming to see me. Which I've come to accept was the best thing. For him, I mean." Her eyes filled, and she looked away.

"But I don't have the right to burden a perfect stranger with my...with that. But I can tell you Walter had grief in his life that coagulated around his heart, and he shielded himself from everyone. You need to understand that it wasn't personal; it was just his way.

"He was the last of my children. One son died of cancer, and another in a horrible accident. Walter was my baby." Now tears spread across her cheeks, running together in the ma.s.s of fine wrinkles. But her voice remained strong.

"As for the receipts that you found, I knew he'd come into some money, because he called and offered to put me in a condominium with a private nurse about three years ago. But I said no. I like it here. The staff is kind and I trust them. I get good, respectful care, and I like having other people around. I wouldn't want to live alone anymore. He said he understood, and he bought Caladia Acres some pieces of new medical equipment and furniture. When I asked him where he got the money he said he'd made an invest ment that had paid off. I'm glad to hear he gave so much to the children's charities. He loved children."

An investment. Well, it was certainly possible.

"Meghan's ten-year-old daughter, Erin-she and Walter were great friends."

"That's good." Tootie suddenly seemed very tired.

"I'll let you get some rest. But there is another reason I came. Meghan and I'd like to help with the funeral, if you'll let us. We can phone the funeral home today."

Her smile was thin. "Thank you. I'll take you up on that."

I stood up again. "Thank you for talking with me."

"Will you let me know what you find out about my son?" The tentative way she asked the question, so different from what seemed to be her inherent self-possession, broke my heart.

Tongue-tied again, I nodded, then managed to get out a promise to call her the next day about the funeral. I was almost to the front door when I turned and went back. Tootie's eyebrows rose in question when I reentered her room.

"I was wondering if you know of any friends Walter might have had, other people I could talk to."

She shook her head. "He used to do some of his drinking at the Gold Leaf Tavern down on First Street. But I doubt that he'd gone in there for a long time."

I thanked her again and left. The rain hung like a curtain in the air as I drove back home.

SEVEN.

I SPENT MOST OF that afternoon meeting with my teenaged helper, Kyla, about Winding Road Bath Products' partic.i.p.ation in the upcoming holiday bazaars. I hate bazaars and farmers' markets; spending the day hawking my soap and other products makes me itch with impatience. But selling retail garners me three times as much profit as wholesale, so it's worth it. Last summer I hit on the solution. Since I made so much more by cutting out the middleman, I could afford to hire someone to do the hawking and make the obligatory appearances for setting up and breaking down the displays.

We had partic.i.p.ated in three farmers' markets each week over the summer: one each on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, and another on Thursday evening. I paid Kyla an hourly wage and a small percentage of what she sold. Her genuine fresh-faced interest in people, coupled with that vital, dewy beauty possessed by those under twenty-in her case nonexistent pores, shining brown hair, and a metabolism that could have burned jet fuel-attracted customers. She liked talking with them and thoroughly enjoyed herself, while I escaped the tedium and still turned a decent profit.

I'd applied to and made it through jury selection for five major holiday bazaars in November and December, one each weekend for five weeks straight. Kyla had some great ideas for giving our usual display some Christmas pizzazz, and I had a few new products I wanted to try out on the public to gauge response. One was a fizzing peppermint and rosemary foot soak. The few people I regularly used as guinea pigs liked it so much I knew we'd need more. I added it to my list of items to make.

"Can you work more hours after school?" I asked Kyla.

She shook her head. "Mom doesn't want me to. Grades."

"Well, she's right." Keeping the grades up was more important. I was just going to have to get used to a few more late nights. The money would be worth it. My annual product liability insurance premium, a hefty chunk of change, loomed ahead.

"What do you think about placing these tin snowflakes among the different items?" I asked.

We finally figured out what we'd need to make the adjustments to the display, and I sent her off to the craft store for supplies.

The door at the top of the stairs was open, and as I climbed I heard a man's voice in the kitchen. It was Friday and Erin's father, Richard Bly, had come to pick her up for their weekend together.

I entered the room to find both him and his girlfriend lounging against the counter, while Erin knelt on the floor, struggling to fit a book into her already stuffed bag. Meghan stood with her arms folded, watching her ex.

Richard wore a sweater with jeans and a sleek black leather jacket. A flip of dark hair curled against his forehead like John Travolta's in Grease, and the rest of it fell in gentle waves to his collar in back. He had big blue eyes rimmed with lashes a model would die for, smooth tan skin, and lips that habitually curled in the slightest of sneers. He was one of the prettiest men I'd ever seen, if you go for that type. Meghan certainly had. Too bad the guy turned out to be such an a.s.shole.

This girlfriend wasn't the one who had broken up his marriage. He always had one around, sometimes more. She fit the type he found comfortable: her face showed some hard living, her hair was brittle with bottled color, curling, and teasing, and her makeup had been applied with a palette knife. Skinny but flabby, she stood a little outside the family tableau and sucked her teeth, staring off into s.p.a.ce.

For a long time I couldn't understand why he would screw around on a woman like Meghan. Then I figured it out. Attractive, smart, a.s.sertive, funny, kind, and practical scared the h.e.l.l out of him. It was one thing to bed her in a college apartment, another to have her on his insecure hands day in and day out. He couldn't handle it. When I shared my theory with Meghan, she shrugged and said it didn't really matter now. She's good at moving on. I hope she finds someone wonderful who can not only handle her, but also appreciate her.

My love life? Not so hot. Maybe I wasn't as good at moving on. There had been a series of-what? Guys I dated, I guess. Calling them love interests would be going too far. And sure, I still missed Mike sometimes, but I'd recovered from his death. I just wasn't sure I'd recovered from our life together enough to try to start another one with someone else.

"Hi, d.i.c.k," I said.

Richard glared at me. He insists on being called Richard, never Rich or Rick, and never, ever d.i.c.k. So naturally I call him d.i.c.k whenever I can.

I turned to the woman and stuck out my hand. "I'm Sophie Mae."

She looked fl.u.s.tered and then took my hand. It was like holding a warm washcloth. "Hi. I'm Donnette."

Okay.

"I heard you had a little trouble here yesterday, Meghan," Richard said.

She gave him a warning look, indicating Erin with her eyes. All she said was, "Yes. We did."

"Terrible tragedy, something like that happening in the house. I hear it was lye he drank? Sophie Mae, you need to be more careful. I don't like the idea of you leaving dangerous stuff like that around where Erin and her friends could play with it."

Fury swept up Meghan's face, and her jaw clenched as she tried to contain it. That morning she'd mentioned to me that she had told Erin that Walter had drunk poison by accident, but not the particulars about the lye.

Erin grew still. She looked up at me, her duffle bag half zipped. I tried to meet her gaze with sympathy and regret, but some of my anger at her father must have seeped through. I didn't know what she saw in my eyes before she looked away. She finished zipping her bag and stood up.

"Will you be bringing her back on Sat.u.r.day or Sunday?" Meghan asked her ex-husband.

"Sunday, of course. I want my sweetie with me as long as I can," he said.

She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. As often as not, Richard brought Erin back home on Sat.u.r.day so he could go to the casinos on Sat.u.r.day night. But Meghan had made it a personal rule never to put her daughter in the middle of a fight with Richard, and she never bad-mouthed him in front of Erin. I marveled at her self-control.

"Um, we were thinking of taking Erin to a movie in Monroe tonight," Richard said.

"That sounds like a good idea," Meghan said. "Which one?"

"The new Disney movie. What's it called?" he asked Erin. She told us.

"You've wanted to see that, haven't you?" Meghan asked her daughter.

She shrugged. Meghan shot me a concerned look. This was the time for a serious discussion, not for Insensitive d.i.c.k to haul her away to a movie.

"Well, uh, those a.s.sholes at work haven't been paying me my commissions on time, so I'm a little short on money. I do so much work for them, and they shaft me any time they get a chance. I'm looking to move to a better job where they don't jerk their good salesmen around."

Erin was looking away from her parents, and I saw her roll her eyes.

"Really," Meghan said.

Donnette picked at a hangnail and looked bored.

"So you think you could manage a little cash for Erin's movie?"

"Just Erin's?"

Richard looked like a petulant two-year-old. "No, Meghan, not just Erin's. Unless you think we should sit outside in the car while she watches the movie."

That was exactly what I thought he should do, but I kept my mouth shut. I seemed to spend most of my time around Richard keeping my mouth shut.

Meghan sighed and went into the hall to get her purse. She came back and handed some bills to Erin. "Here, Bug. Why don't you take your Dad and, urn, Donnette, out to a movie and maybe have some pizza afterward."

Richard didn't look happy as he watched Erin stuff the cash into the pocket of her jeans.

She smiled. "Thanks, Mom"

"You're welcome. Have a great time tonight."

The little girl hugged Meghan, mumbling something into her shoulder.

"I love you, too, Bug," she said, squeezing her daughter tight.

When Richard's car had pulled away from the curb, Meghan returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. She rubbed her face with both hands as if trying to clean away the encounter with her ex.

"I put the kettle on for tea," I said.

"I hate it when she goes with him. I just hate it. I don't trust him."

I sat down. "Don't trust him how? You don't mean..."

"No, no, nothing like that. I guess it's that I don't trust him to be a good dad. To think about what he says or how she'll take it. And he drinks a little too much for my comfort. I don't trust him to take good care of her."

"You think he might neglect her?"