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than her mother had been alive. She’d met him the previous day. He’d been kind, if a little vague. She knew he didn’t want her here, that she didn’t belong here, but as long as she was with Amabel, he would continue being kind. Come to think of it, all the folk she’d met had been kind, but she still felt they didn’t want her here. It was because she was a murdered man’s daughter—that had to be it. She wondered if they would turn her in now that she and James had found the woman’s body, the woman Sally had heard screaming.
    â€œSomething to calm me,” she repeated slowly, “something to calm me.” She laughed, a low, very ugly laugh that brought Quinlan’s head up.
    â€œI’d better get you something,” Doc Spiver said, turned quickly, and ran into an end table. The beautiful Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. It didn’t break.
    He didn’t see it, James realized. The damned old man is going blind. He said easily, “No, Doc. Sally and I will be on our way now. The detective from the Portland police will tell the sheriff to come here. If you’d let them know we’ll be at Amabel’s house?”
    â€œYes, certainly,” Doc Spiver said, not looking at them. He was on his knees, touching the precious Tiffany lamp, feeling all the lead seams to make certain it wasn’t cracked.
    They left him still on the floor. All the other men were silent as death in the small living room with its rich wine-red Bokhara carpet.
    â€œAmabel told me he was blinder than a bat,” Sally said as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stopped cold.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œI forgot. I can’t have the police knowing I’m here. They’ll call the police in Washington, they’ll send someone to get me, they’ll force me to go back to that place or they’ll kill me or they’ll—”
    â€œNo, they won’t. I already thought of that. Don’t worry. Your name is Susan Brandon. They’ll have no reason to question that. Just tell them your story and they’ll leave you be.”
    â€œI have a black wig I wore here. I’ll put it on.”
    â€œCouldn’t hurt.”
    â€œHow can you know they’ll just want to hear my story? You don’t know what’s going on here any more than I do. Oh, I see. You don’t think they’ll believe I heard a woman screaming those two nights.”
    He said patiently, “Even if they don’t believe you, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that they’d then have a murdered woman on their hands, does it? You heard a woman’s screams. Now she’s dead. I don’t think there’sa whole lot of other possible conclusions. Get a grip, Sally, and don’t fall apart on me now. You’re going to be Susan Brandon. All right?”
    She nodded slowly, but he didn’t think he had ever seen such fear on a face in all his years.
    He was glad she had a wig. No one could forget her face, and the good Lord knew it had been flashed on TV enough times recently.

6
    Â 
    D AVID M OUNTEBANK HAD hated his name ever since he’d looked it up in the dictionary and read it meant boastful and unscrupulous. Whenever he met a big man, a big man who looked smart, and he had to introduce himself, he held himself stiff and wary, waiting to see if the guy would make a crack. He braced himself accordingly as he introduced himself to the man before him now.
    â€œI’m Sheriff David Mountebank.”
    The man stuck out his hand. “I’m James Quinlan, Sheriff Mountebank. This is Susan Brandon. We were together when we found the woman’s body two hours ago.”
    â€œMs. Brandon.”
    â€œWon’t you be seated, Sheriff?”
    He nodded, took his hat off, and relaxed into the soft sofa cushions. “The Cove’s changed,” he said, looking around Amabel’s living room as if