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last-resort Visa from my wallet and handed it to the receptionist. There was only one solution to thismoney dilemma: I was going to have to cobble together an assortment of stained glass pieces for Carrie to sell . . . and cross my fingers that they did.
    *   *   *
    B ack in the car, I switched the radio station from Grandy’s customary all-news programming to what passed for the region’s version of a rock station. I was rewarded with the soul-soothing sound of Freddy Mercury’s voice singing “Under Pressure.” David Bowie didn’t hurt the tune any, but it was Freddy’s voice that managed to ease both my worry for Friday and my sorrow.
    I reassured myself it was only one night that I would be without my fluffy buddy. One night this week, one night next. And as I navigated back roads and side streets on my way to Grand, I marveled at myself, at how quickly and completely I had grown attached to her, how upsetting the thought of being without her. That wicked little voice in the back of my head insinuated my attachment to the cat was the result of my childhood with my mother, the frequent moves and the less frequent stepfathers. I turned the radio volume loud enough to drown out both my thoughts and the sound of my voice. I sang along with Freddy and David, then Steven, then Axl. Song by song, focusing on the lyrics, on what came next in the music and not what came next in my life—or came before, for that matter—I made my way into the village of Wenwood.
    The summer was long gone and the seasonal traffic with it. Trees had begun to dress themselves in autumn colors and dropped a few leaves on the brick and cementsidewalks, a preview of the leaf-strewn weeks to come. I slipped the Jeep into an open space right on Grand, a space that never would have remained vacant had August gone on forever.
    I held my coat closed rather than spend time on the zipper. A few brisk paces ahead and I ducked through the door of Grace’s luncheonette. The welcoming bell jingled overhead, signaling my arrival to those gathered within.
    From the entry the lunch counter was ahead and to the left, allowing me to see the faces of those seated there and they could see me—which made things doubly odd that no one so much as looked in my direction. Stunned motionless, I stood at the end of the counter and gaped. There was Tom on his usual stool, his friend Terry beside him. Grace’s feet were on the service side of the counter, but her elbows rested on the countertop as she leaned close to Tom and Terry. And there, squeezed between Tom and the wall that divided the luncheonette from its kitchen, was my good friend Diana Davis. Better known as Aspiring Detective Davis.
    Diana, at last, glanced my way and nodded briskly, businesslike. Her lips were set in a tight, almost somber line and a quick check of the rest of the group showed her expression mirrored on each of their faces.
    The improved mood Freddy Mercury had set in motion faded faster than a cheap dye job doused in salt water. “What’s going on?” I asked, moving farther into the luncheonette. “What happened?”
    Grace straightened, swiped an imaginary crumb off the counter. “Georgia, honey. Cup of coffee?”
    â€œSure, thanks.” I tugged off my coat and dumped it across the back of the empty booth to my right. “Is everything okay? You all look . . .”
    Tom pointed an arthritic finger at me. “You were there. You saw.”
    â€œI saw?” I perched on the only vacant stool and leaned forward a tad so I could see the men’s faces.
    â€œYou saw that man that . . . that . . .”
    â€œDavid Rayburn,” Terry said. He folded his arms across his broad chest, cleared his throat.
    I caught Diana’s eye. “The guy with the heart attack?”
    â€œOh, ho ho.” Tom smacked the counter with the flat of his palm. “That was no