"Farther back in the barn," he said. "Right beside the ladder to the loft."

I nodded. That tallied with what Professor Schmidt had said.

"And then you just strolled out and pretended nothing had happened. And lied to the police."

"I was in shock!" he said, with a shudder. "I get queasy at estate sales, just thinking about the possibility that someone might have died in the house-I'd never even seen a dead body before, much less touched one."

"And why should I believe you?" I said. "You lied about talking to him, and let an innocent man get arrested."

"Well, I'm innocent, too, and if I told the truth, I'd have been arrested," he said. "I figured with all those forensic things they can do nowadays, they'd find the real killer soon enough."

"Oh, and a town like Caerphilly has a big budget for forensics, right?" I said. "And with all the murders they have here, they probably have some really experienced, top-notch evidence technicians, too."

As I said it, I apologized mentally to Cousin Horace, who was a pretty decent evidence technician. But Endicott didn't know that. And it was true about the budget. I'd been to Caerphilly County Board meetings, so I knew how miniscule the chief's budget was, and thanks to Dad's pa.s.sion for anything connected with crime, I had a fair idea how far into the hole the forensic part of the weekend's investigation had probably put the county, to say nothing of the overtime costs. Maybe that was why the chief was so eager to arrest Giles.

Just as Endicott was visibly eager to get away from me. He kept walking faster, no doubt hoping to lose me, and by now we were traveling at a brisk jog, our boxes clinking rhythmically as we ran.

"I'm sorry," Endicott gasped out, finally. "It's not as if I had a lot of time to think it through."

"And you had a good reason to want him dead," I said. "He was costing you money-and threatening to cost you more, wasn't he?"

"Not enough to kill him," Endicott said, in a shocked tone. "Only a few thousand dollars. I could well afford that. How do you think I've managed without a shop for nearly two years? I deal in antiques-well, not as a hobby; I try to keep things very businesslike. But I don't need to make a living at it. I don't need the money; I inherited enough money to live quite comfortably."

"And enough money to hire a top-notch defense attorney if you need one," I said. I was starting to worry about all the running we were doing. I was getting seriously winded, and I had about twenty years' advantage on Endicott.

"If it comes to hiring a lawyer, yes," he said. "Though I hope it doesn't. Think of the scandal."

"What about his keys?" I asked. "And his wallet?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said, glancing back.

"His keys and wallet were missing," I said. "Did you take them?"

"Good heavens, no," he said. "What do you take me for, a petty thief?"

He sounded more offended than when he thought I was accusing him of murder.

"Besides, only an idiot would steal Gordon's wallet," he said. "'Who steals my purse steals trash,' and all that."

"He didn't carry a lot of money?"

"If they outlawed plastic Gordon would starve," Endicott said.

"The keys are a different matter," I said. "He had some valuable stuff in the shop. I know; I've been there."

"Well, yes," Endicott said. "I suppose if you're after the stuff in the shop, his keys would be worth stealing. But not to me. I still had my own key to the shop, though I doubt if Gordon remembered that."

"Wouldn't he have changed the locks when you sold him your part of the shop?" I said.

"Any normal person would have. Not Gordon," Endicott said. His words were starting to come out in short, staccato bursts. "Too cheap and too lazy. I hung onto the key just after the sale. In case he ever tried anything really devious. Like trying to fake my signature on something. And I never got rid of it-the key."

We were both slowing down now. Endicott stopped suddenly, put the box down, and squatted by it, panting. I dumped my box on the ground beside his. What had he bought, anyway? I didn't recall selling him anything this heavy. Had he shoplifted Rob's discarded barbell set while I wasn't looking?

He was still avoiding my eyes. I studied his face, what I could see of it, and tried to decide if he was telling the truth. I had thought he was only resting, but after panting for a few minutes, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and stood up, bracing himself against the side of a parked SUV.

"Lend it to me," I said, holding out my hand.

He glanced up, startled, and clutched his key ring to his stomach.

"Just the shop key," I said. "I'll bring it back in a few days."

"But-I haven't got it right now," he said.

Light dawned.

"No, you gave it to Arnold Schmidt, didn't you. To keep him from telling Chief Burke that he saw you coming out of the barn just before he found Gordon dead," I said.

"How did you know that?" Endicott asked, looking genuinely puzzled, and perhaps slightly fearful.

"So if you didn't kill Gordon and take his keys and wallet, who did? If you can tell me something useful, maybe I won't have to tell Chief Burke all about this."

He looked as if he was thinking, hard. But his face didn't have the look of someone desperately trying to invent something that would save him. More the look of someone who was trying to convince himself he had to do something he didn't really want to do.

"I don't want to get anyone in trouble," he began.

"You already have," I said. "Tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything for sure," he said. "It's only a vague suspicion."

"I'll take a vague suspicion if that's all you've got," I said.

"Well ... when I came in, I saw Carol leaving."

"Gordon's wife?"

"They were separated," Endicott said. "And if Carol had had her way, they'd have been divorced a year or two ago."

Which meant they'd split up about the same time Endicott and Gordon had stopped being partners. Was that only a coincidence?"

"Was it an amicable separation?" I asked, even though I thought I knew the answer.

"Amicable," Endicott snapped. "h.e.l.l, no. You've never seen anything so vicious. He fought her over everything-the house, the shop, the bank accounts. And she kept trying to convince the judge that he was hiding a.s.sets from her."

Now that he'd made up his mind to talk, I wasn't sure I could stop him if I wanted to. Not that I did, of course.

"And was he?" I said. "Hiding a.s.sets?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Endicott said. "He tried to pull a few stunts like that when we broke up the partnership. And I wasn't going after every penny I could get, the way Carol was. I just wanted to get clear of him as fast as possible. She was really holding his feet to the fire. Not that I blame her. The things that woman put up with! He started fooling around on her before the honeymoon was over-can you believe that?"

"Only with difficulty," I said. "Most women would have better taste than to fool around with Gordon. And most men, too."

"But you see why she'd want the keys," Endicott said, eagerly. "She'd been trying everything to find out what he'd hidden, and where, and with the keys, she could go into the divorce court fully armed, so to speak."

"Though she'll be going into probate court, not divorce," I said.

"True," Endicott said, as if this were a new idea.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Wouldn't he have changed the keys when Carol filed for divorce? How can you be so sure your key still fits?"

"We changed them the first time she filed for divorce, five years ago," Endicott said. "I was the one who arranged it. As far as I know, he never gave her a copy of the new one. The reconciliation never went that well."

Which could mean that Gordon had been working on hiding his a.s.sets from Carol for five years. No wonder Carol was so upset.

"Could she have killed him?" I asked.

He fell silent. I suspected that he wasn't agonizing over how to answer my question, only how he could avoid answering it. For whatever reason-friendship, shared suffering, perhaps a hint of romantic attraction-Endicott didn't want to point the finger at Carol. But the longer he paused, the more loudly I could hear the answer he wasn't giving. Yes, she could have killed Gordon.

"I'll talk to her," I said. "See what she says."

"Don't-" he began.

"Mention that you ratted on her," I said. "I won't. As it happens, I was already planning to talk to her. It wasn't exactly a surprise when you mentioned her name. I saw her going in and out of the barn, too, you know."

Though until I'd talked to Endicott, I had no idea when she'd gone into the barn and thus no idea if she was a valid suspect.

We put the boxes in the back of the SUV and Endicott drove off, a little too fast, as if he was glad to get away from me. I thought for a while, and then pulled out my cell phone to call Chief Burke.

"I'm busy," he said, when I got him on the phone. "This had better be important."

"Did you get-"

"I got your message, yes. Was there anything else?"

Got it, and from the stubborn sound of his voice, wasn't doing a thing about it. I'd been waffling about whether to tell him about Schmidt and Endicott, but if he was going to be mulish ...

"I was just wondering if it had occurred to you that whoever has Gordon's keys might try to use them again," I said.

"Come again?"

"How do you know that whoever burgled the shop last night wasn't interrupted before they found what they were looking for or did what they were trying to do?" I said. "And whoever did it still has his other keys-house, car, who knows what."

"If you're worried that someone will break in somewhere and steal evidence, you can stop worrying," the chief said. "We've taken measures to secure the premises he owned or rented, and I don't just mean stringing up a lot of pretty yellow crime scene tape. And if you're the one who has the keys and you're angling to find out if it's safe to use them, it's not, so do me a favor and snoop someplace else. I hate arresting well-meaning amateurs for interfering in my investigations."

"Don't worry," I said. "I don't have Gordon's keys, and I have no intention of breaking in anywhere. Scout's honor."

"Were you ever actually a Girl Scout?" he asked.

"Briefly," I said. "And it was Dad's fault I got kicked out."

"That I can believe," he said. "Behave yourself."

With that he hung up.

I felt better. I wasn't sure whether the chief was telling me the truth, or just what he thought would scare me off, but if Professor Schmidt really was running around with a working key to Gordon's shop, my conscience was clean. I'd warned the chief. If Endicott was telling the truth, it was probably Carol who'd tried to burgle the shop last night.

I got Carol's number from directory a.s.sistance and tried to call it. No answer. She might be back at the yard sale. And even if she wasn't, I had a feeling I knew where she'd strike next. And when. Odds were she wouldn't strike until after dark. And right now, dark felt a long way off. I could hear several voices calling my name, back at the yard sale.

In fact, long before I got back to the yard sale, I heard gunfire from the direction of the house. Cursing Endicott for making me use up so much energy already, I started running back.

Chapter 34.

I made it back a lot faster than I'd come, but even so, I heard several more gunshots before I reached the house and could see what was happening.

I was reasonably sure they were gunshots rather than, say, car backfires or more bursting balloons, because each sharp sound was followed by a short burst of hysterical screams. At least I hoped they were only hysterical. Surely people would be screaming longer and louder if anyone had been injured, wouldn't they? And fleeing in far larger numbers.

So far, traffic heading away from the house was light-I'd only had to dodge two cars, twelve pedestrians, and a sheep. Though the sheep did puzzle me, until I remembered the trespa.s.sers in Mr. Early's field. I sped up a little. I'd have sped up a lot, but running with Endicott's heavy box earlier had taken a lot out of me.

I arrived to find that the crowd had completely blocked the road for several hundred yards, and the police were trying to clear a path for the patrol car that was inching its way through. I spotted someone in the back of the car- our neighbor, Mr. Early. He was shaking his fist at the crowd and shouting. The closed car window and the clamor from the crowd drowned out what he was saying, but I could guess what he was unhappy about.

The crowd milling about in front of our house contained a rather large number of sheep. Dad would probably insist on calling them a flock of sheep, but I would argue that they needed to be a lot more cohesive to qualify as a flock. Not to mention better behaved-could these really be the same sedate sheep I remembered dotting the pasture across the road and waddling slowly up and down the hillside? These sheep appeared enraged, or perhaps possessed. Okay, perhaps they were merely spooked at finding themselves in the midst of a large, noisy, unruly crowd of humans. But I had never imagined sheep capable of charging into people and knocking them down. And they were larger than I thought sheep were supposed to be. Giant economy-sized sheep. Did I have the wrong idea about sheep, or was Farmer Early breeding some kind of mutant fighting sheep?

The New Life Baptist choir was belting out an enthusiastic version of "Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow." Easy for them to take this philosophically; they were up on the porch, where only the most demented of sheep was apt to venture.

I panicked briefly when I saw red splotches on several of the sheep, but I quickly realized that it wasn't blood. Apparently Cousin Deirdre had found a new supply of paint and was running about happily spattering the fleeing sheep.

I spotted Michael at the edge of the chaos, looking tired, and possibly in need of rescue, since he was talking to one of my uncles.

"No," I heard him say as I drew near. "I don't think I've ever lived anywhere that had a 4H Club I could have joined."

"No experience with sheep, then?" the uncle said.

"I've eaten quite a few," Michael said. His tiredness probably made his voice sound a bit more savage than he intended.

"I don't really think that's going to be helpful here," the uncle said, sidling away.

Michael nodded to me and stood staring at the pa.s.sing sheep.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I warned them that they were trespa.s.sing," Michael said. He was panting slightly, as if he'd been running around after the sheep. "Did they listen?"