Cradling the kugelhopf, I crossed the street to Providence Park at the center of the commercial district, waving at Dana and Vera, who were coming toward me from the eastern end of the park. While I melted onto a park bench and waited for them, pondering the clues about Arlen Mather's love of opera, I called Maria Pia. "Did Arlen have a daughter?"

"A-daughter? Where did you hear this?"

"From Mrs. Crawford, our new pianist."

"We have a pianist?"

"Yes. Three nights a week to start."

"Italian?"

"Actually, hard to say." Among other things . . . "But I think you'll like . . . her."

Nonna gave me one of her florid grunts that covers everything from The pope just got rid of another saint to Customers will break their teeth on this ravioli dough. "About this daughter . . . " she said languidly, "I know nothing. Such a person never came up."

She asked where this pianist got the information and I mentioned the fund-raiser for the Opera Company of Philadelphia eight months ago. So-I pointed out-not only did Arlen Mather have a daughter, he may have had some interest in Miracolo's opera memorabilia.

She said that just because he died on the great Caruso, it didn't mean he loved him. As I tried to make sense of her point, she started to rev up with alternatives to the daughter theory-it could have been a stranger, an opera singer, an escort.

Then Dana and Vera were approaching.

"Gotta go, Nonna-"

"You know, come to think of it, my poor Arlen was dating someone when he met me."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Wait, what?"

Maria Pia went all airy on me. "Just someone. Of course," she purred, "he broke it off."

Stranger, opera singer, escort, girlfriend.

Ah, the possibilities. I wondered whether Sally the detective had heard about the female with the pearls and feathered boa.

"Cherie!" Dana kissed me on both cheeks, then chafed my upper arms as if trying to start a fire. She had clearly slipped back into one of her French phases, so we could expect a staggering amount of Edith Piaf during her late-night gig at the restaurant. Her cork platform heels jacked her up about four inches in her beige stretchy leggings, and the bat-wing tunic top sported a stained-gla.s.s design. There was just something irrepressible about her that I liked.

"Hey, Dana. Vera."

Vera was wearing a white hoodie and jeans. No manicure, ever, and no jewelry today, just a tightly rolled orange bandana tied like a headband in her ma.s.s of red hair. When Dana explained that she had met with Vera to give her some guidance about her investigative role, Vera shot me a tolerant look.

I couldn't resist. "So, what's your own part in the operation, Dana?"

"Coordinator," she said serenely, reminding me of Maria Pia whenever she has to explain why she keeps her recipe for os...o...b..cco in a safe deposit box at the local Wells Fargo Bank.

We stood in a tight little group, taking in the Wednesday-morning crowd on Market Square. What had started out as weakly sunny was now clouding over. "Have the cops taken your statements?" I asked them, watching Weird Edgar round the corner in his red Service Department truck mounted with a megaroll of white trash bags.

"Not yet," said Vera. "I'm supposed to stop in sometime today."

"Dana?"

"Oh, yes," she said with a smile, "I went to the station house first thing yesterday."

"So how was it?" I shifted my weight.

She laughed, tucking her chin-length black hair behind her ears. "I've been asked tougher questions when I get my driver's license renewed." The stained-gla.s.s bat wings fluttered. "Name, address, occupation-"

"Alibi," I threw in.

"Of course! I was working at the office that morning. There's always lots to do."

I nodded. Though Dana sings for us four nights a week, mainly she manages her husband's office-Cahill Enterprises-on the second floor of the Ashbridge Building, the redbrick colonial that dominated the eastern end of our Quaker Hills commercial district. Dana Cahill nee Mahoney had hit the husband jackpot ten years ago when local businessman Patrick Cowan Cahill fell for her.

He had great hair, great skills, and great taste in everything except shoes and-excluding Dana-women. We'd dated once, but the ta.s.sel loafers were a deal breaker for me. And my double-pierced right earlobe was a deal breaker for him. We had a good laugh over it. All of Quaker Hills had suffered through his fling with the alcoholic mud wrestler, his affair with the strident tattoo artist, and his engagement to the hysterical single mom with three small boys.

So, when he married Dana Mahoney, word went out around town that she wasn't an embarra.s.sment or a lunatic and that chances were really pretty good that she wouldn't put undue strain on Quaker Hills's mental health resources.

I felt a pang as Dana made off with the agreeable Vera, promising to check in later. Just as I was wondering whether Vera would become Danacized, which would lead to aberrations such as gold lame slides worn with herringbone pants, my phone rang. It was Landon telling me he was just walking into the Quaker Hills Police Department with Nonna, who, apparently, was channeling Anne Boleyn in that final walk across the gra.s.sy yard at the Tower of London toward the guy in the black hood.

Over on Callowhill Street, I made it into Full of Crepe (the place's real name is Le Chien Rouge, but I believe in truth in advertising) before the downpour. About a dozen ladies who brunch were ogling the crepe selections on the daily board over the open kitchen. The choices on Wednesday, May 28, included crepes with raspberry glop, chocolate sludge, or apple pecan gruel. Full of Crepe had opened last October, debuting a pumpkin puree crepe that become strangely popular with the tourists coming out from Philly for the fall colors (since Philly doesn't have trees).

Apparently the entrepreneurial Eloise had emigrated from Wilkes-Barre, where she had managed a Payless shoe store. Before that, she had a.s.sistant-managed a Family Dollar store. And sometime before that came her stint with french fries. This vast experience led to Eloise's wanting to open her own "crepe place"-from Eloise's lips, crepe rhymes with grape-in the tourist-magnet of Quaker Hills. So she opened Le Chien Rouge, moved her personal belongings into the apartment over the shop, and still had a PODS storage unit out front in the driveway.

A waitress with hair like Margaret Thatcher preened around the room dressed in Eloise's version of a French folk costume-starchy white sashes and a "hat" that looked like a colors-of-the-French-flag version of Burger King's large fries container. Eloise was visible in the open kitchen, her sandy-colored hair pulled back in a clip, her challenging orthodontics now down to a single wire across her top teeth.

"Hi, Eve," Eloise called out. I watched her ladle something that looked like cherry-colored tar over a couple of crepes. Amazingly, the music floating through the creperie was a disco version of "La Ma.r.s.eillaise." The whole operation was cheesier than Maria Pia's fonduta.

I think what killed me was how popular the place was. We weren't really compet.i.tors, but what made me so jealous was that she got to have this success without a Maria Pia arguing with her over the daily specials or dissing her wardrobe.

"So, Eloise, tell me," I said, sauntering around the counter. I have to admit, I was just going through the motions. Her joint was a block and a half away from Miracolo; what were the chances she saw anybody skulking into the restaurant behind Arlen Mather? Huh-about as small as Maria Pia giving me the go-ahead to make cannoli at Miracolo. "You heard about the, uh, murder?"

"Yeah," she looked up at me from slathering the cherry-colored topping around the crepes, "and you found the guy, right?"

"That'd be me," I admitted. "One of my luckier breaks."

"Like falling off a stage," she bleated.

There was nothing I could do about my burning cheeks, but I made a mental note of Eloise's health code violations in her kitchen: open garbage can, unrinsed plates in the open dishwasher, fruit sauces in unlabeled mason jars, and an unnecessary person (me) in the food prep area. I smiled. "See anybody suspicious outside my place that morning?"

"You mean, aside from your grandmother?"

Happily, I had the Health Department on my speed dial. I c.o.c.ked my head at this woman who will never know what hit her when they descend. "Yes, aside from my grandmother." I even smiled. And it wasn't fake.

She flung the plate on the counter and hit the bell. "Nope, n.o.body."

"But you were in sight of Miracolo?"

"Yep." She bared her teeth at me in the Eloise version of a smile. "I got a parking spot right on Market Square. How often does that happen, right?"

This from a woman who could park in her own driveway, if she finished moving in and got the PODS unit out of the way. "What time was that, Eloise?"

She thought for a moment. "Must have been nine twentyish." Then she hammered the bell two more times. "Babette!" she hollered at the sole waitress, a woman I knew for a fact was named Dora.

"So you saw Maria Pia drop the man off in front of Miracolo-"

"Well, not exactly."

"So," I said slowly, trying to get the story straight, "you didn't see her drop him off?"

Eloise grabbed a dirty ap.r.o.n from a stool and wiped her hands on it, violation number 5. "She didn't drop him off."

But Maria Pia admitted to dropping him off. Was she covering for somebody? Was that it? "What are you saying? Wasn't she there?" I couldn't make sense of it.

"Oh, yeah, she was there, all right. She pulled up, the old guy got out and let himself into the restaurant, and she parked the car."

"What!"

"He went in, but so did she." She kept wiping her hands, but all I could hear were the sounds of the pouring rain and the chatter of the customers. "Eve, face it, kid, your grandmother followed him inside."

Eloise sent me out into the rain with a complimentary cherry crepe. My brain felt like a snow globe, all water and fake, excitable white stuff. As I automatically headed in the direction of Market Square, I downed Eloise's freebie. Glop never tasted so good. Suddenly I felt strangely attached to Full of Crepe-it was a warm and good place full of attempts at Frenchness and health code violations that really weren't very important, a place where, yes, the floor might be dirty, but people don't end up dead on it. An altogether fine establishment.

I let myself into the Volvo and ratcheted the seat back. A quick call to Directory a.s.sistance gave me the number to Saks. When I got a silky woman's voice, who murmured, "Personal Shopping," I told her who I was, and that I wanted to check on whether my grandmother had picked up her altered dress, so I didn't have to run down there myself.

I waited with my eyes closed while she checked. And it was no real surprise to me when the murmuring Saks lady got back on the line, and told me she was sorry she couldn't save me a trip. Because Maria Pia Angelotta's dress was still there.

It wouldn't be cool to call Landon while he was with Nonna at the Quaker Hills Police Department. Sooner or later Ted and Sally would get around to Eloise Timmler, so all I wanted to do was investigate like I was doing one of the time challenges on Top Chef until that moment came. That was all I knew.

Maria Pia had never appeared as mysterious to me as she did at that moment in my Volvo sanctuary, waiting out the rain. My mind was skittering all over the place. That silly, useless catchphrase, there has to be a reasonable explanation, kept colliding with some cannier, less evolved place in my brain that kept repeating just one primal suggestion: damage control, damage control, damage control.

Whenever the sensible Eve piped up with good questions about why Maria Pia was lying her a.s.s off, the rest of me just wanted another of Eloise's o.r.g.a.s.mic cherry crepes. Finally, I stared long enough through the rain cascading down the windshield that an important piece of information registered: the black-and-yellow Police Line Do Not Cross tape was . . . gone. Gone!

Grabbing my stuff, I flung myself out of the Volvo and darted to the front door. Inside the restaurant, I sank teary-eyed against the closed door.

No traces of anything out of the ordinary. Of cops or killers or Arlen Mather's final steps.

Taking a deep breath, I looked around the dining room. The tables, the piano, the shadow boxes that hadn't come down from the wall, all looked inexpressibly dear to me. I loved the rough brick walls, the black glossy trim on the windows, the sheer curtains as light as a dragonfly's wings.

I needed one simple task. That's all I wanted.

Pay the rent. There you go.

I walked through the kitchen, not looking at the place where Arlen had hit the floor. In the office, where Joe Beck had begun his day feeling up my leather couch and avoiding the CSI team, I sat at the desk, pulled out the checkbook, and made out the June rent check to Mar-Jo Properties. I might not have any answers for my nonna's behavior, but this much I knew: tomorrow, Miracolo reopens.

Before I tackled all the calls I needed to make to get us up and running again, I realized it was now respectable business hours out on the West Coast, so I called Calladine's Cla.s.sics in Vancouver. It went right to voice mail. "Calladine," came a voice that sounded like a reference librarian you've just roused from poring over a bibliography on medieval undergarments. "Leave a message."

Frustrated, I gave him my name, number, and something about an estate collection. I purposely didn't mention Arlen's name since I didn't know where that relationship stood. First, get him on the phone, then feel him out about the murder victim.

I slipped the rent check in my pocket, where I felt something else, and pulled out Weird Edgar's Gross-B-Gone business card. Add him to the call list. I might even have to have him come a couple of times before I'd believe our kitchen floor has no trace of Arlen. Then I ducked out the back door and headed up Market Square to the Ashbridge Building on the east end, where the Mar-Jo offices were located. The rain was letting up, and shoppers were stepping back out into the square.

Absently fingering the two earrings in my right earlobe, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, ducking into the sprawling office s.p.a.ce of Cahill Enterprises. Patrick was just coming through his gla.s.s-enclosed executive office, sleek leather briefcase in hand. "Eve!" He seemed so genuinely happy to see me, I found myself wishing I could offer him a couple of my secret-recipe cannoli.

White shirt, khaki pants, blue-and-gold-striped tie. Very Patrick.

He gave me a quick kiss on only one cheek, apparently unaffected by Dana's return to Frenchness.

I gestured at his shoes: cordovan-colored ta.s.sel loafers.

He laughed, then pointed, with a shudder, to my double-pierced ear.

"Lucky thing," I said, crossing my arms.

"You're telling me," he said with a smile.

"If you wore Timberlines and I wore pearls . . . " I shook my head.

Patrick nodded in agreement. "There's no telling how much trouble we would have gotten into."

"You never would have met Dana," I pointed out to him.

"And you never would have met . . . well-" He seemed stumped.

"-any number of forgettable men," I finished. Did that sound too pathetic? Too much like a flash mob?

Patrick leaned against an empty desk. He was a Type A personality who was either unusually low-key-in order to hear him, you had to lean in pretty close-or headed for a breakdown. I was undecided which. So, because he and I were friends, I checked in with him every so often just to gauge how life was going.

"Aside from the murder, Eve, how are things down the street?"

"The crime scene techs just left," I told him, "so tomorrow we'll open for dinner."

He nodded. "Dana was worried that if the restaurant stayed closed for a long time, she wouldn't be in good voice."

"Oh, no worries there, Patrick," I said ambiguously. Which led very suavely to my next question. "Besides, she's always got Cahill Enterprises. She worked yesterday morning, right?"

"That she did," he confirmed softly. "She rolled in around eleven thirty."

11:30?.

Hardly morning.

He went on, "She said she had some things to take care of before showing up here."

Some things to take care of?