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family and friends saw them in costume. Discovering whether someone had shared the cast list would be a priority. But names were only starting points. Without a motive, there would be no link between being aware of Molly’s location and being her murderer.
    I jotted the word “motive” on the pad. A personal animosity to Molly seemed the most likely candidate, but the context of the ghost tour raised the possibility that someone was taking out their anger on the event’s participants and Molly happened to be the most vulnerable. But why the costume change? Although the ME report probably wouldn’t be ready for a day or two, I felt certain the autopsy would show that Molly was killed elsewhere, maybe even in the early afternoon or morning. Either the killer didn’t have access to Molly’s planned wardrobe or the gown bore some other significance.
    And until it could be determined whether Molly was the specific target or a symbolic target, Newland’s investigation would have to cast an extremely wide net. He needed a breakthrough lead to narrow the focus. I looked at the office phone. A lead like a threatening call. Or a disgruntled boyfriend who in this case happened to be Newland’s partner.
    I stared at the list of names for a few minutes before adding Clyde’s parents, Nelda and Cletus Atwood. As an afterthought, I wrote down Horace Brooks, the preacher quoted in the newspaper. He was the type of person who might still throw around the word harlot, and the voicemail wasn’t so whispery as to thwart identification completely.
    A knock sounded from the outer door. I glanced at my wristwatch and realized at some point my fruitless thoughts had become dreamless sleep. It was eight-fifteen. I swiveled the chair toward the door, expecting to see Nakayla and maybe a bag of warm muffins.
    Homicide Detective Newly Newland entered. He wore the same wrinkled suit from the night before. Gray stubble covered his unshaven face. Bags under his eyes looked like they were packed for a two-week vacation.
    Before I could utter a word, he said, “Yeah, I know. I look like hell. But I take consolation knowing you look bad twenty-four/seven.” He glanced over his shoulder to check Nakayla’s empty office. “Where’s your lovely partner?”
    â€œAsleep, I hope. Someone’s got to keep a clear head.” I stood. “Want a cup of coffee?”
    He waved the offer aside. “If I have any more caffeine, I’ll induce a heart attack.”
    â€œThen have a seat while I get a refill.”
    Newly crossed the room and plopped on the leather sofa. Returning with a fresh mug, I found he’d laid his head back and closed his eyes. I thought he’d fallen asleep.
    â€œThose Japanese sure take a lot of pictures in a short period of time.” He made the pronouncement, too tired to move anything but his lips.
    â€œIs that what you’ve been doing? Reviewing photographs?”
    He leaned forward. “Yes. And then one of our technicians pulled them off and saved them in a computer folder under the person’s name. Tuck’s been taking statements from each of them.”
    â€œAny protest that you’re confiscating their pictures?”
    â€œNot from the Japanese. I explained that they are evidence and I need to keep them in a chain of custody so that they’re not altered or publicized.”
    â€œCollin McPhillips felt differently?”
    â€œOf course, he did. When he learned he wasn’t getting his photos, he started screaming freedom of the press. I told him he could either have his camera back with all the pictures except for Molly’s body, or I’d log everything—camera, lenses, bag—into the evidence room and he’d see them after the trial, if there ever is one.”
    â€œHe caved?”
    Newly nodded. “With the encouragement of his writer friend.”
    â€œAngela Douglas?”
    â€œYes. She told