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that we hope he'll turn up. They'll figure the rest out for themselves."
    "They'll figure out that he's dead?" Daly asked.
    "The reputation he's got, they'll know he's not off somewhere with a jug and a whore. They'll know that he would have wired them if he'd been able to."
    "You know," Daly said in the slow, cautious way he had when he questioned a deputy's theory, not wanting to hurt the man's feelings. "Natural causes are always a part of this. He was thrown by a horse and is lying unconscious somewhere. Or he had a heart attack and there isn't much left of him once the coyotes got hold of him. Or he decided to have one last big fling before he got his gold retirement watch and his wife picked out their burial plot."
    "Natural causes, that I could see. A fling? Sheriff, you have to hear people talk about him. The guy's practically a saint—in their eyes, anyway."
    "So will you telegram the insurance company for me?"
    "Sure, Sheriff. I'll go and do it now, before supper."
    All this time he'd been talking, he'd been sitting on the edge of Carlyle's desk. He hadn't made it over to his own desk yet.
    When he got there, the first thing he saw was the letter. A soft blue envelope. His name written on the front in a round feminine style.
    "Lucy left that for you," Carlyle said.
    "I figured," Prine said.
    "She's a fine gal," Daly said.
    Prine scowled at him. "She got to you, too, huh, Sheriff? I knew she had Bob there in her rooting section. But now it's you, too, huh?"
    "It's not a matter of her 'getting to me,' Tom. I just happen to think she's a very pretty, very intelligent gal who'd make you a damned good wife. Sensible and down-to-earth. Worked hard for every pittance she's ever made."
    "As opposed to Cassie Neville and all her evil money and her snotty friends."
    "Cassie's a very nice gal, too. For her own kind."
    "Men who can afford her, in other words," Carlyle said.
    "We're only saying this with your best interests in mind, Tom," Daly said.
    Prine smirked. "What'd she do, promise you each a piece of free pie if you agreed to tree me for her?"
    Carlyle laughed in such a way that Prine knew that's exactly what happened. Lucy's mom made the best pie in the whole state. And Lucy was quite willing to use it as bribery.
    "What kind of pie are you going to get?" he asked Bob Carlyle.
    "Aw, Tom."
    "C'mon, now. You ragged me a little about her. Just the way she bribed you to. So I just want to know what kind of pie you get."
    "Well, I guess it don't make any difference if I tell you. Apple."
    "With ice cream," Daly said. "Two scoops."
    "Same for you, I imagine, Sheriff."
    "Blueberry for me. And I ain't ashamed of bein' bribed, because I believe in what I'm sayin'. She'd make you a damned good wife. A much better one than Cassie Neville ever would. And I'm speakin' for Bob when I say that, right, Bob?"
    "Right, Sheriff. I wouldn't agree to do it if I didn't believe in what I was sayin'."
    "Not even for two pieces of apple pie?"
    "Don't forget the ice cream," Daly said.
    "Not even for two pieces of apple pie with ice cream, Bob?" Prine said.
    "Hell, Tom," Daly said, "if you was nicer to her, you'd get free pie, too."
    Prine couldn't take any more matchmaking. He left.
    Â 
    L ucy Killane was having one of her bad days, days that were even more damaging to body and soul than her monthly visitor.
    She had walked past the sheriff's office five times today, in hopes of glimpsing Tom Prine. Five times. Today the pain was as fresh as if they'd just broken up last night. Panic—fury—self-pity—confusion—panic again. This was the course of her day. She waited on people at the café, she sat out back and ate lunch with three other café workers, she even went to the hospital just now to get her instructions. But it was as if somebody else had done all these things.
    Now she was walking past the sheriff's office for the sixth time and—
    â€”there he was. Coming out of the door. A letter—her letter, she