“If that is Kathy in there, then you know damn well she was a month shy of seven years old when she made that flight.”

“It still fits the criteria. But don’t you worry – I’m keeping an open mind. Haven’t charged anybody yet. So I’ll give some more thought to your alibi, if you like. Hell, I’d be happy to put you in a cell just to pacify you, but who’d look after Ira?”

Darlene smashed her checkbook back into her purse, and turned to her son. “Ira, we’re leaving!”

The young man continued to stare at the ceiling. Darlene moved one hand across Ira’s line of vision, dislodging his gaze from the blades of the fan. She was not touching him, but gesturing with both hands to herd him across the room.

Suddenly, she was caught up short by the sight of Charles filling out the doorway – all six feet, four inches of him. No one could help but notice him. It was like trying to avoid a Kodiak bear in the shower stall.

“Good afternoon. My name is Charles Butler.” He felt almost apologetic for looming over these people of normal size. “I’m here to see a woman called Mallory.”

“I would never have guessed that.”

But, by the sheriff’s tone, Charles gathered the man had grown weary of Mallory’s visitors.

“Now don’t tell me,” said the sheriff, closing the door behind the retreating Darlene and her son. “You’re from New York City, right?”

“Yes,” said Charles, standing before him in a Savile Row suit, handmade Italian shoes, an oxford shirt, and a silk tie from Galeries Lafayette in Paris. “How did you know?”

“Saw the license plate on your car outside of Betty’s. Had to be your car – it goes with that three-piece suit.” Sheriff Jessop sat down and motioned Charles to take a seat in the chair by his desk.

The sheriff picked up a stack of papers to expose an aged manila envelope with writing in faded blue ink. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of yellowed paper. Attached was a photograph which Charles easily recognized as Mallory the child. Her foster father, Louis Markowitz, had carried a similar portrait in his wallet until the day he died.

“When she was a little kid, her name was Kathy Shelley.” The sheriff dipped one hand into his shirt pocket and grasped a gold chain. “The only name we got for her now is Mallory. That’s the name engraved inside this watch, following a slew of Markowitzes.”

He was holding up Louis’s pocket watch – Mallory’s inheritance. It twirled on the chain, precious metal softly gleaming in the morning light. Charles would have known it from a thousand other timepieces. On the cover of its case was the familiar figure of a solitary wanderer crossing open country. Clouds had been wrought on the golden sky; a master engraver had given them motion and direction, and it was possible to see that the wanderer was walking against the wind.

“So, Mr. Butler,” said the sheriff, calling him out of his fugue. “Is she using Mallory for her first name or her last?”

Oh, I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I’m not here at the request of the prisoner.“ That was true enough – too true. ”I represent Augusta Trebec, the executrix of the Shelley estate.“

The sheriff sat well back in his chair, more wary now. “So what are you then – a lawyer or a private investigator?” It was more an accusation than a question.

“Neither one. I’m only doing a favor for Miss Trebec.” Knowing that Mallory, the consummate liar, would have cautioned him to mix in more than equal parts of truth with every lie, he said, “Generally, I work with government agencies and universities. I evaluate people with odd talents, and then I find applications for their gifts.”

“Odd talents? Well, you come to the right place.” The sheriff pointed to the window beside his desk. Charles could see the woman and her son crossing the square and heading for the cafe.

“That boy, Ira Wooley? He’s an idiot savant and a world-class piano player. He can rip off any tune he hears but once. Oh, but you should hear him sing. He has perfect pitch and a voice like a damn angel. Now what do you make of that, Mr. Butler?”

“Well, his mother mentioned a revulsion for physical contact. And then there was his preoccupation with the ceiling fan.” Charles leaned closer to the window to watch the boy’s progress across the square. “Judging by his rather good coordination, and without any evidence of retardation – I would have guessed he was autistic. So the correct term is ‘autistic savant.’”

And now Charles realized he had been telling the sheriff what he already knew. He had also passed a test of sorts and allayed this man’s suspicions.

The sheriff seemed less interested in his visitor as he turned back to the window. Ira and his mother were passing through a doorway under the sign for Jane’s Cafe. “Years ago, a damn schoolteacher pronounced Ira an idiot savant, and the words stuck to him. Most people shortened it to ‘the idiot,’ like they forgot Ira ever had a name. Bastards.”

He turned back to Charles, his mood more affable now. “We did have one other odd talent you might’ve liked even better. The late Babe Laurie was a born orator. He was preaching the gospel at the age of five. I’ll bet you’ve never come across a gift like that.”

Oh, but he had. In the prairie states, it was a talent as common as cornstalks. The rarer, more impressive gift was Ira’s. Charles had always been fascinated with savants. But he was even more intrigued with Ira’s connection to Mallory, his part in the chain of odd events occurring within the hour of Mallory’s homecoming.

Lilith Beaudare entered the room with a handful of faxes. She did not even glance at Charles to let on that they had met before. Now that was another odd thing, and he filed it away in his growing collection.

“The extradition on Mrs. Laurie has gone through,” said Lilith, setting the faxes on the sheriff’s desk. “She caved in and waived rights. The Georgia State Police say we can pick her up at the airport day after tomorrow. If you plan to hold her overnight, I have to call social services to take her son.”

“No need. I don’t plan to spend more than five minutes with Sally Laurie. I just hauled her back because she pissed me off leaving town that way.” The sheriff rustled the faxes and handed them back to her. “File these or burn ‘em.”

She hesitated, looking for something to say, but finding no way to prolong her presence here, she turned and left the room.

“And close that door!” the sheriff hollered after her. He smiled at Charles. “Babe’s widow left town with her kid the day of the murder. I tracked her down inside of a morning. Not bad for a hick sheriff, is it?”

Charles ignored this opportunity to flatter the sheriff with a predictable denial of the man’s hickdom. Mallory would not have approved of that tactic. ‘Never suck up’ was a Mallory constant. “So the dead man had a wife and child.”

“Well, the dead man’s widow has a son – that part’s a fact.”

“Not Babe Laurie’s son?”

“That’s the rumor. Babe and his wife have big blue eyes, and the boy’s got little slitty brown ones. Just by coincidence, Babe’s brother Fred has those same slitty brown eyes.”

“Well, you know, genetically it’s possible if there’s a factor of – ”

“No, it isn’t possible, Mr. Butler. This is too small a town to make room for hard science. The sign at the highway says population eleven hundred, but that’s pure bragging – more like nine hundred.”

And the stranger in a small town was always first to be suspected of a crime. Charles refrained from jumping to Mallory’s defense, though he did long to point out that, for many reasons, she was the least likely suspect.

“You must be under a lot of pressure, Sheriff.”

“Pressure?”

“The news media?”

The sheriff seemed to find that funny. “A man’s head connected with a rock. You can’t make the evening news with a murder like that. Those reporters are looking for inspired killing, real talent.”