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around in silent rooms, waiting for the dead to speak and all that. At least this will add a little spice to my pathetic, barren life.”
    Thinking about Los Angeles, Sally decided, put the whole thing in perspective. “I guess you have to expect that people are going to try to get into a vacant house—especially one that was owned by a person who died rich. I mean, in LA, if I went away for the weekend, I’d always end up having to pay some student a hundred bucks to sit around watching my TV, just so nobody would steal it. I seriously doubt anybody in this town would actually bust in when I’m there, and Maude will be around and she’s terrifying enough, God knows.”
    Edna laughed and polished off the last morsel of her flautas. “The important thing is to fulfill the terms of the bequest, get the book out, use the money, and defeat the cretins. And most of all, to have fun. I’ve got to go to a meeting with the Cretin King,” she said, rising gracefully, shedding not a single crumb. They hugged again. “Thanks for the squash. We’ll see you Saturday night at seven. Bring wine—whatever you can find around here.”
    Sally thought that was pretty funny.
    Edna spoke once more, softly. “Lock your doors, Sal,” she said, “and watch your back.”

Chapter 7
The Multiple Listing Service
    At forty-five, Josiah Hawkins Green had never owned a house. He owned a number of mining claims, controlling interest in a working mine, and had even invested, unwisely, in several unproductive oil wells. But never a house. He’d always picked his dwellings based on convenience and cost. He had never wanted to get tied down. He’d lived a lot in trailers and motels with kitchenettes, in damp rented basements and leaky cabins. He’d lived out of a frame pack and spent months in a tent, slept in his truck for weeks at a time, eating at Denny’s. It could get fairly disgusting, but it hadn’t much mattered to him.
    Now here he was on a fine August morning, waiting to be picked up by a Realtor named Sheila Czerny. She was the cousin of the geology department chairman’s wife, and they’d asked him if he wanted to talk to someone who could help him find a house. He hadn’t said no; he hadn’t said anything; he’d just let them do what they wanted. So Sheila Czerny, his chairman’s cousin-in-law, had called him at the Holiday Inn, made an appointment to show him some houses, had told him on the phone to look for a red Jeep Cherokee. In any town bigger than Laramie, that woman would have been cruising for a carjacking. Hawk had read in the Arizona Daily Star not three weeks ago that red Cherokees were the most popular vehicle among the nation’s car thieves.
    Sheila Czerny pulled her Cherokee up in front of the Holiday Inn office. Hawk was standing there, a tall, bony man with big shoulders, a ponytail, and round, wirerimmed glasses, wearing jeans, a faded black twill shirt, and scuffed cowboy boots, carrying a clipboard.
    â€œOh, Dr. Green, Dr. Green!” Sheila hollered, waving gaily.
    Hawk sized her up as a typically calculating Realtor. He noted a quick look of surprise on her face: No one had told her about the ponytail. But then, Hawk had influential friends in Laramie. Dwayne Langham down at the Centennial Bank had prequalified him for the loan. If the check for her commission didn’t bounce, Hawk knew that Sheila Czerny wouldn’t care if he had a mohawk. He folded himself into the front passenger seat, gave her a small smile, and told her he hoped to find a house by noon, and to close the deal as soon as possible. The Realtor wouldn’t mind. The less time she wasted on each client, the more she made for every hour of work. He knew he looked impatient to the point of desperation. Yahoo for her.
    â€œHave you owned a home before, Dr. Green?” she chirped, patting his hand with her own plump fingers.
    Hawk