“Could this be Brookfield?” Lucy asked.

It could have been Kevin Brookfield or it could have been Kevin Bacon. I wasn’t prepared to hang the man based on such a sketchy photo.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There’s a lot of hair obscuring his face. But the nose looks different.”

“He could have broken his nose in jail,” Lucy said. “Rival gang? Power struggle?” She had an even more active imagination than I did. Maybe she should turn her fugitive story into a screenplay.

“You’ve been watching too much cable,” I said. “I don’t know. I can’t say it’s him, I only saw him briefly.”

While I was at it, I googled Kate Gustafson. And sent the images to my downstairs computer-the one hooked upto the the printer.

We’d bring the pictures to Roxy’s tomorrow and see what she thought. Babe’s, too. Brookfield had camped out at the diner for a while-she might remember him better than any of us.

Tomorrow started four hours later when, sleep-deprived, Lucy and I shuffled into the Paradise Diner.

“Hey, look who’s here. You two girls look like crap. You here to give our girl a makeover or to get one? I heard she did some shopping in your closet after that wedding, but I haven’t seen any new outfits.” Rats. That reminded me of the bag full of Lucy’s hand-me-downs, still in my entrance awaiting my next trip to Goodwill. I hoped she hadn’t seen them.

“No,” Lucy said after they air-kissed. “I’m here on a story-‘I Was a Fugitive.’” She slipped onto a counter stool and spread her hands wide, envisioning the headline and the layout.

“Should I assume you’re no longer a fugitive if you’re announcing it in a public place?”

“That’s correct. Paula, tell Babe what happened last night.”

“Later. Keep it down. We still have a few private issues to discuss.” I robotically ordered two Paradise specials and two coffees and asked Babe to join us at the farthest empty booth when she had a chance. She brought our food and slid into the seat next to Lucy.

“Much as I love to see you, you really should consider keeping a box of cereal in your house for emergencies. Don’t you ever eat at home anymore?”

I shook my head, then pulled out the photo of Eddie Donnelley and showed it to Babe. I watched for a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but none came.

“Who’s this? He looks like some guy I picked up in a bar in Greenwood, Indiana, in 1984.”

“That’s Eddie Donnelley,” I whispered. “One of the people who was arrested with Caroline. Does he look familiar?”

“You gotta be kidding,” Babe said, “at my age any long-haired hippie in a grainy photo looks familiar.”

I told her who I thought it might be.

“That guy looking for real estate? No way. This guy’s eyes are closer together and he has finer cheekbones. And the nose is totally different.” She’d make a good witness if ever called upon to identify someone in a lineup.

I was starting to feel better about Kevin Brookfield.

“Did he ever come back?” I asked.

Babe had to think. “Yeah, one other time.” I could see her piecing together the scene. “A day or two after you saw him. I thought he was planning to camp out here again, the way he did that day, when the Moms were falling all over themselves to give him real estate advice. He sat down at a table outside with a coffee and those damn brochures again, like he was waiting for someone. I thought it was a real estate agent. Then something happened and he left abruptly. His coffee cup was still warm when I cleared.” She replayed the event in her brain, rewinding like an old videocassette.

Just then two cops entered the diner. Babe got up and handed them a gray cardboard box that was stashed under the counter. It was filled with three dozen donuts. One of them opened the box and inhaled deeply.

“Can’t survive the weekly community meeting without a little help from Pete.”

“Standing order every Tuesday. Come to think of it, Brookfield was here on a Tuesday. Same time. As soon as the boys came in, he left.”

“You think he doesn’t like donuts?” Lucy said.

Or he didn’t like cops. I wanted to hear what Roxy Rhodes had to say. I still had a few reservations about Kevin Brookfield before I was ready to jump on the welcome wagon.

Thirty-seven

Forty minutes later, we were at Rhodes Realty with Roxy Rhodes demanding to know what I’d said to Kevin Brookfield to put him off buying the nursery. Without even asking us to sit down she launched into her assertion that I’d poisoned the waters by leaking information about the former owner’s murder.

“It’s not exactly a secret,” I said. She didn’t threaten legal action but came close. I thought I heard the word ruin mixed into her rambling, apoplectic message.

“Roxy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only saw the man once. Maybe the Moms told him. Maybe he read about it online. Maybe he was full of baloney and was never really interested. Lots of people look at places and have no intention of buying. They’re real estate junkies. Window shopping.”

She calmed down briefly. She knew I was right.

“And who is this?” she said, pointing a bony, reaperlike finger at Lucy.

“She’s a friend. Can we sit down and talk like civilized people? Like neighbors?” (Thank you, Mr. Rogers.) Roxy collapsed onto her designer throne, and Lucy and I pulled over two stylish but decidedly uncomfortable wire chairs. “Thank you.”

All Roxy knew about Kevin Brookfield was that he specifically came to her office to see about buying the Chiaramonte nursery. No other property interested him.

“I should have known he wasn’t for real. He didn’t even try to get the price down. But he was so simpatico. He said he was making a fresh start and he had that wonderful smile.”

Good grief, did he flirt with her, too? I showed her the picture, but she was noncommittal.

“It’s this economy,” she said, tossing it aside. “Or perhaps I’ve just lost my mojo.” Suddenly Roxy looked old, as old as she really was. This was more than the loss of a 6 percent commission.

“That’s not it,” I said, trying to make her feel better. “Your mojo is fine. But there’s a possibility Kevin Brookfield may not be who he says he is.”

She wilted, seeing her commission, and perhaps a budding romance, flying out the door. “Brookfield suggested you and Caroline and he might go into business together.”

“Highly unlikely, especially given Caroline’s situation.”

A door in the outer office slammed and Roxy’s assistant tapped gently on Roxy’s for permission to enter.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Rhodes. The documents you requested? You wanted to know as soon as they arrived.” The assistant maneuvered her way around the enormous desk and placed a light blue bubble pack envelope in front of the slumping Roxy. Then she turned on her kitten heels and left.

“What are you women staring at now?” Roxy said. “Is there some other deal you’d like to put the kibosh on? Some other area of my business that you’d like to involve yourself in?” The outside door slammed again.

“Just one,” I said, rising out of my seat. “Can you tell me what delivery service you use?”

“This isn’t from a delivery service. It’s a personal matter.”

As if on cue, Lucy jumped up and ran to the window.

“A blue Civic,” she said. “Connecticut license plate 485 SMK. It could even be the one I saw last night.” She grabbed a felt pen from Roxy’s desk and in the absence of any paper, scribbled the license plate number on the palm of her hand.

“Will you two fruitcakes please get out of here?” Roxy sank her head into both of her hands. “Natalie,” she yelled for her assistant, “get my calendar. I need four days at the ranch and a stop at Dr. P’s on the way up.”

“Save us some time, Roxy. Unless that envelope has something to do with Brookfield or Caroline Sturgis, we don’t really care what’s in it. We just want to know who delivered it.”