"It was you that called me that night, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was me. Partly because I didn't want him to lie out there all night, but mostly because I was scared some kids might find him."

"Why didn't you tell me all this to begin with?"

"Because I didn't want to come to your attention. What I saw wasn't important enough for me to risk you calling Memphis, getting the story about what happened to me. I didn't want people here to know. And yet it's happened, anyway." And I looked him directly in his eyes.

"That's a mistake I can't make up to you," he said. "I regret letting that report sit around on my desk, more than I can tell you. I'm taking steps to minimize the damage."

That was as much apology as I'd ever receive; and really, what more could he say?

I shrugged. My anger against him deflated gently. I had known all along that someday it was inevitable that my past would block my path again.

"What I saw was someone wearing a raincoat with a hood, wheeling Pardon over to the arboretum," I said flatly. "I don't know who it was, but I'm sure it was someone from the apartments. I figured you already knew that, since Pardon's body appeared and disappeared so many times. Gone when Tom O'Hagen paid his rent, back when Deedra paid hers. It had to have been hidden in a different apartment, though I can't imagine why anyone would move Pardon's corpse around."

"How was the body moved over to the arboretum?"

"It was in some garbage bags, one pulled on from the feet and another pulled on from the head. Then it was loaded in my garbage-can cart and rolled over there." I felt mad all over again when I thought of the use of my cart.

"Where are the garbage bags?"

"Gone to the incinerator."

"Why'd you do that?"

"My fingerprints were on them. I checked to see if Pardon was dead."

Friedrich gave me the strangest look.

"What?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Start at the beginning," he rumbled.

I began with my walk. Friedrich's eyebrows went up when he realized I walked by myself in the dead of night quite frequently, but he said nothing until I had given him the whole account.

"Do me a favor, Lily," he said finally.

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

"Next time, just call me to start with."

It took me a moment to realize he was joking. I smiled. He smiled back, no great big grin, but companionable. He was letting that warmth wash over me, and I was enjoying it just as much as any other suspect who'd just come clean. Why not? I thought, forgoing scolding myself for being a chump. I was prepared for Friedrich to take his leave, but there he stayed, seemingly content at my clean, bare kitchen table.

"So," the policeman said. "Happening in the same time frame, we have the murder of Pardon Albee and the strange persecution of Lily Bard and Thea Sedaka. Thea never called us in, officially. But Tom David said a few things to Dolph, who figured he better tell me. I like to know what's going on in my town. Don't you think it's strange, Lily, that so many unusual things are happening at the same time in Shakespeare?"

I nodded, though I had my own ideas about the "strange persecution." Moving quietly, I gathered my cutting board, a knife, and a package of chicken breasts. I began to skin and debone the chicken.

"The Yorks were gone on Monday. They returned that night late," Claude said. I worked and listened. "Mrs. Hofstettler was there all the time, but she's partially deaf and sometimes almost immobile. Jenny O'Hagen was at work, and Tom O'Hagen was sleeping. When he got up, he played a round of golf at the country club. He came home and went upstairs to pay blackmail to Norvel Whitbread, who was home from work ‘sick.' Then Tom went down to pay his rent. You were unlocking the Yorks' apartment. When Tom found Pardon's door open, the body wasn't there, but the furniture was not in its usual order. An hour and a half later, Deedra came home from work, went upstairs to get her mother's check, then went down to pay the rent. And Pardon's traveling body was back on the couch, but arranged naturally enough that Deedra thought he was asleep."

"When did all the others pay their rent?" I asked over my shoulder as I scrubbed my hands at the sink. I thought this show-and-tell time was very strange, but I was enjoying it.

"I'd slipped my check under his door on my way to the station that morning," Friedrich said. "Norvel's rent was paid by the church. The secretary mailed Pardon a check, the Reverend McCorkindale told me. Marcus Jefferson says he'd also slid his rent check under Pardon's door on his way out to work that morning, and Pardon must already have made a trip to the bank right when it opened, because Marcus's check, mine, and Mrs. Hofstettler's were credited to Pardon's account when I called the bank."

"What about the one the church mailed?"

"Didn't get to Pardon's mailbox until the day after he died."

It would have been typical Pardon behavior to go by the church or up to Norvel's to ask about the rent, I thought, and raised my eyes to Friedrich's.

"But Norvel says Pardon didn't come to his apartment," the big man said, and I bent back to my work before I realized how strange the little exchange was.

"He's lying, though," I said.

"How do you figure?"

"Because Pardon did the vacuuming Monday himself. Remember the way the cord was wrapped? So he must have gone up to find out why Norvel hadn't done it. He's supposed to go in late to the church on Monday, after he's cleaned the apartment building's halls. The church gets a discount on his rent."

For the first time since I'd known him, Claude Friedrich looked surprised.

"How do you know all this, Lily?"

"If it's about cleaning, I know it. I think Pardon told me all that when he explained why Norvel was going to be cleaning the building instead of me." Pardon had just wanted to talk, as usual. It was fine with me not to have the poor-paying and tedious job of working under a constantly supervising Pardon.

Claude (as I now thought of him) looked at me a moment longer before resuming his running narrative of the day of the landlord's death. "So that morning Pardon stopped by Mrs. Hofstettler's to get her check, then went to the bank with three of the rent checks."

I put together a marinade and popped the strips of chicken breast in the bowl. I had a hankering for stir-fry tonight. I began to brown stew meat in a skillet while I chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions to go in the stew pot. I stirred the sauce for the tortilla casserole. I had some leftover taco meat to dump into the sauce, and a tomato, and after that I shredded three flour tortillas. I handed Claude the grater and the cheese. Obediently, he began to grate.

"How much?" he asked.

"Cup," I said, putting one on the table by him. "You were saying?"

"And he talked on the telephone several times," Claude continued. "He called the plant where Marcus works; we don't know who he talked to, there. Of course, that might be completely unrelated to Marcus. At least two hundred other people work there. About eleven, he called someone in rural Creek County, a pal he went to school with at UA, but the guy is on a business trip to Oklahoma City and we haven't been able to track him down yet."

I dumped all the stew ingredients into the slow cooker and got out my wok. While it was heating, I layered the tortilla casserole, including the grated cheese, and popped it in the freezer. Claude's voice provided a pleasant background sound, like listening to a familiar book on tape.

The stir-fry would provide two meals, I figured, the stew at least three; one night, I would have a baked potato and vegetables; the remaining meal could be the tortilla casserole and a salad.

After I put the rice in the microwave, I began stir-frying the chicken and vegetables. I was hardly aware that Claude had stopped talking. I stirred quickly, conscious only of the quiet content that came when I was doing something I could do well. The rice and the meat and vegetables were done at almost the same time, and I faced a little dilemma.