He rolled his chair closer to his desk and picked up on the fourth ring, said who and where he was.

“Detective Quinn, this is Ida Tucker.”

He scooted even closer to the desk so he could see the remote caller ID. Yep, Ida Tucker. Ohio number.

“Is everything okay?” Quinn asked. He’d picked up the stress in her voice. How can everything be okay when you’ve just yesterday buried two of your children? “I mean, considering.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, a catch in her throat. “My ex-husband, Edward, had a heart attack.”

Christ!

“I’m sorry, dear. Is he—?”

“He’s dead. The doctor said it might have been brought on by the girls’ funerals. All that stress, all in one day.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Ida. Anything you need?”

“No, no. But I thought you should know.”

“I’m glad you called me. I wish I could ease your grief.”

“Well,” she said, “it isn’t only my grief. That evening, after Edward was . . . gone, his old friend and longtime attorney, Joel Price, came by the house to talk to me. He told me that years ago Edward had given him the letters.”

“Your letters explaining what Henry Tucker wrote before he died in England?”

“No. Henry’s letters themselves. The original originals.”

Quinn sat for a few seconds trying to process that. “Why would Edward do that and keep it secret from everyone?”

“I don’t know.” The catch was back in her voice.

“Have you—”

“I haven’t gone to the bank to open the box where the letters are. Joel Price suggested he be there with me, in case of any legal ramifications. He still has the key and would be witness to what’s in the box. He thought, since the letters and the girls’ deaths are part of a police investigation, you might want to be there too when the box is opened.”

“Joel Price is a smart lawyer,” Quinn said. “As soon as we hang up, I’m going to book a flight to Columbus and then drive to see you. That is, if you’re ready to do this, Ida.”

“I’m not just ready, Detective Quinn. I’m eager.”

They landed at the Columbus airport in Ohio, where they rented a Hertz black Jeep. Quinn drove, and Pearl sat beside him. When they hit open highway and greater speeds, the squared-off little vehicle rocked in the wind but remained easy to control.

They got into Green Forest before dusk and settled into the room they’d reserved at the Flower Bed Hotel, a place recommended by Ida Tucker. It was a four-story frame building painted a soft green with brown shutters. The walkway from the parking area to the entrance was lined with pink- and blue-flowered foliage in full bloom, punctuated by bright red geraniums.

Quinn and Pearl checked in and rode the single elevator to the third floor. There they were met by a bellhop who’d gotten a head start on them while they were getting conversation and instructions from a girl who looked like a teenager at the front desk. A good place for supper, they were advised, was the Crazy Fish, just down the block.

After placing their luggage where they directed, and needlessly pointing out where the bathroom and TV remote were, the bellhop, a lean, older man with bushy gray hair, introduced himself as Leonard and asked if there might be anything else they’d need.

Quinn told him not at the moment and tipped him twenty dollars, creating an instant friend.

Leonard looked as if he might click his heels and bow, but didn’t, and thanked Quinn profusely.

“Anything you need,” he said, “ just let me know.”

Quinn said that he would.

On the way out, Leonard said, “Word to the wise: I wouldn’t do supper at the Crazy Fish.”

When they were alone in the heavy silence, Pearl said, “Now what?”

Quinn said, “Get a third opinion, I guess.”

After supper at the Crazy Fish, which was surprisingly good, Quinn called Ida Tucker, and he and Pearl drove to the Tucker home.

They found Ida waiting, dressed in black and leaving a scent of lavender as she ushered them inside the white frame house. It was a brick-and-frame two-story with a porch that ran across the front and around one corner. Ivy grew densely up one of the brick walls. There were three Adirondack chairs and a wooden glider with a fat cushion on the porch. It looked like the kind of place where Harry Truman might have grown up if he’d been from Ohio.

Ida looked as if she’d been crying but seemed to have it under control. Quinn looked closely at her eyes. She didn’t seem medicated.

A tall, slender man with a long face that looked as if it had never once displayed an expression stood by a sofa and coffee table. Ida introduced him as Joel Price, longtime friend and attorney of Edward. He was wearing a black pin-striped suit, white shirt, and black tie. Quinn knew that Ida must be in her eighties or nineties, Price in his nineties, but both looked . . . not so much younger, but well preserved.

At Ida’s direction, they settled into chair and sofa, Pearl and Quinn in matching brown leather armchairs, Ida and Price on the sofa.

“Would anyone care for refreshments?” Ida asked, as if suddenly she remembered her manners.

Everyone said no, that they were fine.

“I was surprised that the funeral was so soon after Edward passed,” Quinn said.

Ida was clutching a wadded white handkerchief and raised it as if to dab at her eyes, but instead lowered it back onto her lap. “Edward was cremated,” she said. “That was what he requested.”

“Had he been ill?” Pearl asked.

“He’d been old,” Ida said.

Joel Price smiled grimly. “Something that at least isn’t contagious,” he said.

Ida appeared shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry, Joel. I forgot you and Edward were about the same age.”

“Actually,” Price said, “I’m four years younger.” Again the grim smile. “But you didn’t come here to listen to us reminisce.”

“Didn’t they?” Ida said. “The thing to remember is that, despite the matrimonial wars, despite the divorce, Edward and I never really fell out of love.”

“Your subsequent husband—”

“Maybe we didn’t come here to reminisce,” Ida said.

“The letters written by Henry Tucker . . .” Quinn said, glad they were dealing with an attorney who knew how to get to the point. He didn’t want to get lost in the Tucker/Douglass/Kingdom family-tree maze. “Have you seen them yet?”

“Oh, no,” Price said. “Neither of us has. Edward was adamant about that. I recall that quite vividly.”

“So the letters are in your safe?” Pearl asked.

“No, no.” Price’s right arm trembled slightly. The only sign of advanced age he’d shown since they arrived. “They’re in a safety-deposit box at the bank, in both my name and Edward’s. The key was kept in a file at my office. I have it with me now, but of course at this hour the bank is closed. I requested your presence here so we can lay down some ground rules for when the box is opened in the morning.”

“That’s kind of difficult to do when we don’t know what’s in the letters,” Quinn said.

Price nodded, as if he’d expected that response. “That’s the point. We don’t have the slightest idea what the letters contain. I thought it would be a good idea to have police presence when the box was open, primarily so it will be established that the contents weren’t trifled with.” He leaned forward on the sofa, seemingly so light he didn’t dent the cushion. “You must understand that Edward Tucker is my client, and I owe my allegiance to him even though he’s passed.”

Quinn didn’t think so, but the last thing he wanted was a legal problem. He waited to see what Price had in mind.

“We’ll go to the bank together tomorrow,” Price said. “I’ll unlock and open the box in plain sight of all. I would like to be able to examine the letters first, to make sure there is nothing of potential damage to Edward’s reputation or his family. Then I will give the letters to you to read. If they constitute some kind of evidence in an active homicide investigation, they will pass to your possession if you request them.” He placed bony hands on his kneecaps and smiled widely with straight but yellowed teeth. “Is that acceptable?”