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disbelieving reactions before, of course, though most often these came when I’d discovered the death was a suicide. So it sure wasn’t the first time I’d found that people invest a lot in their theories. In a Jack Nicholson moment, I very nearly told Geneva Roller that she couldn’t handle the truth.
    â€œI’ll take my check back. I won’t pay you a dime,” she hissed. I was glad I’d sent Tolliver to the bank.
    Looking over Geneva’s shoulder, I could see our car turning into the cemetery. Relief gave me courage.
    â€œMs. Roller, your cat caused an accident, quite innocently. Your husband wasn’t murdered. There’s no one to blame,” I said.
    She launched herself at me, and the lawyer caught her by the shoulders. “Geneva, recall who you are,” Patsy Bolton said. Her cheeks were red, and her brown-and-gray streaked hair had become a mess in the breeze that had sprung up. “Don’t embarrass yourself like this.”
    With excellent timing, Tolliver pulled up beside me. Trying not to hurry, I climbed into the car while saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Roller.” We sped out of the cemetery while Geneva Roller screamed at us.
    â€œGot the money?” I asked.
    â€œYep. Good thing?”
    â€œYeah, she didn’t want it to be an accident. I guess shewas hoping for an A and E documentary. ‘Murder in Ashdown,’ or something.” I deepened my voice. “ ‘The widow, however, suspected from the beginning that Farley Roller’s death was a ‘not what it appeared to be,’ kind of thing. Instead, all she has to blame is her stupid cat. Kind of a letdown, I guess.”
    â€œIt’s a lot more interesting to be the wife of a murder victim than the owner of a killer cat,” Tolliver said, but I had to wonder about that.

four

    WE’D already checked out of the Ashdown motel, so we drove straight to Sarne. Tolliver went directly to the sheriff’s office, and seconds after we sat down in the chairs in front of his desk, the sheriff came in, yanking his hat off and tossing it on a table behind him.
    â€œI hear you went to visit with Helen Hopkins yesterday,” Harvey Branscom said. He bent over and switched on the intercom. “Reba, send Hollis in,” he said. A squawk came back, and in a minute Hollis Boxleitner came in, carrying a mug of steaming coffee. I could smell it from my chair, but I didn’t ask for any, nor did I look him in the face. Beside me, Tolliver stiffened.
    â€œMr. Lang, I want you to go with Deputy Boxleitner here. I’d like to talk to Miss, Ms. Connelly.”
    I turned to look at Tolliver, trying not to let my anxiety show on my face. He knew I would hate for him to sayanything out loud. I like to keep my fears to myself. He gave me a very steady look, and I relaxed just a little. Without a word, he stood and left the room with Hollis.
    â€œHow’d you make contact with Helen?” the sheriff asked me. His face was set in harsh lines. I could see the shadow of white whiskers on his face, as though his cheeks had been frostbitten. Lack of sleep made the lines across his forehead even deeper.
    â€œShe called us,” I said, biting off any color commentary. Tolliver had always advised me not to answer any extra when I talked to the police.
    â€œWhat did she want?” asked the sheriff, with an air of elaborate patience.
    â€œUs to come visit her.” I read the expression on Branscom’s face correctly. “She wanted to know who’d hired me, and why.”
    â€œSybil hadn’t told her you all were coming?” Branscom himself seemed surprised, and he was Sybil Teague’s brother.
    â€œEvidently not.”
    â€œWas she angry about that?”
    We looked at each other for a long second. “Not that she said,” I answered.
    â€œWhat else did you talk about?”
    I spoke very carefully. “She told us