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of men, in uniform, stepping on his illegal traps and stomping over his mushroom grounds. We left an unhappy Harry Mockerman behind us.
    Out in the weedy drive, I juggled the jar of stew from hand to hand. Dolly leaned toward me and whispered, “Harry’s lying, you know.”
    â€œAbout knowing Mrs. Poet? Well, of course. Living here all his life, he had to …”
    â€œNo, I mean about not being out to the road.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    She pointed at the jar I was clutching. “Possum,” she said. “There was one beside the road when I got here yesterday. Remember?”
    â€œBut that was yesterday. The crows got it by now.”
    Dolly gave me a look. “You want to bet? I know these old woodsmen. That possum cooking in that pot didn’t walk right up and drop dead at his door.” She shook her head and dodged a huge raspberry bush. “And about the crows. He said ‘lots of crows.’ How’d he know if he wasn’t out to the road some time or other?”
    â€œHe could’ve heard them.”
    â€œWay back there?” she motioned over her shoulder, back toward the house. “Un-uh. I think he saw ’em.”
    â€œShy man. Maybe he just doesn’t want anything to do with the whole business. Lots of people like that up here.” I didn’t like thinking ill of Harry.
    We stepped out from the bushes to the pavement. Dolly gestured toward the empty road. No crows. No head. No garbage can. No possum.
    â€œSee,” she said, giving me a knowing look. “Possum’s gone.”
    â€œCrows got it,” was all I said. I turned to look back toward Harry’s place. There was a shadow down the path again. Not a deer. Not a bird. Something. Definitely something.
    I looked at the jar in my hands and decided I wouldn’t be eating this stew. It had smelled good, cooking back there in Harry’s kitchen, but now I had an idea where it came from, and just the thought—the dead possum on one side of the road, dead Ruby Poet on the other—took my appetite away.

SEVEN
    Our next stop was Joslyn and Ernie Henry’s house. Mother and son. Down the road about a mile, and another half mile in. Close by Ruffle Pond.
    The narrow lane into their house ran through daylight turned golden by tall yellow and red maples swaying like hula dancers in the mild, southern wind. As Dolly drove closer, glints of sunlight sparkled off the pond.
    Dolly negotiated the ruts and mud holes in the curving road with precision. I guessed she didn’t want to damage another police car. All that was left for her to patrol, should she get in trouble again, were the two-track logging roads deep in the woods.
    The pond was wild and shallow, almost circular, with a sandy shore. We passed along the far side, the road circling around toward the Henry’s tall, plain farmhouse.
    We lurched past the south edge of the pond just as a flock of geese lifted off the water, honking their hearts out as they headed up and over the trees. I couldn’t help mumbling something about rats leaving the sinking ship. I loved to see the birds return in spring, but fall was another thing entirely. I saw it as desertion. As the worst kind of cowardice.
    Joslyn Henry’s house was as I remembered it, standing in an open space surrounded by woods. The house itself was as simple as an Amish farmer. Pale green, with a long and wide front porch where three rockers stood in a line, all rocking slightly in a nonexistent breeze. Around the house were gardens: wide beds; some forked over and raked; some filled with bright and dull, yellow and rust, mums; some with purple asters. We parked and walked straight up through the center of the garden, up broad green steps to the porch. Dolly knocked.
    I saw the lace door curtain twitch back, then fall into place. I hadn’t seen a face looking out, but there was definitely someone home.
    Dolly knocked again. This time the