Today, however, my safe world of miniatures was marred by visions of Rosie’s trashed locker hallway. I had to keep reminding myself that the red in the I hate David scrawl was only lipstick and not David Bridges’s blood.

I had about a half hour alone, enough for a quick shower and unpacking, before Beverly and Nick would be bringing Maddie back. The best of both worlds.

Maddie called from Beverly’s as they were leaving.

“Can I invite Taylor to come over tonight, Grandma?”

“Of course.”

I wondered who would drive Taylor to my house.

On Sunday evening, my home was just the way I liked it-crowded with family and friends. Beverly and Nick had provided pizza for all and I’d phoned Sadie’s for a delivery of enough ice cream for a whole football team. The flavors included Maddie’s favorite triple chocolate, though I was still a bit put out about the way she’d wormed herself into the investigation without me.

I needed a serious discussion with my granddaughter about the printout caper. It wasn’t clear why it bothered me so much that she’d delivered the material to Skip directly. Unless it meant that I was afraid she was growing apart from me. I waved my hand at an imaginary audience in my head. Ridiculous, I told myself, on both counts.

June Chinn, Skip’s almost-fiancée, caught up with me in my pantry as I was searching for a new box of crackers. In faded denim shorts and a black tank top, June could have been a top model in the “short women” category. Her latest style statement was a tattoo on her lower back-the area that was universally visible now on young women as soon as they stretched or bent over. June had chosen a simple design, the Chinese symbol for peace.

She’d brought a large salad with bean sprouts, which she’d prepared in her own kitchen, next door to mine.

“I’m sorry about all that’s going on here,” she said. “But in a way, I’m glad Skip was called back before the funeral in Seattle. He doesn’t do well at that kind of thing. Well, nobody does, but you know what I mean.”

I did know. Skip went to his first funeral when he was Maddie’s age, for his father, who died in the first Gulf War. That seemed enough to ask of a guy.

“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Thanks, Gerry. Skip doesn’t talk much about cases with me, as you know, but the rumor going around is that people think your friend Rosie Norman murdered her old boy-friend?”

I took it as a good sign that June posed the idea as a question. I was sure all of Rosie’s customers would have an equally hard time believing something so horrible about the woman who loved books and reading enough to open her own shop in a small town. Rosie had reading groups for all ages and was tied into the Lincoln Point library’s literacy program, where I tutored GED subjects. I knew she lost money giving students generous discounts on any text related to the GED program.

The question remained, however-why hadn’t she presented herself to the police? To my nephew, in fact, which should have made it as easy as it could get.

And where was she now, anyway?

I’d left messages on Linda’s and Rosie’s cell phones inviting them to the impromptu party, presumably after Rosie talked to the police. I hadn’t heard from either of them. Nor from Skip, either, in the last couple of hours.

Were they all on the run?

Henry and Taylor were due to arrive any minute. I wasn’t eager to have Henry see my crafts room with its amateur miniature projects. He had shown no tendency toward being judgmental but I was conscious of the comparison between my crafts and his wonderfully artistic woodworking.

I decided my Bronx apartment might be an acceptable piece to show him. Ken had built the miniature structure, a replica of our first residence (a term that glorified the six-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot flat) and Maddie and I worked on the interior off and on. I was proudest of its lived-in look, with “clothes” peeking from the drawers of a messy dresser in the bedroom and a “dirty” towel hung over the bathtub. Maddie wanted cracker crumbs on the kitchen counter, so we’d found a way to model that, too.

Beverly caught me brushing my hair in my bedroom. Served me right for leaving the door open.

“I know what you’re going through,” she said, with a wide smile. Her red (augmented a bit by chemistry) Porter hair looked beautifully layered as usual. “Maddie told me about Henry Baker. I don’t think I ever met him. Which is a good start. It means he never got a traffic ticket, violated the seat belt law, or abandoned his car on a city street.”

I laughed at Beverly’s reference to her job as LPPD’s much-loved civilian volunteer. “What could Maddie have said? There’s nothing to tell.”

“Uh-huh,” Beverly said, stepping behind me and massaging my shoulders.

I didn’t know how much I needed it.

We’d all decided to give Nick plants to take home for his garden, in memory of his grandfather. Nick was an avid gardener and seemed genuinely moved by the gesture.

“This is just what I need,” Nick said, the sweep of his arms encompassing all of us and the plants, too. “The best comfort is another great family.”

Henry and Taylor had contributed to the array, arriving with two pots of orange and yellow marigolds, one for Nick’s garden, and one for mine.

“How did you know about our plan for Nick?” I asked him.

“You know how it is. Maddie told Taylor; Taylor told me.” He shrugged, as if every man was quick to pick up on social protocol.

It was so delightfully noisy as seven of us passed salad, pizza, and drinks around my large dining room table, I almost missed the doorbell.

Maddie, always first to jump up for a phone call or a knock, ran to the door and came back with Linda.

“It’s Mrs. Reed,” she said, bounding back to the dining room. She pulled a chair from the kitchen into a spot at the table. “You can sit next to me, Mrs. Reed.”

Maybe I was just easy to please, but I felt a burst of pride-it was a small accommodation that Maddie had made for our guest, but she’d thought of it on her own and made a friend feel welcome.

Linda, in anything but a bounce, trundled into the room. She looked haggard and exhausted, but managed a small smile for everyone and took the seat suggested by Maddie.

“How’s your mother, Henry?” she asked.

“Not too bad, thanks, Linda.”

I guessed that Henry’s mother was in one of the three assisted living facilities that Linda had worked in over the years, but not the Mary Todd, or it would have been Henry asking the question of a dedicated nurse.

Was that a twinge of envy I felt-that Linda seemed to know more about Henry’s family than I did? Like Beverly, she knew almost everyone in town; in Linda’s case, either as patients, or as children of patients. On my side, I knew only those with an ALHS diploma obtained between three and thirty years ago.

I wondered if everyone at the table could tell how distracted I was, my perpetual state it seemed, since Friday night. I kept asking myself, Where’s Rosie? as if a corner of my mind might shout out an answer. It was clear to me that Linda was dying to tell me whatever she knew of Rosie’s current location. We exchanged glances frequently, with slightly lifted eyebrows and twitching facial muscles.

Before we had the chance to chat in private, however, my landline rang.

I excused myself and took the call in the kitchen. I stretched the cord to the back hallway, out of earshot. It was testimony to how involved I was in the case that I hoped it would be either Skip or Rosie.

It was only my son. Richard and Mary Lou called from Lake Tahoe, elevation approximately seven thousand feet, to see how things were going in the lowlands.