"I'm sure the chief is up to it," I said.

"And poor Horace." Dad shook his head. "He had to go all over that grisly crime scene, and he hardly found any usable evidence."

Dad sounded remarkable cheerful about Horace's ordeal.

"I thought Parker was shot at close range in the cab of his truck," I said. "You're not saying it left no traces?"

"More than traces," Dad said. "The cab was horrible. But the range wasn't quite that close. Not close enough to guarantee blood spatter on the suspect's clothing. Not that we've got enough evidence against anyone to make it worth testing their clothing."

I winced at the "we" and hoped he wasn't annoying the chief too badly.

"How do you know?" I said. "About the range?"

"Well, Smoot is out of town, you know," Dad said.

I shook my head. Dr. Smoot, the acting medical examiner, was already on thin ice with the chief. And this wasn't the first time he'd been out of town when needed.

"No, I didn't know. Was the chief irritated or relieved?"

"A little of both, I think," he said. "So the chief had me do a preliminary examination of the body. And a good thing, too, since I discovered something important."

Apparently he and Horace were feeling competitive today, which at least partially explained his glee over Horace's supposed failure to uncover any evidence.

"Congratulations," I said.

Dad frowned, and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. The yard was peaceful and empty, except for a border collie chivvying three sheep around the corner of the house.

"Of course I shouldn't be telling you this," he began.

And, of course, he would, if I just waited.

"The shot may have been fired from a slight distance," he said finally. "Making Horace's life difficult. But before his death, Parker appears to have struggled with his killer in some fashion. Or possibly quarreled. Because- Remember, you have to keep this to yourself."

I nodded. I was watching the border collie, which appeared to be herding the sheep toward our barn. He didn't seem to be accompanied by a human shepherd.

"The killer appears to have taken a trophy!" Dad announced.

He seemed to find this fascinating. I didn't.

"Yuck," I said. "I do not want to know about missing body parts, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, no!" he said. "Nothing like that. You know how Parker always wore an earring in one ear?"

"I hardly knew the man." I mentally applauded as the border collie deftly steered the sheep away from our rosebushes. "So I'll have to take your word for it."

"Well, he did. It was a ruby. Or maybe just a sparkly red stone that looked like a ruby. I suppose that's trendy, earrings on men?"

"It was at one time." I shifted position so I could continue watching the border collie, which had succeeded in driving the sheep through the barn door. "It still could be. I'm not exactly up on trendy. Dad, were there sheep at the animal shelter?"

"No, only domestic animals. Why?"

"Then what's he doing?" I pointed to the border collie, which had popped out of the barn door, minus his flock. "He just herded three sheep into our barn."

"Yes, I saw that," Dad said. "Good technique. They look like Seth's sheep. Maybe the Corsicans borrowed some to keep the border collie happy."

"Maybe," I said. He was probably right that the sheep belonged to Seth Early, our across-the-street neighbor. But I wasn't sure I believed that Seth would willingly lend a trio of his prized Lincoln sheep just to keep a rescue dog happy. I suspected the border collie was doing a little unauthorized herding.

But that was the Corsicans' problem, not mine.

"Getting back to Parker," I said. "So he normally wore an earring. Is this important?"

"I suppose he thought the earring made him look rather piratical," Dad said. "And of course he could never have foreseen that it would be a clue in his murder!"

"No," I agreed. "I don't suppose he was expecting to be murdered. Most people aren't. But even if the earring's missing, it isn't necessarily a clue. They fall off, you know, and sometimes people forget to put them on."

"It's not just missing-it was ripped out with enough force to tear the earlobe!"

I winced and had to consciously stop myself from touching my own earlobes. In the last several months I'd given up wearing earrings except on special occasions, to avoid the very real danger that the boys would innocently do the same thing to me.

"Poor guy," I said.

"Of course, word will get out once we have the funeral," Dad said. "Maudie Morton can make the ear look fine, of course, but people will notice that his earring's missing."

"The chief probably won't release the body for a few days," I said. "Maybe they'll find the earring by then."

"If they do, it'll be evidence," Dad said.

"Buy another one," I said. "Or tell people he couldn't be buried with it because he was leaving it to someone in his will."

"He was only in his late thirties," Dad said. "With no dependents. I'd be surprised if he had a will."

"Then get Clarence to say Parker told him he wanted his earring sent to his elderly mother in Dubuque, or wherever he's from."

Was he trying to make this difficult?

"He grew up here, and his mother died years ago."

"Or that he wanted it sold so the proceeds could be donated to some animal welfare organization," I went on.

"That might work," Dad said.

"Of course, there's always the option of having a closed casket," I suggested. "If he was shot in the head-"

"The neck, actually."

"If he was shot anywhere that Maudie would have to cover up a bullet hole for the viewing, maybe you should go for the closed casket."

"You don't think people will be disappointed, not being able to say good-bye?" Dad asked.

"I think they'll manage to say good-bye without a viewing," I said. "And think of the enjoyment everyone will have, looking solemn and intoning 'Of course, it had to be a closed casket.'"

"Good point," he said. "And it really would be easier."

I turned toward my car again.

"Of course," he added, to my back, "it would be even better if the earring were found."

And clearly he thought I was the one to do it.

"I'll keep my eyes open," I said. "Speaking of keeping eyes open-here comes the border collie with four more sheep. He's got to be getting them from Seth Early's pasture. Could you check it out? See if anyone knows he's doing it?"

"Can do!" Dad said. "Happy hunting!" He sounded cheerful again.

As he bustled off toward the barn, I found myself thinking that people were taking Parker's death quite philosophically. With the exception of the two ex-girlfriends, I hadn't seen anyone genuinely overcome with grief-and who knew how well the ex-girlfriends' grief would survive the discovery of each other's existence? Everyone said what a shame about poor Parker and how much he'd done for animals. A few people were honest enough to call him a letch. I hadn't yet met anyone whose reaction was anything like "You know, some people didn't approve of him, but damn! I'm going to miss him!"

"Poor guy," I said aloud.

And then I, too, forgot about him for the next several hours. By the time I reached the grocery store it was jammed with shoppers. When I finally got home, I grabbed provisions from Rose Noire's sandwich mountain and retreated to the nursery to spend some time with the twins. Downstairs, I could hear people coming and going, calling for Dad, Clarence, Grandfather, Rose Noire. Calling for me, occasionally, and I hope being told that I had a few other things on my plate.

I kept track of what was going on out in the barn through the nursery windows. I'm not really good at staying uninvolved, but I was trying.

Over the course of the afternoon, the border collie escorted ninety-seven sheep from Seth Early's pasture into our barn before they figured out how to secure the barn door and the pasture gate so he couldn't open them. Probably not ninety-seven unique sheep. The Corsicans took them back in batches when they had a chance, and as the day wore on the newly arriving sheep began looking distinctly cross and footsore. On the positive side, Seth was so impressed with the dog's skill and initiative that he put in a bid to adopt him when the chief's embargo was lifted. I made use of the chief's permission to deputize, and sent a very tired but happy border collie across the road to his new permanent home.

By bedtime things were remarkably quiet.

"In fact, it's too quiet," I told Michael as we were feeding the twins at about 8:00 P.M. In what had become a regular Friday night ritual, we had brought the boys to our room and were playing Mozart as we fed them. Rose Noire assured us that this would stimulate their intelligence and creativity. If it did that, fine; for now all I cared about was that it seemed to make them calmer and happier, though I was more than half convinced that their good humor during the weekly concert was a direct result of our more relaxed mood.

"Too quiet-you mean the Mozart? I can turn the volume up a bit if you like. Or are you suggesting we shouldn't have sent Spike off to your parents' house while the animals are here?"

"I think giving Spike a break from the animals was a brilliant idea, and talking Mother and Father into taking him in was a masterful stroke of diplomacy," I said. "I meant everything's too quiet. The animals. The Corsicans. Dad hasn't dropped by for hours to share his latest theory of the crime and nag me into helping him solve it."

"Maybe the chief has solved it."

"We'd have heard."

"Well, then it looks as if Mommy's going to have to help the chief crack the case," Michael said to Jamie. He followed this up by blowing a gentle raspberry on Jamie's stomach, a trick both boys adored. Jamie crowed, and waved his hands and legs furiously.

"See?" Michael said. "Jamie approves."

"He probably doesn't realize that by trying to solve the murder, Mommy would be making herself a target for a killer who might still have possession of the murder weapon," I said.

Michael's face fell.

"You're right, of course," he said. "You shouldn't do anything that might put you in harm's way."

Now if I could just get Dad to see it that way.

Around midnight, when I was up feeding Josh, I heard a noise from the backyard. Or maybe from the barn. I couldn't see anything from the side windows, so I hefted Josh to one shoulder and ventured downstairs.

My first thought was to go out and check on the barn myself. But by the time I got downstairs, I'd remembered what I'd said to Michael a few hours before. Someone had shot Parker, with a gun that had yet to be recovered. I hadn't known Parker well and hadn't seen the crime scene, but my imagination was perfectly able to invent a gruesome image of the blood-spattered windshield Dad had mentioned. As I stood there in the kitchen, with the sleeping baby on my shoulder, that image kept flashing into my mind and made me draw my hand back from the doorknob.

So I flipped on all the outdoor lights instead. We'd had them installed as a security measure, a series of floodlights mounted all around the house and the barn. With them on, the yard might be brighter at high noon, but only a little. I stood in the darkened kitchen, peering out at the barn, trying to catch a glimpse of a prowler, two- or four-legged.

After about five minutes, the barn door opened and Clarence peered out, shading his eyes against the glare from the spotlights.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone there?"

I moved to the back door and opened it, still staying in the shadows.

"It's me," I called, as softly as I could and still be heard across the barnyard.

Clarence opened the door a little more and trudged across the yard, fighting yawns.

"What's up?" he asked, when he reached the back steps.

"I heard some noise," I said. "Was that what woke you?"

"No," he said. "I can sleep through the animal noise pretty easily. It was that spotlight shining through the window that woke me."

"Sorry," I said. "I thought there might be something wrong. A prowler, maybe."

"I'll check the perimeter," he said, suddenly sounding a lot less sleepy.

I pulled up a chair and sat just inside the doorway, keeping an eye on the barn door as Clarence disappeared around one corner of the barn. It seemed to take forever, but by the clock it was only ten minutes before he reappeared around the other side. He marched back in front of the barn door and lifted his arms and shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, as if to ask, "What next?"

I opened the back door.

"Thanks for checking," I called. "Probably nothing. Good night. And lock the barn door."

Clarence trudged back to the kitchen door. Now that the danger of a prowler seemed past, he was yawning again.

"I can't," he said. "Some of the Corsicans are coming early tomorrow morning to help with the animals."

"More like later this morning," I said. "Can't they just knock?"

"I'm a heavy sleeper," he said. "But I'll put my sleeping bag right in front of the door, where a prowler can't help but wake me."

As dragged out as he looked, I wasn't sure a herd of elephants would wake him. But at least I could make sure all the house doors were locked. Just because Clarence didn't find anything didn't mean there hadn't been someone or something prowling around the barn. Or even in the barn, if Clarence truly was a heavy sleeper.

I made my rounds, checking all the doors and windows. Then I carried Josh upstairs. I peeked in on Timmy, who appeared to have more stuffed animals than he'd had the night before. Closer inspection showed that the new additions were real, not stuffed. And what looked like a fur rug beside his bed would probably turn out to be Tinkerbell, the Irish wolfhound.

I would worry about that in the morning. I made my way quietly to the nursery and carefully settled Josh in his crib-although I figured my care was overkill, since he'd slept through his entire trip downstairs, my conversation with Clarence, my examination of all the ground floor doors and windows, the return trip upstairs, and my stop in Timmy's room.

The second his body touched the crib sheet, he woke up and began screaming bloody murder, awakening Michael and Jamie, who had been fast asleep in the recliner. It was a while before any of us got back to sleep.