She followed me over to Varena's and took the dress home personally, carrying it from the cottage to the car as though it were the crown and scepter of royalty.

I was left alone in Varena's place, an oddly unsettling feeling. It was like surrept.i.tiously going through her drawers. I shrugged. I was here to do a job. That thought was very normal, very steadying, after all we'd seen lately.

I counted boxes, moved the ones already full out to my car trunk after labeling them with Varena's black marker. "Martha Stewart, that's me," I muttered and folded out the flaps on another box, placing it by the nearest closet. This was a little double closet with sliding doors in Varena's tiny hall. It held only a few linens and towels. I guessed Varena had already moved the others.

Just as I'd picked up the first handful, trying to restrain myself from shaking the sheets out and refolding them, there was a knock on the door. I looked through Varena's peephole. The knocker was a blond man, small, fair, with red-rimmed blue eyes. He looked mild and sad. I was sure I knew who it was.

"Emory Osborn," he said, when I opened the door. I shook his hand. His was that soft boneless handshake some men give a woman, as though they're scared if they squeeze with all their masculine power they'll break her delicate fingers. It felt like shaking hands with the Pillsbury Dough Boy. This was something Jess O'Shea and Emory Osborn had in common.

"Come in," I said. After all, he owned the cottage.

Emory Osborn stepped over the threshold. The widower was maybe 5' 7", not much taller than I. He was very fair and blue-eyed, handsome on a small scale, and he had the most flawless skin I'd ever seen on a man. Right at the moment, it was pink from the cold.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I told him.

He looked directly at me then. "You were here in the cottage last night?"

"Yes, I was."

"You saw her?"

"Yes."

"She was alive."

I shifted uneasily. "Yes," I told him reluctantly.

"Did she speak?"

"She asked after the children."

"The children?"

"That's all."

His eyes closed, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to cry.

"Have a seat," I said abruptly. I startled him into sitting down in the nearest chair, an armchair that must be Varena's favorite from the way she'd positioned it.

"Let me get you some hot chocolate." I went into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. I knew there would be some since Varena'd offered it to me the night before. There it was, on the counter where she'd set it, along with two mugs. Luckily, the microwave was built-in, so I was able to heat the water in it. I stirred in the powder. It wasn't very good, but it was hot and sweet, and he looked in need of both sugar and warmth.

"Where are the children?" I asked as I put his mug on the small oak table by the chair.

" They're with church members," he said. His voice was rich but not big.

"So, what can I do for you?" It didn't seem that he would say anything else unless I prompted him.

"I wanted to see where she died."

This was very nearly intolerable. "There, on the couch," I said brusquely.

He stared. "There aren't any stains," he told me.

"Varena slung a sheet over it." This was beyond strange. The back of my neck began to p.r.i.c.kle. I wasn't going to sit knee to knee with him-I'd been perched on the ottoman that matched the chair-and point out where Meredith's head had been, what spot her feet had touched.

"Before your friend put Meredith down?"

"Yes." I jumped up to pull a fitted sheet from the closet. Giving way to an almost irresistible compulsion, I refolded it, and knew I'd straighten all the rest, too. The h.e.l.l with Varena's finer feelings.

"And he is-?"

"My friend." I could hear my voice get flatter and harder.

"You're angry with me, I'm afraid," he said wearily. And sure enough, he was weeping, tears were running down his cheeks. He blotted them automatically with a well-used handkerchief.

"You shouldn't put yourself through this." My tone was still not the one a nice woman would use to a widower. I meant he shouldn't put me me through it. through it.

"I feel like G.o.d's abandoned me and the kids. I'm heartbroken," and I reflected I'd never actually heard anyone use that word out loud, "and my faith has left me," he finished, without taking a breath. He put his face in his hands.

Oh, man. I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to be here.

Through the uncurtained window, I saw a car pull in behind mine in the cottage's narrow driveway. Jess O'Shea got out and began his way to the door, his head bowed. A minister-just the person to deal with a lapse of faith and recent bereavement. I opened the door before he had a chance to knock.

"Jess," I said. Even I could hear the naked relief in my voice. "Emory Osborn is here, and he is really, really ..." I stood there, nodding significantly, unable to pin down exactly what Emory Osborn was.

Jess O'Shea seemed to be taking in my drift. He stepped around me and over to the smaller man, claiming my former seat on the ottoman. He took Emory's hands in his.

I tried to block out the two men's voices as I continued the job of packing, despite the feeling I should leave while Emory talked with his minister. But Emory had the option of going to his own house if he wanted complete privacy. If I looked at it practically, he'd known I was here and come in the cottage anyway ...

Jess and Emory were praying together now, the fervent expression on Emory's face the only one I could see. Jess's back was bent and his hands clasped in front of his face. The two fair heads were close together.

Then Dill stepped in, looking at the two men praying, at me folding, trying to keep my eyes to myself. He looked startled and not too happy at this tableau.

All three dads in the same room. Except that one of them was probably not really a father at all but a thief who had stolen his fatherhood.

Dill turned to me, his whole face a question. I shrugged.

"Where's Varena?" he whispered.

"At our folks'," I whispered. "You go over there. You two need to talk about what's going to happen. And aren't you supposed to be meeting Jack at your place?" I gave him a little push with my hand, and he took a step back before he recovered his footing. Possibly I'd pushed a little harder than I'd planned.

After Dill obediently got in his car and left, I finished refolding and found I had packed all the remaining items in the linen closet. I checked the bathroom cabinet. It held only a few things, which I also boxed.

When I turned around, Jess O'Shea was right behind me. My arms tensed immediately and my hands fisted.

"Sorry, did I surprise you?" he asked, with apparent innocence. Yes.

"I think Emory is feeling a little better. We're going over to his house. Thanks for comforting him."

I couldn't recall any comforting I'd done; it must have been in the eye of the comfortee. I made a noncommittal sound.

"I'm so glad you've returned to reconcile with your family," Jess said, all in a rush. "I know this has meant so much to them."

This was his business? I raised my eyebrows.

He reddened when I didn't speak. "I guess it's a professional hazard, giving out emotional pats on the back," he said finally. "I apologize."

I nodded. "How is Krista?" I asked.

"She's fine," he said, surprised. "It's a little hard to get her to understand that her friend's mother is gone, she seems not to see it as a reality yet. That can be a blessing, you know. I think we'll be keeping Eve for a while until Emory can cope a little better. Maybe the baby, too, if Lou thinks she can handle it."

"Didn't Lou tell me she'd taken Krista to the doctor last week?" I asked.

If Jess noticed the contrast between my lack of response to his observations about my family and my willingness to chatter about his child, he didn't comment on it. Parents almost always seem willing to believe other people are as fascinated with their children as they are.

"No," he said, obviously searching his memory. "Krista hasn't even had a cold since we started her on her allergy shots last summer." His face lightened. "Before that, we were in to Dr. LeMay's every week, it seemed like! My goodness, this is so much better. Lou gives Krista the shots herself."

I nodded and began opening cabinets in the kitchen. Jess took the hint and left, pulling on his heavy coat as he walked across the yard. Evidently he wasn't going to stay at Emory's long.

After he left I wrote a note on a pad I found under Varena's phone. I hopped in my car and drove to the motel. As I'd expected, Jack's car wasn't there. I pulled up in front of his room. I squatted and slid the note under his door.

It said, "Krista O'Shea didn't go to the doctor recently." I didn't sign it. Who else would be leaving Jack a note?

On my way back to Varena's, I scavenged alleys for more boxes. I was particularly interested in the alley behind the gift store and furniture store.

It was clean, for an alley, and I even scored a couple of very decent boxes before I began my search. There was a Dumpster back there; I was sure the police had been through it, since it was suspiciously empty. The appliance carton Christopher Sims had been using for shelter was gone, too, maybe appropriated by the police.

I looked down the alley in both directions. Main Street was on one end, and anyone driving east would be able to glance down the alley and catch a glimpse of whoever was in it, unless that person was in the niche where Sims's box had been located.

To the south end of the alley was a quiet street with small businesses in older houses and a few remaining homes still occupied by one family apiece. That street, Macon, saw quite a lot of foot traffic; the square's parking s.p.a.ce was severely limited, so downtown shoppers were always looking for a spot within walking distance.

It sure would be easy to catch a glimpse of Christopher Darby Sims while he squatted in this alley. It sure would be tempting to capitalize on the presence of a homeless black in Bartley. It would be no trouble at all to slip through the alley with, say, a length of b.l.o.o.d.y pipe. Deposit it behind a handy box.

The back door of the furniture store opened. A woman about my age came out, looking cautiously at me.

"Hi," she called. She was clearly waiting for me to account for my presence.

"I'm collecting boxes for my sister's move," I told her, gesturing toward my car with its open trunk.

"Oh," she said, relief written on her face in big bold letters. "I hate to seem suspicious, but we had a ... Lily?"

"Maude? Mary Maude?" I was looking at her just as incredulously.

She came down the back steps of the building in a rush and threw her arms around me. I staggered back under her weight. Mary Maude was still pretty and always would be, but she was considerably rounder than she had been in high school. I made myself hug her back. "Mary Maude Plummer," I said tentatively, patting her plump shoulder very gently.

"Well, it was Mary Maude Baumgartner for about five years, and now it's back to Plummer," she told me, sniffing a little. Mary Maude had always been emotional. I had a clenched feeling around my heart. I had a lot of memories of this woman.

"You never called me," she said now, looking up at me. She meant, after the rape. I could never get away from it here.

"I never called anyone," I said. I had to tell Mary Maude the truth. "I couldn't face doing it. I had too hard a time."

Her eyes filled with tears. "But I've always loved you."

Always right to the emotional truth, no matter how uncomfortable. Could this be why I'd never called Mary Maude after my Bad Time? We'd let go of each other, taken a step back.

I remembered another important truth. "I love you too," I said. "But I couldn't stand to be around people who were always thinking about what had happened to me. I couldn't do it."

She nodded. Her red hair, almost to her shoulders, turned under in a neat curve all the way around, and she had heavy gold earrings in her pierced ears. "I think I can understand that. I've been all these years forgiving you for refusing my comfort."

"Are we all right?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling up at me. "We're all right, now."

We both gave a little laugh, half happy, half embarra.s.sed.

"So, you're getting boxes for Varena?"

"Yeah. She's getting her stuff out of the cottage. The wedding's day after tomorrow. And after the murder last night..."

"Oh, right, that's the place Varena rented! You know, the husband, Emory, works right here, with me." And Mary Maude pointed at the door from which she'd issued. "He's the sweetest guy."

He would certainly have been aware of Christopher Sims's presence in the alley in back of the store.

"So, I guess you knew this guy was living back here, the purse s.n.a.t.c.her?"

"Well, we'd caught glimpses. Just in the two days before the police got him. Wait... my G.o.d, Lily, was that you who kicked him?"

I nodded.

"Wow, girl, what have you done with yourself?" She eyed me up and down.

"Taken karate for a few years, worked out some."

"I can tell! You were so brave, too!"

"So you knew Sims was back here?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. But we weren't sure what to do about it. We've never had any problem like that, and we were trying to decide what the safe thing to do was, and what the Christian thing to do was. It's tough when that might not be the same thing! We got Jess O'Shea down here to talk to the man, try to see where he wanted a bus ticket to, you know? Or if he was sick. Or hungry."

So Jess had actually met the man.

"What did Jess say?"

"He said this Sims guy told him he was just fine right where he was, he had been getting handouts from some people in the, you know, black community, and he was just going to stay in the alley until G.o.d guided him somewhere else."

"Somewhere where they had more purses?"

"Could be." Mary Maude laughed. "I hear Diane positively identified him. He told Diane at the police station that he was an angel and was trying to point out to Diane the hazards of possessing too many worldly goods."