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never figured that out.”
    I cleared my throat. A detective must go where sensible men fear to tread. “And how is Anna Luisa? The last time we saw her was at my retirement party, I believe.”
    Neville’s lip quivered. He bit his lip. He began to cry.
    It was most awkward. Tears rolled down his face into his beard. His nose ran. I got up, prepared to leave the man alone with his sorrow. I do not, as Madeline would have it, panic in the face of emotion. But I admit my attention was on leaving the man to his sorrow with a reasonable grace.
    Had I been paying attention to my dog instead of Brandstetter’s dripping nose, Anna Luisa’s entrance into the house would not have taken me by surprise. Lincoln looked toward the front door. His ears tuliped forward. He rose, wagging his tail. The little beagle jumped to her feet, too, eyes adoringly on Linc’s face. Anna Luisa burst into the room with a rush of air. She carried a suitcase and a tote bag stuffed with clothes.
    The look on Neville’s face when he saw her was very like the beagle’s.
    Doucetta’s daughters are quite good-looking, with black curly hair, eyelashes as long as a Guernsey heifer’s, and curvy figures. Luisa is perhaps the prettier of the two, although at the moment she looked quite upset. Her face was flushed and tears streaked her cheeks. Between Neville’s tears and runny nose, the two of them made a fairly soggy pair. She set the suitcase and the tote bag on the floor, flung herself at Neville’s feet, and cried, “Darling. Forgive me!”
    A detective cannot afford sensitivity. I quelled my impulse to run for it. It is a drawback to the occupation I had not heretofore encountered. If I left this poignant scene, I might never discover the reason why Luisa had left in the first place, much less why she had returned. All facts are fodder in an investigation. I sat back in my chair and prepared to listen.
    Neville pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Forget it.”
    â€œI came back because I love you! Not him!”
    Aha. A lover, then. A sad story, but all too common.
    There was only one fact I needed to know, and then I could leave them to their discussion. I cleared my throat to capture their attention. “And who is the gentleman in the case?”
    Before either Brandstetter could respond, my cell phone rang. It was Deirdre, the barmaid at the Embassy. There was trouble involving my wife, the tax assessor, and the remains of a lemon pie.
    I was out of the house in a flash.
    Â 
    â€œ O H, Lordy,” Madeline said. “You actually asked poor Neville Brandstetter who tried to run off with his wife?”
    I poked at my salad greens with my fork. I had paid Deirdre for the lemon pie and it was time for lunch. By the time Lincoln and I arrived at the Embassy, Brian Folk had stalked off to wash up, and my wife was fomenting revolution among the remaining patrons. She greeted me with pleasure and a tuna salad.
    â€œThere was no need to come and rescue me, darlin’,” she added before I could respond to her question about the Brandstetters’ troubles. “I had everything well in hand.”
    â€œI believe it was the pie in hand that caused the trouble,” I said.
    â€œHa-ha,” Madeline said flatly. “That little skunk.”
    â€œNeville? I believe Neville to be the innocent party in this case.”
    â€œNot Neville. That Brian person. Do you know he went and upped taxes in the trailer park down by Covert?” She nodded toward the bar, where two large, husky fellows in John Deere billed hats were drowning their tax sorrows in Rolling Rock. “Those poor souls barely have two nickels to rub together as it is. And how in holy heck is a flippin’ trailer supposed to appreciate, anyway? Those things lose half their value the minute some poor sucker drives one off the lot.” Indignation made her cheeks pink. It was quite