"Mrs. Brown," I said again, a little louder, and walked around so she could see me.

She looked up, her aqua eyes cloudy with age. Really looking at her this time, I realized what a beautiful woman she must have been. And how much Bliss favored her.

"Mrs. Brown, my name is Benni Harper. We talked the other day at the wine tasting."

She nodded mutely. Her face was slack today, traces of spittle pooled in the corners of her pale pink mouth. It was hard to believe she was the same woman I'd talked to only a few days ago, but I knew how, at this age, good days and bad days were as unpredictable as our Central Coast winds.

"Can I ask you some questions? It won't take long, I promise."

She blinked slowly and nodded again.

I hesitated again. Questioning someone this elderly, this helpless, seemed cruel and heartless. And, considering her condition today, so much worse than a few days ago at the wine tasting, maybe even pointless.

And what about those babies? I heard Detective Hudson's voice in my head. I heard Detective Hudson's voice in my head.

I swallowed and said, "I'm sorry about your babies, Mrs. Brown."

Her eyes looked into mine at the mention of babies. Her mouth started moving, trying to say something. I bent closer, trying to encourage her.

"My babies," she said, her voice low and harsh. "They died."

I knelt down next to her wheelchair. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

"Dr. Jacobs was so good to me. We drank tea."

"I'm sure he was." I wracked my brain trying to think of what I could ask her. "Mrs. Brown, do you remember Eva Knoll? She took care of your babies. Do you remember?"

Her eyes teared up upon hearing Eva's name. "The judge sent her away. He said she was a bad woman. She just flew away. Like a bird." A pale, age-spotted hand grabbed mine, pinning it to the cold handle of the wheelchair. "She wasn't bad." She squeezed my hand, then let go and crooked her finger at me to come closer. I bent toward her.

"Rouge," she whispered, her head nodding. "The men love it. They don't even know we have it on."

Great, more grooming tips. I tried to lead her back to the subject of Eva Knoll, maybe find out her whereabouts. "Where did Eva Knoll go?" Before she had a chance to answer, we were interrupted by a sharp voice.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

I stood up and faced the stern-faced woman dressed in a nurse's uniform. Unlike the rest of the employees of Oak Terrace, she wasn't wearing a name tag, so I assumed she was one of the private nurses hired by the family.

"I was just saying hello to Mrs. Brown. We met the other day at the wine tasting in Eola Beach."

The woman peered at me suspiciously and said, "She's not up to visitors today." She'd obviously been warned that people might come by and quiz her charge. She fiddled with the knitted throw in Mrs. Brown's lap, then pushed her out of the room without another word to me.

I stood there for a moment, contemplating what Rose Brown had just told me. Her husband had sent Eva Knoll away. Why? Had she been involved with the death of the babies? If so, why hadn't he turned her over to the authorities? I tried to sort out the things I'd learned. I had to find Eva Knoll, if she was still alive, and talk to her. But how? Then an idea formed.

Before going to the Sheriff's Department to tell the detective what I'd learned, I stopped by my friend Amanda Landry's law office to beg the use of her very capable investigator, Leilani, to locate Eva Knoll.

Amanda's office was above the Ross store downtown. It was located up a set of narrow, steep marble stairs. Inside the small reception room, Muddy Waters played gut-aching blues from a small stereo hidden behind a bushy green fern. Though I'd known Amanda for only a short time and we definitely rooted for different college teams-she was a die-hard'Bama fan-we'd become good friends. A faithful, dyed-in-the-wool Crimson Tide Alabaman, she'd followed her husband to San Francisco, and when that didn't work out, decided she loved the wild and woolly west enough to make it home. She'd worked for years as a prosecutor for both San Francisco and San Celina, but had sometime back started her own practice with an inheritance she'd acquired from her father, a rich Birmingham judge who wasn't famous for his honesty, integrity, or marital faithfulness.

Luckily Amanda inherited her late blues-singing mother's honesty as well as her weakness for down-and-out musicians.

"He's the best I ever had," she told me as I sat in her office, decorated in deep crimson and dark blue. Leilani was in her adjoining office using her numerous contacts and CD-ROM programs to get a lead on Eva Knoll. "I'm in heaven. I'll never give him up. Never." Her antique oak chair creaked when she leaned back. With the tip of a yellow school pencil, she scratched a spot in her thick head of auburn hair.

"We'll see," I said, having heard this song and dance before.

"I'm serious," she said, giving me her Mississippi-wide smile. The same gorgeous smile that won her almost as many cases as her spur-sharp intelligence. "He's perfect. Doesn't miss a thing. I go to bed happy every night."

"He's a musician. You know how reliable they are."

"He calls me Miss Mandy," she said, her eyes twinkling.

"And you let him live? He must be good."

She sat forward in her seat and pointed the yellow pencil at me. "I'm telling you, cowgirl, my house has never been cleaner. Did you know that place on your stove, where those little round things are?"

"You mean the burners?" Cooking was not one of Amanda's many talents.

"Did you know the thing they sit on, that whole top of the stove, lifts up? You should see what was under there. Disgusting! But, bless his blues-lovin' heart, he's thorough. He cleans everywhere everywhere," she said, heaving a big sigh. "He's not cheap, but, heavens to Dixie, he's worth it."

"Just don't get romantically involved with him," I warned, "or you'll be out a great housecleaner."

"Never," she declared. "Boyfriends come and go, but a good housecleaner, that's that's hard to find." hard to find."

Within the hour, Leilani found the information I was seeking.

"She's still alive," Leilani said, her brown, fashion-model face as sober as a prison guard's. "Or at least someone who is signing her name and collecting her Social Security checks is."

"How do you find out things like that, Leilani?" I asked. "I mean, isn't it illegal or something? Privacy laws and stuff?"

"Never ask Leilani how how," Amanda said, nodding thanks at her investigator. "Just act like Elvis and say thankyouverymuch."

"Thank you very much," I said.

"No problem," Leilani replied, her facial muscles not moving a bit. She turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Does she ever smile?" I asked Amanda. It was hard to imagine the two of them working together, considering how much Amanda liked to laugh.

"I think she cracked a small one when I gave her a Christmas bonus last year. Hey, who needs smiles when you can work the miracles she does. The DA's office still hasn't forgiven me for stealing her."

We both glanced at the address Leilani had found.

"A post office box in Mariposa Valley," I said. "That's out in the Carrizo Plains. I haven't been there in years." The Carrizo Plains was in the far eastern part of San Celina County. Except for a few desert dwellers and sporadic groups of bird-watchers and hikers, the barren Carrizo Plains was pretty much left to its own counsel. Back in the fifties, there was a small flurry of interest by some Los Angeles developers who claimed it would be the next Palm Springs. Some streets were built and lots sold. There was even a motel and gas station constructed for the benefit of prospective buyers. But some kind of complication with water rights doomed the project, and all that was left were some windswept streets, rusty gas pumps, and the shell of the fifties-style motel called the Mariposa Valley Inn.

"I had to interview a witness out there once when I worked as a prosecutor," Amanda said. "The only way to find anyone is to ask at the fire station. It's about a half mile past the old motel."

I folded the piece of paper and slipped it in my back pocket. "I'll give it to Detective Hudson and let him take care of it."

"Hey, why are you doin' his work for him, might I ask?" I smiled. "Just to show him I can. He's an arrogant Texan."

"Oh, my, a Texan. I dated an attorney from Fort Worth once. Emphasis on the word once. By all means, use all my resources to put him in his place."

"Thanks, Amanda. Again, I owe you one."

"Who's countin'?"

I used my cell phone to call Detective Hudson. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes tops."

"It's almost seven o'clock," he said. "Where have you been? Your class was over at four-thirty, and it's only a ten-minute drive."

"I'll explain when I get there," I said, hanging up before he could harangue me. I wasn't going to pay cell phone prices to be nagged at by the likes of a twangy-tongued detective. I called Gabe's office where I got his voice mail so I called my house, hoping to find him there. When our answering machine replied, I left a quick message, trying not to project where or with whom he might be.

I sat for a moment staring at Eva Knoll's address. She was a very old woman. Remembering Rose Brown and the guilt I felt about questioning her, I made a quick decision. What I was about to do would make Detective Hudson spit nails and quite possibly strangle me, but morally and humanely, it seemed my only choice. Before I went to his office, I dropped by the electronics store downtown and bought a small hand-sized tape recorder, the kind Emory used for interviews. I took it out of the box, slipped in one of the tiny tapes, and stuck it in my purse.

At the Sheriff's Department, the front desk clerk, a young woman with a painfully sunburnt nose and dressed in a Hawaiian print dress, was hefting her red patent leather backpack over her shoulder, getting ready to leave. The offices appeared to be empty except for the departing receptionist.

"Benni Harper?" the young woman asked. She picked up a green apple from her desk and took a bite.

"Yes."

"He's really pissed," the young woman said, around chews. "I'm a temp. Thank goodness. I'd never work full-time for these nutcases. And they're supposed to be the good guys? Sheesh Sheesh. Third office to your right. See ya."

"Thanks," I called after her, wondering if I should maybe follow her out and phone my information in.

I knew Detective Hudson was going to be annoyed that I didn't run over to his office the minute my quilt class was over, but I hoped he'd be appeased when he heard I had the name and address, or at least the post office box number, of the nanny who cared for Rose Brown's children. Not to mention the information I'd just gotten from Rose Brown herself. Maybe the killer of the babies had been living in San Celina all along, out in the desolate Carrizo Plains. That still didn't explain why Giles would be killed, but I was confident that talking to this Eva Knoll would bring us one step closer to finding out who killed Giles and why.

When I came within his eyesight he bellowed, with a drill sergeant's snappy bark. "Where have you been? Get in here. Now."

"Unless you can the attitude," I snapped back, "I'm outta here." I added in a lower voice, "Jerk."

He came barreling out of his chair. "What?"

Keeping my voice calm, I said, "Quit acting like a Nazi. I got here as soon as I could. What is your problem?"

Without answering, he inhaled deeply, sharp points of color staining his cheeks. He gestured for me to follow him into his office. He shut the door behind me and nodded at a visitor's chair against the wall. I glanced around the compact office where two black-and-chrome office desks faced each other. One held a scattered group of Little League, ballet recital, and soccer team pictures, used coffee cups, a crumpled McDonald's bag, a Beanie Baby snake, and stacks of files. The desk Detective Hudson sat behind contained only a green desk blotter, a black ceramic pencil cup filled with pens, a phone, and a picture of a redheaded girl about five years old sitting on the hood of his pickup truck. A sticker on his pencil cup showed a red circle with a slash through the word "whining." Between the two desks was a calligraphy sign that mocked the Serenity Prayer-"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the weaponry to make the difference."

"Very inspiring," I said wryly, nodding at the poster.

"What did you find out?" he asked.

"Geeze, let me take a breath. What's the big hurry?"

"The big hurry is I'm getting my butt reamed out by my superiors because the sheriff is getting harassed from two prominent families-the Nortons and the Browns. One wants it solved, one wants us to quit poking around. I'll leave it to you to guess who's who."

"Well, sor-ry," I said, stretching out the word. "But that's still no reason to be such a jerk. In case you forgot, I'm not on the payroll, buddy. This is purely voluntary on my part, so save your nasty remarks and bad attitude for someone collecting a county paycheck."

He settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his hands across his flat stomach. Today he wore a pale yellow Arrow shirt and sedate, tobacco brown bullhide boots that looked like they cost a thousand bucks. "You're absolutely right, Benni, and please accept my sincere and heartfelt apology. I'm just feeling like the rope between the cow and the cowboy. Know what I mean?"

I nodded, suspicious at his suddenly genial mood.

"So, what do you have for me?" he asked, keeping his voice even and pleasant. But I sensed the tension and determination behind his good-ole-boy demeanor. He really, really wasn't going to like what I was going to tell him.

"I have the name and whereabouts of the nanny who worked for Judge and Rose Brown when she had the two sets of twins."

He sat forward in his chair, his face amazed. I have to admit one-upping him, to quote Dove, dearly gladdened my heart. "Shoot, that's great! But wait, that was back in the twenties. She'd have to be-"

"Ninety-seven and, according to my sources, still alive. Or at least someone is signing and cashing her Social Security checks."

He jumped up and grabbed his pale cowboy hat from the credenza behind him. "Let me have her address. I'm going to talk to her right now before she croaks on me."

I stood up and looked him squarely in the eyes. "No."

He stopped dead, his hat still in his hands. Anger flashed like a dust devil across his face, then was gone. He took a couple of slow, controlled breaths then asked, "Why not?"

I already had my answer thought out. "What's the difference between interviewing and interrogating?"

"What?"

"Tell me the textbook definitions."

"What are you talking about?"

"Tell me."

"Look, I'm not a barbarian."

"The definitions, please."

He gave a sharp, irritated sound, then said, "Interviewing is a non-accusatory, fact-finding mission where you let the suspect/witness do the talking. Interrogating is an active, confrontational method of questioning where you give the suspect a psychological reason to confess."

"Now how old did I say Eva Knoll is?"

"Ninety-seven, but what's that-"

"She's an elderly woman, Detective Hudson. And no matter what she's seen or done, I'm not going to let you browbeat her. I'm married to a cop. I've seen the techniques. I've experienced experienced them. I know a so-called interview can turn into an interrogation in two seconds. I'm not going to allow that to happen. We'll go see her tomorrow. It's too late tonight and it's a bit of a drive. Please note the pronoun we. And one other thing. I'm going to do the talking." them. I know a so-called interview can turn into an interrogation in two seconds. I'm not going to allow that to happen. We'll go see her tomorrow. It's too late tonight and it's a bit of a drive. Please note the pronoun we. And one other thing. I'm going to do the talking."

He threw his hat down on the desktop. "There is no way you are interviewing this or any other possible witness. Give me that name and address now."

"No."

"I swear, if you don't, I'll . . . I'll . . ." he sputtered.

"You'll what? Call Gabe and tell on me? Inject me with truth serum? Lock me up for the night?" I held out my wrists. "Go ahead, book me."

He literally growled at me, "Don't think I won't call your husband. I'll tell him you've interfered in this from the very beginning, that I've asked you repeatedly to stay out of it, that you're jeopardizing my investigation, and that I'll have to go to my superiors if he can't control you. I'll embarrass you and him in front of all his colleagues."

I smiled serenely, knowing I had him. "And you know what I'll tell him and your boss? That you cajoled and harassed me into helping you on this case. That you didn't have the resources or feel confident enough to solve it without the help of a lowly civilian. Worse than that, a female female civilian. And then I'll give the story to my cousin, the journalist. He's always looking for amusing things to make fun of in his column. He'll make mincemeat of your burgeoning career here on the Central Coast. You'll be the laughingstock of every police agency in the county. Nope, you got me into this, and now I've got the upper hand. I suggest you deal with it." civilian. And then I'll give the story to my cousin, the journalist. He's always looking for amusing things to make fun of in his column. He'll make mincemeat of your burgeoning career here on the Central Coast. You'll be the laughingstock of every police agency in the county. Nope, you got me into this, and now I've got the upper hand. I suggest you deal with it."

He gave a nasty smile. "With your reputation, who do you think they'll believe? Admit it, I have you there."

That's when I pulled the ace out of my sleeve. Or rather, the tape recorder out of my purse. "They'll believe me, Detective, because I've been recording key conversations with you for days, and the tapes are in my safety deposit box." I wiggled the tiny tape recorder.