On the other hand, because of my intrusion at the barbecue that resulted in the effort by the chief and Bern Eckles to put together a quick profile of Robertson, Eckles knew that I had some connection to the situation. If Eckles knew, then word would get around; it might already be on the police-department grapevine.

Still, it seemed best to play dumb. "What should you be looking for? Sir, I don't understand."

"I see you, I figure you told the chief something that makes him send me out here."

"We were just watching some friends bowl," I said. "I'm no good at it myself."

Stormy said, "He owns the gutter."

From the car seat beside him, Varner produced a computer-printed blow-up of Bob Robertson's driver's-license photograph. "You know this guy, right?"

I said, "I've seen him twice today. I don't really know him."

"You didn't tell the chief he might show up here?"

"Not me. How would I know where he'd show up?"

"Chief says if I see him coming but I can't see both his hands, don't figure he's just getting a breath mint from his pocket."

"I wouldn't second-guess the chief."

A Lincoln Navigator pulled in from the street and paused behind Varner's cruiser. He stuck his arm all the way out of the window and waved the SUV around him.

I could see two men in the Navigator. Neither was Robertson.

"How do you know this guy?" Varner asked.

"Before noon, he came in the Grille for lunch."

The lids lifted slightly from those sleepy-bear eyes. "That's all? You cooked his lunch? I thought… something went down between you and him."

"Something. Not much." I compressed the day, leaving out what Varner didn't need to know: "He was weird at the Grille. The chief was there at the time, saw him being weird. So then this afternoon, I'm off work, out and about, minding my own business, and this Robertson flips me off, gets aggressive with me."

Varner's heavy lids became hoods, narrowing his eyes to slits of suspicion. Instinct told him that I was withholding information. He wasn't as slow as he looked. 'Aggressive how?"

Stormy saved me from a rough lie with a smooth one: "The creep made a crude pass at me, and Odd told him to back off."

Fungus Man didn't look like the kind of macho stud who thought every woman was panting for him.

Stormy, however, is so strikingly good-looking that Varner, already in a suspicious mood, seemed inclined to believe that even a schlump like Bob Robertson would work up enough hormones to try his luck with her.

He said, "Chief thinks this guy vandalized St. Bart's. You know about that, I guess."

Deflecting this dogged Sherlock, Stormy said, "Officer Varner, curiosity is killing me. Do you mind my asking-what's your tattoo mean?"

He wore a short-sleeve shirt, exposing his massive forearms. On his left arm, above his watch, were three block letters: POD.

"Miss Llewellyn, I'm sorry to say that as a teenager I was one screwed-up puppy. Got myself involved in gangs. Turned my life around before it was too late. I thank the Lord Jesus for that. This tattoo was a gang thing."

"What do the letters stand for?" she asked.

He seemed embarrassed. "It's a crude obscenity, miss. I'd rather not say."

"You could have it removed," she said. "They've gotten a lot better at that in recent years."

Varner said, "Thought about doing just that. But I keep it to remind me how far off the right path I once went and how easy it was to take that first wrong step."

"That's so fascinating and so admirable," she said, leaning closer to the window as if to get a better look at this paragon of virtue. "Lots of people rewrite their past rather than face up to it. I'm glad to know we've got men like you looking out for us."

She poured this verbal syrup so smoothly that it sounded sincere.

While Officer Varner was basking in her flattery as happily as a waffle in whipped butter, she turned to me and said, "Odd, I've got to get home. I have an early morning."

I wished Officer Varner good luck, and he made no attempt to continue grilling me. He seemed to have forgotten his suspicions.

In the car, I said to her, "I never realized you had such a talent for deceit."

"Oh, that's too serious a word for it. I just manipulated him a little."

"After we're married, I'm going to be on the lookout for that," I warned her as I started the car.

"What do you mean?"

"In case you ever try to manipulate me a little."

"Good heavens, odd one, I manipulate you every day. And fold and spindle you, as well."

I couldn't tell if she was serious. "You do?"

"Gently, of course. Gently and with great affection. And you always like it."

"I do?"

"You have numerous little tricks to get me to do it."

I put the car in gear but kept my foot on the brake. "You're saying I invite manipulation?"

"Some days I think you thrive on it."

"I can't tell if you're serious."

"I know. You're adorable."

"Puppies are adorable. I'm not a puppy"

"You and puppies. Totally adorable."

"You are serious."

"Am I?"

I studied her. "No. No, you're not."

"Aren't I?"

I sighed. "I can see the dead, but I can't see through you."

When we drove out of the parking lot, Officer Varner was parked near the front entrance to Green Moon Lanes.

Instead of running a quiet surveillance of the place with the hope of nabbing Robertson before violence could be committed, he was making himself highly visible, as a deterrent. This interpretation of his assignment was most likely not one the chief would have approved.

As we passed him, Officer Varner waved at us. He appeared to be eating a doughnut.

Granny Sugars always railed against negative thinking because she superstitiously believed that when we worry about being afflicted by one evil or another, we are in fact inviting in the very devil that we fear and are assuring the occurrence of the event we dread. Nevertheless, I could not help but think how easily Bob Robertson might approach the cruiser from behind and shoot Simon Varner in the head while he noshed on his Krispy Kremes.

TWENTY-FOUR

VIOLA PEABODY, THE WAITRESS WHO HAD SERVED LUNCH to me and Terri at the Grille just eight eventful hours ago, lived only two blocks from Camp's End, but because of her tireless gardening and painting and carpentry, her home seemed to be a world away from those dreary streets.

Although small and simple, the house resembled a fairy-tale cottage in one of those romantic paintings by Thomas Kinkade. Under the gibbous moon, its walls glowed as softly as backlit alabaster, and a carriage lamp revealed the crimson petals of the flowers on the trumpet vine festooning the trellis that flanked and overhung the front door.

Without any apparent surprise that we arrived unannounced at this hour, Viola greeted Stormy and me graciously, with a smile and with an offer of coffee or iced tea, which we declined.

We sat in the small living room where Viola herself had stripped and refinished the wood floor. She had woven the rag rug. She had sewn the chintz curtains and the slipcovers that made old upholstered furniture look new.

Perched on the edge of an armchair, Viola was as slim as a girl. The travails and burdens of her life had left no mark on her. She did not look old enough or harried enough to be the single mother of the five-and six-year-old daughters who were asleep in a back room.

Her husband, Rafael, who'd left her and who'd contributed not one penny to his children's welfare, was a fool of such dimensions that he should have been required to dress like a jester, complete with silly hat and curled-toe shoes.

The house lacked air conditioning. The windows were open, and an electric fan sat on the floor, the oscillating blades imparting an illusion of coolness to the air.