"That Josie told us were full at the time of his death. Let's say she lied about that. Let's say those bottles of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien were actually empty. For all we know, Bryce was still using them on a daily basis. We only have Josie's word for it that he was drug free these past weeks. Besides, we don't know that those are the actual drugs he swallowed this morning."

"Agreed. That's why we need his toxicology results. We also need to take a good, hard look at that suicide Post-it of his."

"What about it?"

"Josie told us that 'Just an awkward stage' was a pet phrase of Bryce's. That he used it a lot."

"So?..."

"So we've been assuming that Bryce wrote it this morning when he was preparing to do himself in. But he could have written it days or even weeks ago. Stuck it on the fridge or the bathroom mirror. Our lab people can determine how long the ink's been drying on the Post-it. If that ink's more than twenty-four hours old, then right away this gets way more interesting."

Mitch looked at her in astonishment. "I didn't know they could do that."

"Maybe Josie doesn't either." Des lay there, her mind working through it. "Let's say you're right. Let's say Josie convinced Hank to supply her with some of his stolen prescription meds. Hell, let's go all the way in and say she's the one who convinced him to steal the damned stuff in the first place. How did she manage that? We talking about role-playing exercises on her office sofa again?"

"She could have offered Hank something a lot more enticing than her body."

"Like what?"

"Like a healthy share of the proceeds once she sold Bryce's house. More than enough money for him to get out of the mess he was in with his ex-wife. He and Josie no doubt talked about his financial problems when she was helping him quit smoking. Mind you, that would mean she knew weeks ago that Bryce intended to leave her his house and that she lied to me about it tonight to cover her tracks. But I have no problem believing that."

"I don't either. I also have no problem believing she was doing Hank just for good measure. It's still the world's best form of persuasion."

"Then she bumped him off tonight because he could implicate her in Bryce's death."

"And because she didn't need him anymore," Des said. "It's nice and neat. Appallingly so."

"Wait, I just thought of something. Josie never left the island tonight. I would have heard her car."

"What if she walked across the causeway and got picked up? Hank's killer had a partner, remember? Someone else was waiting in a getaway car."

He tilted his head at her. "Someone like Casey Zander?"

"He's certainly a likely candidate. I also have my eye on Pat Faulstich. Everywhere I go I keep tripping over him. He was rummaging through the mailboxes when I had Dorset Street staked out this afternoon. And tonight he showed up on Kinney Road-supposedly to plow the neighboring driveways."

"That's interesting. I wonder if he has a connection to Josie."

"So do I."

"Any idea where Casey was tonight?"

"Paulette told me he was at the Rustic, same as every night. I offered to call him for her but she didn't want me to call anyone. The woman went totally Garbo on me."

Mitch beamed at her. "That was totally an old movie reference. I'm rubbing off on you, admit it."

"It's true, you are." She sighed. "Won't be long now before I'm talking for hours on end about the pulsing cinematic muscularity of Mr. Stan Fuller."

"It's Sam Fuller. And just for that I'm going to make you watch The Steel Helmet."

"Yum, can't wait. What was she wearing?"

"Who?"

"Josie. You said she showed up here not long after I left. Just wondered if she was wet or muddy or whatever."

"Her slicker and rain boots were wet. Her hair was dry. So were her jeans and her socks."

"She could have changed clothes before she came over here. She didn't happen to smell of whiskey, did she?"

"No, she didn't. I pumped her a bit about her childhood in Maine."

"And?..."

"She got surprisingly defensive, bordering on hostile."

"Mitch, we have to take a good, hard look at her. Will you be okay with that?"

"Sure I will. Do what you have to do. I just have one small problem."

"What is it?"

"Think about where we're going with this. We're suggesting that Josie Cantro is a cold, calculating predator who's been using her life-coaching practice to troll for juicy prey. That she targeted Bryce, bedded him, killed him and picked him clean. That she's the proverbial black widow-an evil bitch who has no sense of morality and zero conscience. I've spent a decent amount of time around Josie and, well, I'm not there yet. Are you? Do you really think that's who she is?"

"I don't know. But I can guarantee you this-starting first thing tomorrow morning, we sure as hell are going to find out."

CHAPTER 12.

"AWFULLY DARNED NICE OF you to do this, Mitch."

"My pleasure, Rut. Well, not a pleasure. But I'm happy to do it."

The old postmaster was riding next to him in the Studey. Rut had spent another night in his house on Maple Lane, what with the torrents of rain falling on top of all of that snow. Mitch was driving him back to his room at Essex Meadows, with a stopover to pay a call on Paulette, his grieving protege.

"Don't know what to say to her," Rut grumbled. "I never know what to say after somebody's gone."

"You don't have to say a thing. It's enough that you're showing up."

It was a bright, beautiful morning. The air was incredibly fresh. But it was also chilly enough that last night's rain had frozen over in the hours before dawn, leaving a gleaming coat of ice behind. Mitch had to take a scraper to his pickup's windshield and spray its door handles with WD-40 before he could pry the doors open. Frozen puddles remained here and there on the plowed road surfaces, although those would be thawing soon. It was supposed to climb into the toasty upper thirties by the afternoon.

He'd expected to find many cars parked outside of Paulette's raised ranch on Grassy Hill Road. This was Dorset. Friends and neighbors always showed up when you were hurting. Yet only Casey's blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the driveway.

Rut sat in his heavy wool coat staring at the house. "She doesn't have any family to be with her. Her parents are dead. And the folks at the Post Office need to get their work done. They'll stop by later to pay their respects, I imagine. Paulette isn't the sort who makes a lot of friends. But Hank had a million of them." The old man heaved a reluctant sigh. "Guess we'd better go on in. It's not getting any warmer in this here truck. You should have the heater looked at, young fella."

"Rut, there is no heater."

"Well then, that explains it."

Paulette's front walk and steps hadn't been salted or sanded. The brick pavers were perilously slick.

"You'd better hold on to me, Rut. I don't want you to fall."

"I don't want me to fall either," Rut said, grabbing hold of Mitch's arm with a grip of iron.

They made it up the steps to the frozen welcome mat. Mitch rang the bell.

Paulette opened the door, smelling strongly of wine and cigarettes. Her face softened when she saw Rut standing there. "Hello, Rutherford," she murmured, blinking back tears.

"Hey there, young lady," he said gently, stepping inside to give her a hug. "Anybody else here?"

"Not right now. A bunch of neighbors came by with casserole dishes but I sent them packing. Why do people always bring casserole dishes when somebody dies? Hank's dead and so, what, I'm suddenly supposed to be in the mood for ham and scalloped potatoes?"

Mitch stood there salivating. Maybe she wasn't, but he sure was. He had a nice big hunk of Harrington's ham in the fridge, too. Plenty of Yukon Golds. Assorted bits of stinky Cato Corner Farm cheeses. Yummy.

"I didn't feel like talking to anyone," Paulette added, leading them inside past her cluttered living room, which Mitch noticed had a really cool vintage Lionel train set all laid out and ready to go. "Besides, a postal inspector from New York City showed up here at the crack of dawn and grilled me for a solid hour. Get this, will you? They're bringing in a temporary supervisor from Norwich. I have to stay home for a few days."

"That's because you're grieving," Rut said to her. "You should take some time off. And I'm sure he wasn't grilling you. Just following procedure."

"No, he was definitely grilling me. Treated me like I don't know how to do my job. He was a nasty little man. I didn't care for his tone at all."

There were two big recliners in the TV room, which smelled of cigarette smoke and dirty laundry. The television was turned off but Mitch could hear a TV blaring from somewhere else in the house. Paulette sat down in one of the recliners and lit a cigarette. A half-empty gallon jug of cheap Chablis and a wineglass were on the end table next to her.

She poured some wine into the glass. "Care for any?"

Rut said, "Kind of early in the day, isn't it?"

"I'm taking a personal day. That means I can do anything I personally feel like doing, which happens to be getting slightly blitzed." She gazed up at the old man, her eyes crinkling. "Why did he do it, Rutherford?"

"I don't know the answer to that, hon."

"I would have helped him. I would have done anything for him. He didn't have to steal."

"Slow yourself down. You don't know for a fact that Hank was stealing."

"He texted me. He said it was all his fault."

"The man was preparing to take his own life. There's no telling what he meant by that. He could have been referring to how unhappy he was. Trying to let you know that it was his own doing, as opposed to something you might have said or done. That makes sense, doesn't it, Mitch?"

"Yes, it does."

"Sure it does. So don't get out ahead of yourself, okay?"

"I just wish ... If Hank felt cornered and desperate he should have told me."

"You're right, he should have. But fellas aren't made that way. We don't go crying to mommy."

Mitch nodded. "We're taught from a very early age that it's a sign of weakness."

"Is that right?" Paulette shot back. "Tell me, what's weaker than killing yourself?"

Mitch had no answer for that. "Do you mind if I get a glass of water?"

"Go right ahead."

He went into the kitchen, where the counter was crowded with those casserole dishes from Paulette's neighbors. He could hear the TV louder from in here-it was coming from down in the basement. The door to the basement stairs was open. A plastic laundry basket heaped with dirty clothes was parked there, which explained the ripe aroma. Mitch nudged the basket aside with his foot and started down the steep wooden stairs.

A lot of people who owned raised ranches made an effort to convert the basement into an extra room. They installed paneling and flooring. Dropped a ceiling to cover the electrical conduits and copper pipes that ran along the joists overhead. Not Paulette and Hank. Theirs was strictly a bare-bones, cement-floored basement. For decor there was a Kenmore washer-dryer and a clothesline with sheets and towels hanging from it. An electric space heater was doing what it could to fight the chill down there, and a towel had been shoved under the door to the garage to keep the draft out. But it was cold in the basement that Casey Zander called home. Also messy. There was a Ping-Pong table heaped with sports magazines and newspapers. A convertible sofa bed, which was open and unmade. Dirty clothes were heaped everywhere. A sprung easy chair was set before the TV in the corner.

Here Paulette's pale, jiggly son sat in a flannel bathrobe watching last night's NBA highlights on ESPN and eating a bowl of what appeared to be Cocoa Puffs. At least he had good taste in breakfast cereals. What he didn't have was good taste in hair. His henna-tinted mop top made him look like a colorized member of The Three Stooges. He still had a bandage on his forehead from his unfortunate encounter yesterday with Kylie Champlain's Honda Civic. There was a card table next to the TV that had a computer and printer on it. Stacked on the floor next to Casey's chair were computer printouts of NFL game stats. Team stats, individual player stats. Mitch had never seen so many stats in his life. Many of the pages had been circled or flagged with Post-its.

"You sure are into stats," Mitch observed. "Are you in a fantasy football league?"

"Fantasy football leagues are for assholes," Casey replied coldly.

"I'm in a fantasy football league."

"Gee, there's a surprise." He glanced up at Mitch, his surly gaze narrowing. "What do you want?"

"I brought Rut by to visit your mom."

"No, I mean what do you want from me?"

"To tell you that I was sorry about Hank."

"Okay, you told me," he said, turning back to the TV.

"Also sorry about what happened yesterday on the causeway."

Casey didn't respond. Just sat there eating his cereal and watching the succession of slam dunks that passed for highlights.

"This is the part where you say you're sorry, too, and then we shake hands."

Casey heaved a sigh of annoyance. "Why don't you go back upstairs and leave me alone?"

"Your mom's pretty deep into the Chablis this morning. Is she okay?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"You two are tight, aren't you?"

"She's my mom. It's not like we hang together."

"Did you hang with Hank?"