Now it was late afternoon, and I sat at the retail counter at CRAG gazing out the open door to where Meghan's Volvo sat in the parking lot. She'd been booked with massages all afternoon, so I'd borrowed it. Ariel's painting leaned against the wall by the door where Zak had left it. It was so big it hid half of a tropical-themed batik wall hanging.

Why hadn't Zak picked it up, after going to all the trouble of buying that egregious piece from Gabi in the first place? And it hadn't been cheap. Given his determination to have Ariel's creation and the state of Gabi's pocketbook, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd paid even more than the exorbitant price her sister-in-law had originally asked.

Had he really killed Scott out of jealousy, and then Ariel when she tried to break up with him?

I thought about the look on Zak's face when he'd told me he'd attached a note to a painting, hoping he'd be allowed to buy it. Then later, what I'd seen as his straightforward honesty about his breakup with Ariel and affection for Daphne Sparks.

Maybe Robin and Barr were right. Maybe he did have both motive and opportunity for not only one, but two murders. But, like Meghan, I liked the kid. When he'd spoken of Ariel, there had been emotion on his face, certainly, but it hadn't struck me as either love or hate. Nothing even approaching such passion, good or bad.

I still thought Gabi had motive and opportunity. Did I want her to be guilty, just to prove myself right? Or was I gun shy about believing Zak was the murderer, after my failure to prove anything against Gabi?

But something was off.

I just knew it.

My, that painting was ugly, wasn't it? I glanced up at the clock. Jake would be here any moment to relieve me. I began to gather my things in anticipation.

Right on time, he walked through the door. His wife followed.

"Hi," I said, not sure how she'd react, since Felicia and I hadn't parted the best of friends the last time I'd talked to her.

"Hello, Sophie Mae. It's nice to see you"A warmer greeting than I anticipated, and I welcomed it. I was growing tired of making enemies of everyone I talked to. Then again, she was an actress, so for all I knew she hated my guts for asking her about Jake and Ariel. It was a sour thought, and reminded me how much my cynicism had increased since I'd become involved in murder investigations.

Jake and I exchanged greetings as well, and I grabbed my bag. "Okay, I'm going to take off now. And as long as I have the Volvo, I'm going to drop this by Zak's house on the way home."

Awkwardly, I lifted Ariel's painting. It would barely fit in the car if I put the back seat down.

"I wonder which end goes up?" I smiled. "Or if it even matters."

Felicia looked away, but not before I caught the look of amusement that flashed across her face.

Jake raised his eyebrows. "You're taking that to Irene's?"

"Don't worry. I won't say anything to set her off."

"I think the painting itself might set her off."

"I'm afraid that's Zak's problem. We can't leave this laying around, blocking items that are actually for sale." I maneuvered the canvas out the door.

"Maybe the back room…" Jake's voice followed me out to the parking lot.

"It'll be fine," I called over my shoulder.

I'd never been to the Nelson home before. I wasn't surprised to find Irene's house was painted beige, with lighter beige trim. The front door, on the other hand, was taupe. Even the flower beds were brown, containing only bark and a few small azaleas. She hadn't planted any other flowers.

As I wrestled the splotches of black and white and red out of the car and up the steps, it occurred to me that the addition of all that stark color might actually be an improvement if the interior decoration reflected the exterior.

Zak answered the door. His eyes grew round when he saw what I'd brought. "Hi, Sophie Mae," he stammered out.

"Hi. I brought your painting over."

"Uh, thanks." He peered furtively over his shoulder. "Let's put it in the garage."

"Really?" Maybe he was having second thoughts about gracing his wall with his ex-girlfriend's creative efforts.

Irene came around the corner of the house and stopped cold. "What's that doing here?"

"Um," Zak said.

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

"Well?" Irene demanded. She was looking at me, not at her son.

"Oh. Well, I brought this by for Zak…" My voice trailed off as anger blazed in her eyes. Anger, and something else.

I'd seen that look on her face every time Ariel's name came up.

She shifted her gaze. "You bought this monstrosity?" she hissed. "After everything she did?"

"Aw, Mom. Ariel didn't do anything. She was just a girl, that's all."

Irene looked pointedly at the canvas his hand rested on. "I won't have it in my house."

And, of course, Zak had known that. Which was why he'd left it at the co-op until he had someplace to put it. I wondered whether he'd thought that far when he decided to buy it in the first place. Somehow, I doubted it.

Either way, I'd moved the thing out of CRAG. However, it was obvious any hope I'd had of getting more of a read on Zak's guilt or innocence was now dashed by Irene's angry presence.

I watched her, glaring at her son. So much anger under that mousy exterior. Anger at a lot of things, but certainly an abundance of it directed at Ariel Skylark. Anger and, I realized, fear. That was what I'd been trying to pin down.

Irene Nelson was angry, but she was also intensely afraid.

THIRTY-ONE

"ARE YOU GOING To bed?" Meghan asked. "You're starting to scare me with that thing."

I sat in the living room, glued to the spinning wheel, treadle pumping furiously in the hope that the smooth, neat yarn forming from the messy bundle of raw alpaca on my lap would spark the ordering of my own chaotic thoughts. So far it wasn't working.

"Not yet. I have to do more," I said.

"Have to? You sound like you're addicted."

I loved my housemate, but right then I wanted her to go away and leave me alone. I stopped pumping and allowed the wheel to come to a standstill.

"You don't understand," I said. "I'm thinking. This helps me think."

"And you have more thinking to do."

"Exactly." I began to spin again.

"Right," she said. "Well, goodnight."

"'Night" I said. Didn't look up.

Keep the strands smooth. Alpaca was exacting, the raw uncarded curls of wool irregular. Challenging. Maybe that was why I wasn't figuring this thing out. Maybe I had to concentrate on the wool too much.

I heard Meghan going upstairs to bed. After some time, a car went by on the street outside. If it hadn't, I wouldn't have realized how quiet the house had become. The wheel whirred. The yarn twisted. Gradually, I got the hang of it. Relaxed into it.

Ariel. Sex. Gabi. Ruth. Anger. Love. Chris. Jealousy. Scott. Hate. Daphne. Jake. Rocky. Irene. Fear. Zak. Lindsey. Barr. Thaddeus. Felicia. Robin.

Death.

Each person involved with this case, all those emotions, tumbled through my thoughts like stones being polished. The rough edges smoothed, allowing the truth to begin shimmering through.

The yarn grew on the spool. Soft and gray. Tidy.

All the strands coming together.

And my gray matter tidied what I knew. Categorized. Theorized. Motivations combined with circumstances, opportunities juxtaposed with temperaments.

An hour and a half later, when the alpaca wool was gone, I had two spools of single spun yarn, ready to ply and set the twist. And I'd figured out a few twists of my own.