Barr's eyes widened a fraction, but he didn't say a word.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"What exactly are you sorry for?" Robin asked, her tone suddenly hard.

"For being upset about the stupid yarn," I said. "I really liked it, though. Even if it was kind of lumpy and thick and full of slubs, it was the first time I'd created a decent amount of actual yarn on the spinning wheel."

"Did you touch her?"

"Only on the neck, to see if she had a pulse."

Barr looked worried. Lane didn't look very happy with me, either.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I can't possibly be a suspect," I said, exasperation leaking into my voice. "What should I have done? Assumed she was dead? What if she hadn't been?"

Robin Lane studied me for a long minute. I struggled not to look away or protest my innocence further.

"You didn't like her, did you?" she asked.

I blinked. "Well, we weren't best friends."

I saw her name on those paintings." She indicated Ariel's work.

"Yes. She was an artist." I managed to say it with a straight face.

"Did she paint here?"

I nodded. "In one of the studio spaces upstairs. I believe she did almost all of her work here."

"Was she interested in the yarn and knitting thing?" She couldn't keep her disdain for such homey activities out of her voice.

"Not that I know of."

"Where was your yarn?"

I tried to remember. "Last I saw it was right after Ruth showed me how to unwind it from the bobbin onto the niddy noddy. We tied the hank and hung it over the back of her spinning chair. You'd have to ask her whether she moved it later."

She scribbled in the notebook. "Do you know anyone who might have a motive for killing the victim?"

I stared at her for so long she stopped writing and met my eyes. "You want my opinion about who could have murdered Ariel?"

Her smile was wry. "I'm sure you have one."

"I have no idea." A little triumph in my voice, there.

Lane exhaled. "Okay, that's enough for now. You can go."

"Unless it has something to do with the way men reacted to her," I said. Gawd. I just couldn't help myself. It was embarrassing. "I'd find out who she was dating."

"We'll check into it. Thanks."

"But-"

"Go home, Sophie Mae." Barr's tone held quiet warning.

Fine. I didn't want to be here anyway.

Ruth Black was waiting for me in the parking lot, alone. She fell into step beside me as I walked toward my little Toyota pickup.

"Ariel was strangled," she said without preamble, picking up exactly where Detective Lane had rescued me.

"Yes"

"Do they know who did it?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"Are you going to try and figure it out?" Beside me, her legs scissored along nearly twice as fast as mine, her steps short and quick like a bird's.

I stopped cold, and she drew up a few paces ahead and turned back.

"Huh uh," I said. "I'm not figuring out anything. This is a police matter, and I happen to know the police in question, and they are quite good at their job. There's no need for me to get involved."

She tipped her head to one side.

"No need at all," I repeated. My hand crept up to my recently shorn head, and I ended by rubbing my neck. The last time I'd tried to "figure it out"-and at Ruth's instigation, I might add-things had gotten a little out of hand in the danger department. "And I'm glad of it, too."

Ruth smiled. "If you say so, dear."

FIVE

As I WALKED INTO our backyard, Meghan was latching the door of the chicken pen behind her. When she saw me, she turned and held up one small, perfect blue-green egg.

"It's still warm," she said.

I took it from her, holding it gently in my palm. "Molly or Emma?"

Two of our hens were Easter egg chickens, and they laid that unusual color. They hadn't been producing long enough for us to be able to recognize who laid what.

"Molly, I think. Erin says her eggs are a little bluer, and Emma's are a little more greenish. Apparently she can tell already."

Erin was Meghan's eleven-year-old daughter. She was at math camp during the day for the next two weeks, practicing up on being a genius, but she had become the resident expert on the individual idiosyncrasies of our laying hens.

Brodie, Erin 's old Pembroke Welsh corgi, had taken to sitting outside the chicken pen, guarding them from harm whenever she was gone. Now his fox-like face swung my way, and he gave a low woof in acknowledgement of my presence. But he was on the job, and didn't leave his self-imposed post to receive his usual ear scritchin's.

"How was the funeral?" Meghan asked.

I grimaced. "Good, I guess. If you can characterize a funeral that way." I dreaded telling her about Ariel.

"I think you can." Her gaze took in my casual clothes. "When did you change?"

"I dropped by before going over to CRAG. You were with a client." Like me, Meghan worked at home. Her massage room and a tiny office were tucked into a front corner on the main floor, out of the way of our normal household traffic. She wore her warm-weather working togs: soft cotton knit shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt.

"CRAG. Of course that's where you've been." She stopped herself before adding, "Again."

"I've got some bad news," I said.

She crossed her arms. "What?"

"You know Ariel Skylark?"

"I've met her. Lots of attitude, needs to eat a burger?"

The latter statement was something, coming from Meghan who stood at just five feet and barely tipped the scale to a hundred pounds. Add dark glossy curls, a tiny turned-up nose and cupid lips, and she looked more like a wood sprite than a single mother, former lawyer, and currently much-in-demand massage therapist.

I chewed gently on my lower lip and nodded. "That's her." I took a breath. "She was murdered."

Her gray eyes widened, filled with a combination of kindness, concern, and bewilderment. Consternation flooded her voice. "How did you hear about it?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, shaking my head. "You're not going to believe it."

"Not going to believe what?" Her tone was flat. She had an inkling of what was coming.

"I found her." I opened my eyes to find Meghan had closed hers, and had added the telling gesture of pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Meghan may have hated me finding dead bodies even more than I did.

I plunged on. "After the funeral reception I went over to the coop for my spinning lesson with Ruth."

Meghan dropped her hand and rolled her eyes at this further evidence of my recent obsession with fiber.

"Anyway, no one was there when I arrived. The front door was open, and I thought someone was working in the studio and had forgotten to lock it. I went inside, but no one was there. At least not downstairs. Upstairs in the studio spaces, I found Ariel. She was…" The screen my efficient brain had erected fell away, and my mind's eye filled with the image of Ariel Skylark lying on her back, lips blue, tongue slightly protruding. The tangible violence surrounding the scene. I took another deep breath and forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat. "She was strangled, Meghan. Strangled with my yarn."

Startled, she asked, "What do you mean, your yarn?"

"It was the first skein of yarn I'd completed spinning. Just a plain, off-white yarn, full of slubs and kind of weird looking, but I could have made a hat out of it, or something. I mean, I'm not saying a hat is more important than, well, you know, it's just, it was my first skein, and I'd just finished it a couple days ago, and now it's a… " Another dry swallow. "… a murder weapon."