The first to go were Adam's old skis. He'd bought new ones before his a.s.signment in Alaska. Out also were two pairs of well-worn tennis shoes, a bunch of unmatched socks, my old hair dryer, my portable typewriter, and three World Almanacs dating back to the nineties. Half an hour later I found the pictures in a Nordstrom gift box with some other photos that had been taken during the last decade.

It was painful to sort through the disorganized pictures, and not just because of seeing Tom's smiling face and twinkling blue eyes. There was Adam, a carefree college student, veering from campus to campus and major to major. Ben, ten years younger, a few pounds lighter, back in the days when he was stationed in Tuba City, Arizona. And me, arm in arm with Tom, strolling the streets of Leavenworth with all the ersatz Bavarian shopfronts in the background. I looked so happy. So did he. Oh my G.o.d, I thought, what a blessing that we can't see into the future. Life hadn't treated us kindly. But then it seldom does.

I decided on three shots of Tom, none of them including me. Two were from Leavenworth, and one was from the picnic area by Deception Falls. I had the negatives, so I could make copies for myself.

Suddenly I was overcome with fatigue. I made a slapdash attempt at putting everything back into order. I returned the rest of the photos to the Nordstrom box. As I was shoving it onto a closet shelf, I dislodged a letter-size envelope that fell at my feet. Picking it up, I saw Tom's typed name and the address of the condo he'd bought after Sandra's death.

I remembered that it was a list of all the numbers I might need to know in case of an emergency. Tom had given it to me a year or so before he died. When he'd been killed, I was in such a state of collapse that I didn't remember getting it from him, let alone where I'd stashed it. Leo and Milo had handled the initial calls to the family while I languished in the hospital overnight. I set the envelope aside and hurriedly finished putting things away and hauling the garbage out to the carport.

It was going on eleven when I sat down on the sofa, staring dumbly at the envelope. Reluctantly, I opened it. Except for Tom's note at the top, the rest was typed.

"Emma," he'd scrawled in his large, almost illegible handwriting. "Just in case-this is a copy of the info I've given to Graham and Kelsey. Hope you never need it."

The names and addresses included his family doctor, Charles Burke; the law firm that represented both his personal and business interests, Bowles, Vitani & Mercier; his financial adviser, Kenneth West; his four accounts at the California Avenue branch of Bank of America; his pastor at the Old Cathedral of St. Mary of the Immaculate Conception; and the names, addresses, and phone numbers for all of the newspapers he owned. If I'd ever studied the list, I didn't recall anything about it. I certainly didn't need it now. But just as I was about to put it in the trash, I stopped. It was a link to Tom, and I had d.a.m.ned few of those. I'd keep it, at least for now.

By eleven o'clock, Kelsey hadn't called and neither had Curtis. The younger generation seemed h.e.l.l-bent on trying my patience. A quarter of an hour later I was about to crawl into bed when the phone rang. To my surprise, the caller was Dylan Platte.

"Sorry to bother you so late," he said in his grating voice, "but I understand you wanted to talk to my wife. She's exhausted and has gone to bed."

"Is there any chance she could meet me for breakfast tomorrow around eight at the diner off of Alpine Way?"

"I doubt it," Dylan said. "She's been through a terrible ordeal the past few days, and she needs to regain her strength. I expect her to sleep in. She should after all that's happened."

He had a valid argument. Maybe lunch would work as well. "Could you please have her phone me tomorrow morning at the office? I have some things concerning her father that I think she might want."

"What things?" Dylan demanded sharply.

"The sentimental variety," I said, wondering what he expected. "Thanks for getting back to me. Good night." I disconnected, not wanting to give Dylan an opportunity to probe further.

The phone rang again almost immediately. "I'm home," Vida announced. "You weren't in bed, were you?"

"Not quite," I said. "Anything new?"

"Not anything startling," she replied, sounding testy. "Milo finished up with the Cavanaughs shortly before ten-thirty. They'd insisted on having room service bring them their dinner in the Valhalla Room. Henry Bardeen was much put out but forced to do their bidding. I'm afraid Henry's out of his depth with these people. I'd like to see them try to boss Buck around. That would be a far different kettle of fish."

"Buck's military background would serve him well," I remarked, wondering as I always did who bossed whom in Vida's relationship with the retired air force colonel.

"Having failed to elicit much from Milo, who can be so annoyingly tight-lipped," Vida went on, "I left and stopped by the hospital. Leo is still in ICU, but they said his condition had been upgraded from grim to mediocre."

"I don't believe that's medical terminology," I pointed out.

"Of course not," Vida huffed, "but it's much more understandable. All this *serious,' *unsatisfactory,' *satisfactory,' and *fair,' is gibberish. I also peeked in on Ella. She was awake and watching television. That's the worst thing for her. She should be up and doing, especially since she's probably being discharged tomorrow. Really, people don't use good sense. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't write an advice column, though most readers wouldn't have sense enough to do what I suggest."

"Actually," I said, "that's not a bad idea. Are you serious?"

Vida hesitated. "Well...it has occurred to me now and then. I'll think about it. Now I'm going to bed."

Before she could hang up, I told her about Dylan's call.

"Typical," Vida said. "No s.p.u.n.k, a younger version of Ella. Whoever got the ridiculous idea that human beings were evolving into a better species?"

She hung up before I could deny ever having made such a statement.

I didn't get to sleep right away. I was still worried about Leo and upset over all the memories that had been stirred up during the past week. I finally dozed off around one a.m. and didn't wake up until ten after eight. I'd forgotten to set the alarm. It was a good thing that Kelsey hadn't been able to meet me for breakfast.

I didn't bother to eat or even make coffee but phoned the office while I was getting dressed to tell Ginny I'd be in by eight-thirty.

"Who is this?" she demanded, almost in a whisper.

I was puzzled. "It's me, Emma. What's wrong?"

"Emma who?"

The question exasperated me. "Emma Lord, your boss, the one who signs your paycheck."

"What's the name of your son?"

"Ginny!" I shouted. "It's Adam, of course. Have you lost your mind?"

"No," she replied in a more normal tone. "But you can't be too careful around here after what's happened, especially to Leo. I'm screening all calls until the killer is caught."

"I see. Okay, fine, I'm on my way. Speaking of Leo, is there any news?"

"Vida says he had a decent night," Ginny replied, then added darkly, "one of us could be next."

"Thanks for getting my day off to a happy start," I retorted and hung up. It wasn't until I was pulling out of the driveway that I realized Ginny might have a point. What if Leo had been shot because he had some knowledge that might identify the motel victim's killer? What if the killer was some sort of maniac who thought the only way to get hold of the newspaper was to knock off the staff one by one? It seemed too farfetched, but I could almost understand Ginny's fears.

"Sorry, Ginny," I said upon entering the front door. "No coffee yet. I thought I was still dreaming."

"A bad dream," she said morosely. "Here's a real one. Ed's here."

"What?"

She gestured toward the newsroom. "He got here just a couple of minutes ago. He'd heard about Leo and offered to fill in. We do need the help, of course. It's just weird having him..."

I didn't wait for her to finish the sentence but burst through the door. Sure enough, Ed was at the coffee table, chomping on a cinnamon roll. Vida was glaring at him from behind her desk, and Curtis had his face hidden behind The Seattle Times.

"G'monyema," Ed greeted me with his mouthful. A trickle of b.u.t.ter ran off his chin. Or chins, to be precise.

"Good morning," I responded. "You're here to...work?" I could hardly get the word out.

Ed swallowed. "You bet. Seems like old times, doesn't it?" He popped the last chunk of cinnamon roll in his mouth and chewed l.u.s.tily.

"Yes," I said slowly, "it does." Rational thought began creeping around in my foggy brain. Ed was better than nothing-and nothing was what we had with Leo in the hospital. "Well," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, "you know the drill. Wednesdays are always a good time to think ahead to the next issue and figure out if there are any new revenue sources. KSKY may be upping its power to broadcast as far west as Monroe. You should probably look into that market, since it's fairly new territory and we have an understanding with Fleetwood about co-op ads."

Ed swallowed again and looked surprised. "We do?"

"Yes. The Monroe Monitor comes out on Tuesdays, so we already have the most recent edition. Check with Ginny." I forced a smile as I poured coffee and grabbed a cinnamon roll before Ed devoured all of them. Turning to Curtis, I spoke in a frosty voice. "Could you please come into my office?"

He peeked out from behind the Times's sports section. "Me?"

"Yes. You." I walked briskly to my cubbyhole, managing to splash a few drops of coffee on the floor. If Curtis slipped on it and broke his neck, it'd serve him right. Obviously, my day's bad start was getting worse.

I didn't bother to have him close the door or even sit down. "Why didn't you return my call last night?" I demanded.

Curtis looked blank. "What call?"

"About Leo," I snapped. "About taking a picture up at the ski lodge."

"I knew about Leo," he mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other. "It blew me away. It's way too scary around this town. What's wrong with this crazy place?"

Looking at Curtis's suddenly pale face, I realized he was genuinely shaken. "How did you hear about the shooting?" I asked, softening a bit.

"I..." He looked away, drumming his fingers on the back of one of my visitors' chairs. "I was at the ski lodge."

I was startled by his response. "You were?"

He nodded, glancing anxiously at me before looking away again. "I met a girl who works there." He swallowed hard. "Brenda. She's a waitress in the coffee shop. She gets off at eleven, but she takes a break around eight."

I had a vague idea of who Brenda was-a fairly pretty strawberry blonde with an earsplitting giggle. "When did you hear about Leo?"

Now Curtis's pale face showed some color. "In the break room. The storage room, really, but...sometimes Brenda goes there to...chill. The fry cook came looking for her and told her somebody'd been shot in the parking lot. She left after that, and I waited a couple of minutes and then took off out the back way. I didn't want to go to my car in case the shooter was still there, so I just hung out by the exit for a while. Then I tried to go back in, but the door locks from the inside. I heard the sirens, so I figured the coast was clear, but I had to go around to the front. Somebody-I think it was one of the EMTs-said it was Leo who got shot. I got in my car and peeled out of the lot before anybody could stop me." He hung his head. "I guess I lost my cell phone, maybe in back of the lodge. Or the storage room. Guess I'm not much of a hero, huh?"

"I don't expect you to be a hero," I said quietly, remembering my first bout with professional cowardice, almost thirty years earlier. I'd been driving back to The Oregonian from an interview in the suburbs of Portland when I encountered an accident involving a boy not much older than Adam. The kid had been hit by a car while riding his bicycle and was on the pavement, where the emergency personnel were tending to him. I didn't know if he were dead or alive, and I didn't stop to find out, despite having my camera with me. My crusty old buzzard of a city editor demanded to know why I hadn't done my job. I told him honestly that I was too frightened-all I could think of was my own son in a similar situation. To my surprise, the editor understood, though he warned me to stiffen my backbone the next time. Because, he insisted, there would always be a next time. "I do, however," I emphasized to Curtis, "expect you to act responsibly. You'd better find your cell phone or get a new one."

"I will," Curtis promised, finally looking me in the eye. "If only I'd seen the shooter. That would've saved the day, right?"

I agreed. "But it seems n.o.body else did, either." I smiled slightly. "Now get out there and go to work. And by the way, I'm not overly thrilled about Ed's return to his old job, but as long as he's here, do whatever you can to keep him moving."

Curtis saluted. "Aye, aye, captain."

My phone rang just as he left. It was Father Den, saying that he'd gotten an e-mail from Adam about a special collection. "I guess," my pastor said, "he e-mailed you a reminder last night, but I told him what had happened with Leo and that maybe you hadn't had a chance to check your computer."

"That's right," I said. "I hadn't."

"That's okay," he a.s.sured me in his usual affable voice. "I've got the details. By the way, I went to the hospital last night and gave Leo the Last Rites when he came out of surgery. Of course it's called the *Anointing of the Sick' these days, because that's not so frightening. In fact, I figure someday it'll be known as the *Sacrament of the Not Feeling as Good as I Should.' Anyway, I'll be including Leo in the intercessions for the next few days. I just wish he'd show up for Ma.s.s more often than at Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Sunday. Adam's going to be offering prayers for him, too. Have you contacted Ben?"

"No," I admitted, "but I will. Leo can use the prayers. We all can."

For a Wednesday, the morning seemed busier than usual. I e-mailed both my son and my brother, checked with the hospital to make sure Leo was still making progress, and offered more suggestions to Ed about pursuing ads. Vida was clearly avoiding Ed by being away from the office, so when she returned around eleven, her phone messages had piled up.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" she exclaimed while I was pouring more coffee. "I'm supposed to go to the hospital and help get Ella home! Why me? What's wrong with the rest of the family?"

Fortunately, I didn't have to answer that question because my phone rang. I scurried back into my cubbyhole and grabbed the receiver. Kelsey Platte was on the line.

"Ms. Lord?" Her voice sounded uncertain. "Dylan told me you wanted to meet me for lunch. He said you had some things that belonged to my father. Could you please send them to the lodge? I really don't feel at all well."

"I'd rather not," I said. "How about this? I'll come pick you up around twenty to twelve. That way we can beat the lunch rush at the diner and find a nice quiet booth."

"Oh...I don't know...I really shouldn't..."

"You need a break," I said, trying to sound confidential, warm, fuzzy, and whatever else might motivate the young woman to trust me. "I feel really lax about you and your brother. I should have kept in touch, but I wasn't sure how you'd react. Let me buy you lunch. It can't make amends for not having reached out sooner, but I'm trying to do that now. Please, Kelsey. It's important to me, for the sake of your dad."

"Ah...okay, I guess." She paused. "What are you driving?"

"A green Honda Accord," I said. "Twenty to twelve in front of the lodge. See you." I hung up before she could change her mind.

Not two minutes later the phone rang again. "Emma," Marisa Foxx said. "I thought this might be a good time to call, since it's the day the paper comes out and you're not under pressure. How is Leo?"

"Improving," I said. "Thank G.o.d."

"Amen," Marisa said. "He seems like a very decent man."

"He is," I said. "By the way, your would-be client Ed Bronsky is filling in for Leo."

"Oh." Marisa's laugh was very soft. "Is that good or bad news?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted, lowering my voice. "Ed's one step ahead of being better than nothing. I think."

"I'd prefer not representing him," Marisa said, "so I hope the house sale goes through. Of course, he should have an attorney look at the contract. There are some real horror stories out there these days with the high price of real estate. I just heard one of them last night from an old friend in San Francisco. And by the way, I called her because of our chat about the attorney who was murdered. After we'd talked, my curiosity got the better of me. I thought I'd find out if the case were ever solved and figured she would've heard, being a prosecutor for the city."

"Was it?" I asked.

"No. But that's not the only unsolved homicide in San Francisco-or anywhere, for that matter," Marisa said. "No apparent motive, no witnesses, no weapon found. It was just one of those seemingly random murders. Mr. Vitani's wife had warned him about walking home late at night and taking shortcuts down dark alleys. It was so sad. He left four young children behind. Angela-my friend-heard Mrs. Vitani was getting married again this summer. Maybe she'll have better luck."

"Yes." Something Marisa had said distracted me. "Vitani? That name's familiar. Did you mention it before?"

Marisa paused. "I might have. Why?"

"I don't know."

"It's probably not that uncommon a name," she said, before changing the subject. "Do you play poker?"

"Yes, but I haven't played in years," I said. "I don't know all of the newer games, except for watching the tournaments on TV. Why?"

"I belong to a group-mostly lawyers, but they're a fairly lively bunch-and we get together twice a month," Marisa explained. "It's one of my rare social outings. We usually play in Monroe because it's a central meeting point for our six regulars. Would you be interested in sitting in sometime? We have dinner first."

"I might, if you're all very generous about my ignorance," I said.

"Good. In the summer we often have some open chairs with people going on vacation. I'll call you before the next get-together, the second week of July."

"I'd appreciate that," I said. "Thanks, Marisa. I-" The name Vitani suddenly struck me. "I remember," I blurted. "Was this Vitani in a law firm with somebody else? I can't think of the other names."

"Yes," Marisa replied. "Bowles and Mercier. It's now Bowles, Mercier and Fitzsimmons. How do you know of them?"

I explained about seeing the firm's name among some papers I'd found recently. Marisa and I might be nourishing a budding friendship, but I was reluctant to reveal too much all at once. "When was Mr. Vitani killed?" I asked.

"Four, five years ago?" Marisa responded. "I'm not sure exactly, but it was in the summer. I suppose it was still fairly light out and Mr. Vitani felt safe. Unfortunately, he was wrong." She paused. "Was he someone connected to your newspaper business?"