More light came flooding down the steps from a top-floor window. As he neared the final landing, he could see the attic door standing open to a darkened room. When his eyes had fully adapted to this space he could see that all but one of the dormer windows were obscured by trunks and furniture. A film of dust had been allowed to settle on every surface. He turned around to see that he had left footprints on the dark wood floor. Nothing had been disturbed in a very long time, but someone had taken care that Cass Shelley’s personal papers should be preserved. Clear plastic boxes were stacked up against one wall. Each bore a carefully printed label. At the base of the stack was a doctor’s Gladstone bag.

He wiped the dust from a box marked ‘Business Correspondence,’ and through the plastic he could see a packet of letters with surprisingly little yellowing. He opened the box and held the first letter to the light of the only clear window. It was addressed to Cass Shelley, the town doctor and parish health officer. And now he found the label for her journals on a lower box. Twenty minutes later, he was deep into her personal notes on Ira Wooley, the boy’s progress reports from the age of two years to five. She had also written lengthy impressions of his talents. It was nearly poetry, and in every line there was deep respect for the small child who had been her patient from birth.

Dr. Shelley’s appointment book had not been packed in one of the boxes, but rested in a plastic bag bearing an evidence tag from the sheriff’s office. Inside the cover of the book, he found a faded carbon of the receipt signed by the executrix, Augusta Trebec. He turned to the last entry, seventeen years in the past, and found Ira’s name. But the six-year-old was expected for a piano lesson, and not a medical appointment. So Cass Shelley was the one who had taught him to play. The entry was dated to the last day of her life.

Suppose Ira had witnessed the murder?

That would explain the block in his progress, the withdrawal and lack of articulation. With seventeen years of ongoing therapy his speech skills should have improved, not declined. Even after the traumatic loss of his primary mentor – there should have been improvement. But if he had seen her murdered, what then?

He held the sheriff’s receipt in his hand. The same thought must have occurred to Jessop. Had he interrogated the boy? Depending on how such an interview was carried out, that might have done even more damage.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he never heard a sound until the footsteps were almost on top of him. He was turning to say hello to Henry Roth, but he found himself staring into a barrel of blue-black metal a few inches from his face. He never moved and scarcely breathed for all the time it took the sheriff’s eyes to adjust to the dim light.

The weapon was returned to its holster. “Afternoon, Mr. Butler.”

“I do have a letter of permission from Augusta Trebec.” Charles was reaching to the inside pocket of his suit.

“No need for that. Sorry if I frightened you.”

The sheriff did seem genuinely regretful – and relieved. He was working on a smile when his eye fell on the appointment book in Charles’s hand. Now his lips were set in a tight line, and he stood a little straighter as though he were bracing for a blow.

“I was expecting Henry Roth,” said Charles. “He was supposed to meet me here.”

“Henry’s probably out in the yard feeding the dog. He does that every day.” The sheriff was staring at the stacks of cartons, perhaps looking for other worries in the printed labels.

Charles stood up, dusting off his pants with his free hand. “So you took me for a burglar?”

“Light’s so bad in here. At first, all I saw was a shadow bending over the boxes.” Now the sheriff was pointing at the book in Charles’s hand. “Find anything interesting?”

“I know Ira had an appointment for a piano lesson the day Cass Shelley died. I assume the lessons were part of Ira’s behavior therapy.”

“You don’t need to mention Ira’s appointment to anyone else.”

“Does his mother know?”

“I never ran that past Darlene. Her husband was alive then. I asked him about it. He said he’d canceled the piano lesson. He had a falling-out with Cass. Said he was planning to change doctors.”

“But Cass Shelley didn’t mark it as a cancelation. She’s done that with other entries, but not this one. So you never asked Darlene if – ”

“I don’t think we need to mention this to Darlene,” said the sheriff, as though explaining something to a child for the tenth time and getting damn sick of it.

“Why the secrecy? The mother has a right to know. If the boy was here when – ”

“Well, maybe the boy was here.” The sheriff’s voice was on the rise. “So what?” Jessop pressed his lips together tight, damming up his words for a ten count. His tone was lighter, lower, when he said, “Mr. Butler, you’ve met Darlene. She wouldn’t like it much if she were to find out – at this late date. She’d be back in my office shooting off her mouth, and then everyone would know.”

“If Ira saw his doctor die, that would explain the problems with his – ”

“He’ll have more problems if you tell Darlene. No one in Dayborn would ever hurt Ira. Most of those people have known him since he was a baby. But I got all that trash in Owltown to consider. Ignorant fools might take it into their heads that Ira could be dangerous. You know how Cass died?”

“Yes, but Ira was only a little boy when – ”

“Ira’s a mimic, echoes everything you say. Maybe they’ll see Babe’s murder as another kind of echo because he was done in with a rock – just like Cass.”

Charles thought that was a bit of a stretch.

“All right, you got me.” Obviously, the sheriff was adept at reading incredulity. “Let’s say Ira’s a witness to an unsolved murder. Suppose one of the killers goes after him? Maybe more than one. Remember, it was a mob that stoned Cass to death.”

“I understand.” Charles paled at any possibility, however remote, that Ira might be harmed. “Augusta tells me you never established a motive for the crime.”

“Well, it wasn’t a crime of passion.” The sheriff picked up a box and stared at the label. “It was a quiet kill – more like an execution.”

How was that possible? “A mob killing – with no passion?”

Jessop tilted his head to one side and looked at Charles as though he might be a bit slow. “That’s what I said.” Disinclined to elaborate, he turned his back and perused the rest of the box labels.

Charles thumbed through the previous entries in the appointment book. He found another familiar name. “Babe Laurie was one of her patients?”

The sheriff seemed almost bored now. “Yeah, but Cass had to drag him in off the street to treat him.” Jessop stood beside Charles and glanced down at the page. Then he sat down in an armchair, suddenly appearing very tired. A cloud of dust rose all around him. “That was the day she discovered Babe’s syphilis lesions. I told you about the clap party that went on for three days. Babe was just nineteen, and I swear he had no idea what venereal disease was. He was an ignorant little bastard – never went to school a day in his life. I remember once, when he was maybe fifteen, Cass dragged him in to stitch up a head wound – flap of skin hanging loose from a fight. Nobody in that useless family of his ever thought to get him to a doctor.”

The sheriff’s hand grazed the Gladstone bag, and he smiled at some more pleasant memory. Back in the present and more serious, he said, “There were times when I actually felt sorry for Babe. I suppose Cass did, too. She was the only one ever showed him any kindness and didn’t have some more practical use for him.”

“So he’s not a likely suspect in her murder investigation?”

“I didn’t say that.” He eased himself out of the chair and walked to the stairs. “I don’t know that Babe was all that grateful. She had to chase him down to treat him, and he didn’t appreciate that much. Swore at her, as I recall.”