Luscious beamed with pride. “That'll take care of Sam's college.”

One semester of college is more like it, I thought, but I didn't disillusion Luscious.

Mr. Strainge shook hands all around and left. Now we were five, Cassie, Luscious, Chief Yoder, Henry

Hoopengartner, and me. I wished they'd all go and leave me alone to process what had happened, but they all seemed firmly ensconced in their places.

“Now that he's gone, I've got some bad news for you,” Chief Yoder said with a cheerful smile that seemed out of place. “I had the contents of your teapot analyzed, and it was loaded with Ambien, a prescription sleeping medicine.”

“I knew there was something in it,” I said.

“Worse news,” Luscious added. “We found a half-empty prescription bottle among Darious's personal effects.”

“I'm not surprised. I'd already decided he was the one who tried to kill me. I just don't know why… I thought he liked me.”

Cassie patted my hand reassuringly. She seemed to sense something had gone on between Darious and me. “I'm sure he did, Tori. But when he discovered you were a reporter, he probably thought you were tracking down the antiques he'd stolen. Remember I told you P. J. has received several threats to her life. It comes with the job, Tori.”

“I wonder if he's also the one who shot Professor Nakamura… while aiming at me?”

Luscious and Chief Yoder exchanged glances. Luscious cleared his throat and said, “We found some guns in the barn. I've sent them out for a ballistics check, to compare them to the bullet that was in Nakamura's chest. I have a feeling we'll find out Darious was the guy what shot at you. There's something else you should know, Tori. I hate to tell you this because I know you and he was kinda… friends.”

“Not friends. Acquaintances. Tell me.”

“There's a good chance one of them guns killed Dr. Washabaugh. We'll know for sure in a day or two.”

“But why would he have done that?”

“Probably looking for drugs.” Luscious opened his eyes wide trying to look wise, but the result was merely that he looked pop-eyed.

“The kind of man who'd steal from a fire department would do anything.” Chief Yoder was full of righteous indignation.

“One more thing,” Luscious began.

“What else?” I groaned.

“His name wasn't Darious DeShong or even Darren Detweiler. Fingerprints identify him as Douglas Digby from Pittsburgh, a felon with a record as long as my arm: DUIs, armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon…”

“Please don't tell me.” I couldn't bear to listen to any more evidence against Darious. Evidence that proved to me all too well that my atrocious taste in men was still alive and well. With the exception of Garnet, all my life I'd been attracted to the wrong kind of men, ones who were good-looking and charming on the outside, but inside were rotten to the core. Did it have something to do with my father being that kind of man? Maybe the time had come for me to join a therapy group and look into this major character defect.

“Why don't you two stop telling me bad things about Darious and tell me who you think killed him?”

They looked at each as if nothing like that had ever crossed their minds. Finally, Luscious spoke up, “He was involved in lots of shady deals. I figure one went bad. Double-cross, maybe.”

Henry and the fire chief nodded their agreement. To me, it looked as if they didn't care. The borough was rid of one of its more unsavory residents, and that was all that mattered.

After the three men left, Cassie and I busied ourselves with cleaning up, carrying the half-full casserole dishes back to the kitchen, throwing out the paper plates, putting the silverware in the dishwasher. While I was refilling the cats’ dishes with Tasty Tabby Treats, the phone rang.

“I'll get it.” Cassie picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, Miracle residence.”

I liked the sound of that.

“Who's calling?… Just a minute please.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Someone wants to talk to you… a woman… she won't give me her name. Sounds upset.”

“Probably someone who wants me to rush over and take a five-generation photo before great-great-grandma dies.” I took the phone from Cassie and glanced at the caller ID unit, then said into the receiver, “Hello, Lillie.”

The woman's voice on the other end was faint. I couldn't tell if it was because of a bad connection or because she wasn't talking into the mouthpiece. She gasped and asked, “How did you know it was me?”

“It's a journalistic secret. What can I do for you?”

“Do you remember me? Lillie White? You done come and talked to me at the Brick Shed House.”

“Yes, Lillie. I remember. How can I help you?”

“There's something you said… I want to know… can you… like, you know…”

Impatiently, I said, “Lillie, would this be easier face-to-face? Do you want to meet me at my office?”

“I don't have a sitter. Can you come here? To my place?”

She gave me the name of a building, and I said I'd be right over. After I hung up, I asked Cassie if she knew where the Overholtzer Arms was.

“It's on Main Street, about a block and a half south of the Chronicle building, on the west side of the street.”

“Now if I had my handy-dandy Girl Scout compass with me, I'd know exactly where that was, wouldn't I?”

“Turn left, cross the next intersection, the Over-holtzer is on the right side of Main Street, before you cross the next street. It would really help if you would learn directions, Tori. Can't you remember Main Street runs east and west?”

“Sure. I just don't know which way is east and which is west.”

After a little trouble getting the car to start, I drove to the Overholtzer Arms, which was a Late Victorian brick building overlooking a bend in the Lickin Creek. Its balconies, large windows overlooking the waterfront, and stone gargoyles peering down from the roof were reminders of Lickin Creek's glory days. I imagined this building, at one time, had been a prestigious place to live.

Sagging floorboards creaked as I crossed the front porch and pushed open the door. The hallway inside was dim and smelled of mildew. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I spotted a row of doorbells set in the wall to my right. I peered at them until I found one that said L. WHITE and pushed it. Somewhere upstairs a door opened and a woman called out, “Who is it?”

“Tori Miracle.”

“Come on up. Be careful of that railing. It wobbles.”

Not only did the railing wobble, the whole staircase swayed as I groped my way up in pitch-blackness to the third and top floor.

Lillie was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Without her thick stage makeup and with her hair pulled back into an unadorned ponytail, she looked about twelve years old. She held open the door to her apartment and urged me to enter.

The living room was tiny, even by my New York standards. The furnishings were a green sofa, a reclining chair upholstered in mauve velour, two white plastic end tables, a wicker coffee table with the white paint peeling off, a floor lamp, and a large TV. That was it. There was no place more depressing than my Hell's Kitchen apartment, but this was definitely a runner-up in the not-fit-for-man-nor-beast category.

A little girl sat on the bare wood floor in front of the TV, watching cartoons with her thumb in her mouth. Her free hand clutched a faux Beanie Baby. She didn't acknowledge my presence.

“She don't hear so good,” Lillie explained. “Want a soda?”

I shook my head, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and watched her refill two glasses from a half-empty Coke bottle on the coffee table. She handed one to the child and took a long drink from the other before sitting on the recliner.

“Looks like we're in for a weather change,” she said. “Turned kind of cool after that windstorm.”

“Mmmm,” I agreed. Local custom called for starting every conversation with a discussion about weather conditions.