“Was that something he did often?” Detective O’Brien asked. “Have ‘one too many’ on his way home from work?”

“No,” Jenny said. “But there’s always a first time, isn’t there?”

And a last time, Dave thought. “Had your husband been upset about anything recently?” he asked.

Jenny turned back to Detective O’Brien. “I already went over all this with you. Do I have to repeat it to him?”

“Please answer the question, Mrs. Morrison,” O’Brien said. “Believe me, the more information we all have, the easier it’ll be to get to the bottom of this.”

Jenny Morrison gave an exaggerated sigh. “All right, then,” she said. “In answer to your question, no, Matthew didn’t seem particularly upset. If anything, he seemed pretty cheerful.”

“Not what you’d call depressed,” Detective O’Brien offered.

“No more than usual,” Jenny replied.

“What do you mean?”

“My husband was never what you’d call a wild and carefree guy. He was an auditor. The only thing he would have liked more than working for the state would have been working for the IRS. In other words, he wasn’t ever a bundle of laughs. In fact, he may have known a joke or two, but I never heard him tell one. He was just a regular guy who wore a suit and tie when he went to work every day. After work, he came home, ate dinner, watched TV or messed around on his computer, and then went to bed. Mr. Regular-as-Clockwork.”

“Did he have dealings with anyone in or around Sedona?” Dave asked.

“Probably. Matthew had dealings with people from all over the state,” Jenny said. “Like I said, he worked for the auditor general. I’m sure she can tell you which accounts he was working on.”

“Did he mention anything to you about maybe going to Sedona this past Monday morning?”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken about that,” Jenny said. “He told me he had a Monday-morning meeting in Tucson. He brought home a motor-pool vehicle on Friday so he’d be able to leave for Tucson bright and early on Monday.”

On his way to Scottsdale, Dave had already checked on Matthew Morrison’s supposed Monday-morning appointment in Tucson and had found it totally bogus. No record of any scheduled Tucson appointment existed. Period. The car-rental agreement, however, did exist.

“You’re saying your husband was driving a state-owned vehicle on Monday morning when he left here, and not a Hertz rental?” Dave asked.

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“My understanding is that he used his Hertz gold card to rent a vehicle that was seen near Sedona-”

“You think Matthew rented a car? Never. He didn’t have a Hertz gold card,” Jenny declared flatly. “He never rented a car in his life, not once. For one thing, we never went anywhere. Besides that, he was too cheap.”

“You mentioned your husband’s computer. Was it here at home?”

Jenny nodded.

“And did he use it for work?”

“I don’t know. The last few months he was on it almost every evening. But it doesn’t really matter what he did with it. It’s broken.”

“Broken?” Dave asked.

“Yes. To begin with, I thought the same thing you did-that he had done himself in and he might have left me a note. But when I tried to turn on the computer, it wouldn’t even boot up. It was several years old, though. It probably died a natural death and he didn’t want to tell me about it.”

Dave’s phone vibrated in its holder on his belt, but the news about another broken computer made the call easy to ignore. Both Bryan and Morgan Forester’s computers had been tampered with. He tried to keep any sense of urgency out of his voice when he spoke. “Would you mind if we took a look at it?” he asked. “If someone at the crime lab could reinstate some of the data, it might give us a better idea of what was going on with your husband.”

“By all means,” Jenny Morrison said. “Knock yourselves out. You can take it right now if you want to. The sooner you get to the bottom of all this, the sooner I’ll be able to drive my car.”

“What about a photo?” Dave asked. He caught the raised eyebrow that Detective O’Brien gave him. Dave knew that eventually, they’d be able to retrieve Matthew Morrison’s photo from the DMV, but that would take time and going through channels. Right this minute, Detective Holman was looking for speed.

“That one,” Jenny said. With a careless shrug, she pointed to a gold-framed eight-by-ten photo sitting on an end table next to the couch-a photo of both of them together, Jenny with her hard-edged, fashion-plate good looks and beefy Matthew with a bad comb-over and a bulky sport jacket.

“It’s not brand-new,” Jenny said. “It’s from last year’s church directory.”

“Would it be possible to borrow it?” Dave asked.

“Sure,” Jenny told him. “You can keep it if you like. If I need a copy, I can always order another.”

Somehow, listening to Jenny Morrison talk, Dave doubted she’d be ordering another copy.

Half an hour later, he helped Detective O’Brien load Matthew Morrison’s dead PC and old-fashioned CRT into the back of his sedan.

“I’m not sure why we’re even bothering to drag this old computer out of there,” Sean said as he slammed the car door shut behind it. “Sounds as though it’s as dead as he is, poor guy. Maybe Morrison’s death really will turn out to be an accident, although, if I had to be married to a coldhearted witch like her, I’d have blown my brains out long ago.”

“Yes,” Dave agreed. “Jenny Morrison is definitely bad news, but I don’t think her husband’s death was an accident, and maybe not suicide, either.”

“What makes you say that?” Detective O’Brien asked.

“What if I told you I’ve learned about three dead computers connected to this case so far this morning?”

Once Dave explained, O’Brien nodded. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Sounds like at least two too many. I’ll drag this one back to the crime lab and see if anyone there can extract any data from it. What are you going to do with that photo?”

“Go see Hertz,” Dave said. “Matthew Morrison rented a car there on Monday. I want to see if anyone remembers him.”

Ali arrived back at the Sugarloaf during the late-morning lull. The parking lot was empty, and when she stepped inside, the place was deserted except for Jan Howard, who was grabbing a quick cup of coffee. Edie’s laptop sat open on the counter, but what should have been a pre-lunch quiet was punctuated by the sound of raised voices from the kitchen.

“I don’t care what I said about not minding,” Bob Larson was telling his wife. “The reason I didn’t mind is I never thought you’d do it. I thought you’d have better sense. No matter, you’re not bringing that damn thing into our house. I won’t have it. The last thing this world needs is a bunch of hysterical little old ladies going around zapping everything in sight.”

“I’m not hysterical,” Edie returned. “And I haven’t zapped anyone, not yet. And I certainly haven’t zapped you, now, have I?”

“What’s going on?” Ali asked Jan.

Bob and Edie’s longtime waitress rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You know how your parents are, Ali. They’re always squabbling like cats and dogs about one thing or another.”

That was true. For Bob and Edie, a day without a verbal skirmish was like a day without sun.

“What about this time?” Ali asked.

“Your mother’s Taser,” Jan returned.

Ali was aghast. “My mother’s what?”

“Her Taser,” Jan repeated. “FedEx delivered it a little while ago. She went out into the kitchen to load and authorize it, and your father started pitching a fit. Are you here for lunch?” she added, pulling out her order pad. “It’s early, but what can I get you?”

“You’re telling me my mother has a Taser, like on COPS?”

“Not exactly like on COPS,” Jan said. “Theirs are black. Edie’s is that pretty metallic pink. She got one that matches her cell phone.”

Pink? Ali marveled.