“Did they find out who that guy in the woods was yet?” she asked.

“Not yet. They’ve eliminated one local guy, Rusty Turner, but haven’t nailed down who it is.” I waited a moment, then said, “I’m sorry for dragging you into it, Lizzie. If I had known . . . but of course, I didn’t. We never would have found him if it wasn’t for you. It was a good thing to do.”

Watching my face, she said, “That cop, he wondered if you, like, led me to the place with the body.”

I was taken aback and put off. “Sheriff Grace thought I led you to that place?”

“I know, right? I hate cops.” She slouched down further. “He wondered if you had already found it, and were just trying to . . . what did he call it?” She screwed up her face in thought. “Were you trying to have me coronate your story, whatever that means.”

Coronate? Oh! “Corroborate?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said, her puzzled expression clearing. “Like, trick me into being the one who found the dead guy. But I told him no way. I told you about the camp, not the other way around.”

“I appreciate that. I’m new here, so no one knows what to think of me.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of different.”

The way she said it was a compliment. I think.

I told her about finding Becket and taking him to the vet, but I was thinking all the while. Would her mom ever tell her who her father had been, I wondered? Lizzie was owed the truth so she could at least have her aunt, Binny, to get to know. It would be good for Binny, too, I thought, since she appeared to have no one but her mother. But it wasn’t my place to interfere. Contrary to what some of my friends say, I do not think I know what’s best for everyone but myself.

After another half hour, Hannah trundled out the door and down the walk toward us. “Hey, there,” she said as she approached. “How are you girls doing?”

Lizzie, still a little shy with Hannah, ducked her head and said hello back. Hannah grabbed a book from the bag hanging off her wheelchair handle and gave it to the teenager. “I saved this for you,” she said.

The teen took the book and looked at the title, her face turning red.

I glanced at the cover. The book was entitled Uglies by Scott Westerfeld. I gaped at Hannah with horror, and she caught my look.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, glancing between me and Lizzie.

I glared at the title of the book and raised my eyebrows.

“Oh, my goodness, you don’t think . . . Lizzie,” she cried, stretching out her delicate hand. “I didn’t give you the book because of the title! Good lord . . . you’re a beautiful girl,” she said, wistfully stroking the teen’s hand. “I never even thought you could take it that way. I gave you the book because . . . because I wish it had been around when I was a teenager. It would have helped me understand how it’s good to be unique, and how no one should think they’re wrong for being different than her peers. You have a brain. You have a heart. That’s not always easy in this world, because they’ll try to stifle your smarts and crush your spirit.” Her chin went up. “I know that from experience.”

Lizzie smiled a crooked grin, then, and said she had to go, so she dashed off, book under her arm. I asked Hannah if she had another copy, because I knew I wanted to read it myself.

“I do. Come down to the library sometime and I’ll loan it to you. It’s a great book about thinking for yourself. Not something you’ve ever had a problem with, I’d bet.” After a pause, she glanced over at me, and said, “You do think it was okay that I gave her that book? Lizzie believed me, right? It never even occurred to me that she’d think the title was referring to her!”

“She believed you,” I said.

“I hope so. If she likes it, there are a couple more books in the trilogy.”

We were silent for another moment, each lost in our own thoughts. If there was anyone who would want to know about Lizzie’s paternity, it would be Hannah, who loved Tom so, but did I dare tell her? I didn’t know her well, despite our quick empathy. “Have you thought any more about the complications in Tom’s life, and who may have wanted him dead?” I asked.

“I have.” She folded her small hands together on her narrow lap and looked down at them, twisting a filigree silver ring around on one finger as she spoke. “Tom has not always been . . . circumspect. He’s made a lot of people angry.”

“Junior Bradley, for one.”

“Right, but others, too. I didn’t remember this until just yesterday, but he and Dinah Hooper had an argument one day in the middle of the street.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know,” she said, distress on her pretty, little face. “They were too far away, and there was no one around them.”

“Okay, anyone else?”

She glanced up and down the walk, and leaned toward me. “He . . . he had a big fight with Mr. Grover, the bank manager.”

“Really?” I thought about the genial Simon Grover, who had not seemed the type for a heated disagreement. I hadn’t seen him crossed, though. “Did you hear any of it?”

She nodded vigorously. “I didn’t remember until just yesterday—I’ve been so upset—but it was something about Turner Construction’s account at the bank, and Mr. Grover was telling him that it must have been a mistake on Tom’s part, because his bank didn’t make errors.”

That sounded kind of innocuous, and not like a fight that could lead to murder. She may have read that in my expression, because she shrugged. It was all she had. I considered something Pish had said to me, though, about the funny business with the accounts at Turner Construction; he had said it sounded like either drug peddling or a money-laundering scheme. I knew that some small businesses had made their revenue stream more robust by using their accounts to launder money.

So, was Tom involved in the funny business going on at Turner Construction? From my brief acquaintance with him, he seemed more the drug-peddling type than a money-scam guy, but there was no saying he hadn’t been doing both. Was he fiddling with the accounts in concert with Dinah Hooper? Or had he and his father been doing it behind her back, and she found out, but was trying to distance herself? Was Mr. Grover upbraiding Tom about the problems with the bank accounts? Confusing.

“Hannah, can I ask you a few questions about people you might know?”

She brightened. “Sure!”

I pondered for a moment. Where to start? Somewhere off the beaten path. “Do you know Lizzie’s mother?”

She turned pink and ducked her head. “Uh, I know of her. Tom knew her.”

How much did she know, or guess? “Did he . . . know her well?”

Hannah put her chin up and, soft gray eyes glittering, said, “Why don’t you come right out and ask, Merry? I don’t know for sure, but . . . but I think Lizzie might be Tom’s daughter. Is that what you’re fishing for?”

I was stunned into silence.

“She looks so much like him!” Hannah continued, a soft smile lifting her lips. “And even her expressions . . .” She trailed off and looked away.

I nodded. “Lizzie’s mom pretty much confirmed that yesterday when I took the kid back to her grandmother’s place. But Lizzie doesn’t know it yet. And I don’t think anyone ought to tell her until we know who killed Tom, at least.”

Hannah sighed and slumped a bit. “I’m glad,” she said. “A bit of Tom will still be in the world.” Her eyes welled, but she dashed the tears away with her finger, then fished around for a tissue, blotting her eyes. “What else do you want to know?”

“What does Isadore Openshaw have against Dinah Hooper?”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about Miss Openshaw’s anger toward the woman, expressed in the Vale Variety and Lunch.

“I don’t know,” Hannah said with a frown.

“Has Dinah ever done anything to her? Other than the catnip-mice incident at last year’s Autumn Vale Harvest Fair, I mean?”