"Then it got really, really bad in California when my marriage collapsed. I was going to parties and hanging out with sludge. I got a bad habit of thinking I was in destructible. I thought, hey, what the hell, these clowns are doing it and they seem okay. Plus I did a lot of grass and acid in Vietnam and I could always stay on top of it. The trick is, you can handle it for a while. Then one day it swoops down on you and gobbles you up.

"But I'm hoping it's over now. Or it's beginning to be over. I'm in this group-therapy thing and go to the analyst. It hurts, Sam. All that stuff hurts because it makes you admit how weak you really are, but it's good.

"Know where I went the first time I left my house after I got shot? Over to Loopy to give him his money. No hard feelings, Loop, even though you did try to install air-conditioning in my stomach."

The only thing I wanted to do was hug Frannie, so I did. I put my arms around this curious man and hugged him with all I had. He started to say something, but shut up and just hugged back. When we separated, both of us had tears in our eyes.

Embarrassed, he chuckled and then sniffed. "In the old days, I woulda just killed Loopy."

We walked through the empty house talking about being young there. I said, "Maybe this is what happens to us after we die. They bring you back to a place where you spent a lot of time in your life, like Crane's View or the Tyndall house. But now it's empty and only white. All your memories are there, but the furniture and everything is gone. So it's just you and empty rooms full of ghosts."

"Who are you, Conway Twitty? You sound like a country-and-western song. Forget it! Come on, Sambo, let's get out of here and eat some food. You're making me depressed. I brought you here to start a new chapter in our relationship, but instead you're –"

"Waxing poetic?" I suggested.

"More like ear wax. Come on."

Walking toward the door, I did a detour to Pauline's wall art. Putting my hand over the deeply carved letters of her nickname, I said, "I wish I'd known her. The more I work on this book, the more I miss her." I took my hand away and spontaneously kissed my fingertips.

Frannie took a Polaroid out of his pocket. It was a close-up of the carving. "I know what you mean. I thought you'd want this. So let's do her a favor and find the guy who killed her."

When we walked in, Dick's Cabin was full of familiar faces. The restaurant looked exactly the same as it had when my family used to go there for Sunday dinner. Full log-cabin motif, it was all fifties, when steaks and chops were king, pass the salt and you want extra butter on that baked potato? If you had asked for Perrier water there they would have kicked your ass. I loved it.

I sat at a table with Edward Durant, Al Salvato – still nervous and shifty-eyed, full of himself and his mediocre small-time success – Don Murphy, fart master of our high school class, Martina Darnell, my one-time dream girl . . . If Durant hadn't been there to catch me, I would have fallen into a full-nostalgia swoon.

The first half of the meal was spent talking to the old gang and catching up on the years in between. It was lively and diverting and there were moments when first I felt a hundred years old, then thirteen again an instant later. Martina told a story about teaching Patricia Powell how to French-kiss in sixth grade by demonstrating tongue technique on a flowing water faucet. Salvato tried to interest me in investing in a shoe factory in Bangladesh. Murphy asked if I remembered how he used to fart in history class. As these people talked and laughed, a line from a novel Veronica had given me kept going through my head: "Once upon a time there was a time that some people say is still going on."

Frannie moved from table to table, still master of ceremonies after all these years. Checking on the guests, he made sure everyone had enough to eat and was cared for. Later Magda told me he paid for everything to do with the funeral, which must have set him back thousands.

Sometime during the meal I looked up and was surprised to see Johnny Petangles had come in and was devouring a giant T-bone. McCabe sat next to him with an arm around the big man's shoulder, talking seriously to him. Johnny ate and nodded, his eyes never lifting from his plate. I wondered what was going on between the two of them, but just then Durant touched my sleeve.

"How is the book going?"

The others at our table were deep in conversation about the Crane's View basketball team, so I had time to tell Edward what had happened since we had last spoken.

He was shocked at the story of Veronica being hit and robbed in the subway. He asked a number of detailed questions about how the killer had contacted her, what he'd said, how he could have possibly known about her in the first place. I could hear the old prosecuting attorney in him coming back to life and it made me grin. I answered as best I could but it was clear he was unsatisfied. I finally admitted I couldn't tell him anymore because Veronica and I were no longer speaking. His eyes widened around that tidbit, but he didn't pursue it, which I appreciated.

After that he became very quiet and withdrawn. When I asked if he was feeling all right, he patted my hand and said, "I'm fine. I'm just thinking about Veronica. She sounds like a strange woman but very devoted to you. I'm sorry it didn't work out. It took great courage for her to go to that meeting."

I started to answer but then someone tapped on a glass and the room went quiet. Frannie was standing with a fork in one hand, a wine glass in the other. Next to him Johnny Petangles was still working on his steak. Everyone else was looking at McCabe.

"I'm just going to say a few words and then let you get back to your meals. We're here in Jitka's favorite restaurant to say goodbye. I know she'd be happy because all of you were her friends and she loved a good party. At a time like this, it'd be easy to wax poetic" – he looked at me – "about losing such a good woman –"

"Go ahead and wax, Frannie!" Salvato shouted out. The room chuckled.

"Yeah, well, some other time. Right now I'd just like to do two things. First, I'd like to propose a toast to Jitka Ostrova, wherever she is. I hope she's near, but even if she isn't, maybe she can still hear us. So here's to Jitka. We love you. We'll miss you, and Crane's View won't be the same town without you." He lifted a glass and held it high. We did the same and then drank. How wonderful to be loved by so many people. What an amazing accomplishment.

"And the second thing is, as you all know, Jitka loved the operetta The Pirates of Penzance. She used to sing it all the time, and if you ever heard her, you know what a terrible voice she had. But she didn't care. Those songs were hers and she had the whole thing memorized.

"As a tribute, I've asked Johnny to sing us her favorite song. She taught him this one, just like Pauline taught him to read thirty years ago. So he's the best guy to do it. Johnny, are you ready?"

Petangles dropped his knife and fork on the plate, sending a loud clatter into the middle of the hush that held us. Standing quickly, he wiped a hand across his mouth. Then for the second time in my life, I heard Club Soda Johnny sing. His voice was exactly as I remembered from the day he sang "Sherry" in the Tyndall house with Jack on his lap; soft and sweetly high.

I am the very model of a modern major general;

I've information vegetable, animal and mineral;

I know the kings of England and I quote the

fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical.