“No, I don’t.”

“Oh.”

“I know the other man, Amadeo.” Mary caught herself, as she returned to her seat. “Well, I don’t know him, either. I’m trying to find out more about him. I wonder if this Saracone went back to Philly after he was released. Do you know?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything else about Saracone?”

Mrs. Nyquist thought a minute. “No, just that. His name, and that he was a wolf.”

Mary thought a minute, taking in Mrs. Nyquist’s pretty blue eyes and sweet smile. She must have been lovely in her younger days. “A wolf, huh? Did he hit on you?”

“Hit on?” Mrs. Nyquist’s eyes flared behind her bifocals. “Is that what they say nowadays, for making a pass? No, he didn’t make a pass, not at me. I was a married woman, and I can shoot.”

Mary laughed.

“Hold on, let me show you something.” Mrs. Nyquist rose abruptly, walked over to the side table, and picked up a photo in a wooden frame and handed it to Mary. The photo was in black and white, of an attractive woman in fringed leather chaps and a cowboy hat, riding a bucking horse. Despite the death-defying arch to the horse’s back, the woman rider hung on with a huge grin, and Mary looked at Mrs. Nyquist in amazement.

“Is this you?”

“Sure enough. I rode rodeo, roping and penning, I did it all.”

“You were a cowgirl?” Mary handed her back the photo. “How did you learn it?”

“From my mother. I was a rancher’s daughter, like my mother. She became a rancher after my father died. She kept the place herself, she even knew Calamity Jane. Jane was a real Montana cowgirl, born Martha Jane Cannary, she was.”

“Calamity Jane!” Mary knew about her only from a Doris Day movie she’d seen on TMC. If it weren’t for TV, she wouldn’t know anything about Montana. “You were so brave to get on a horse like that! Weren’t you afraid?”

“Surely! It’s no fun if you’re not afraid.”

Mary laughed. The notion was as foreign to her as, well, Montana. “I wish I could be that way.”

“You can. Anybody can.” Mrs. Nyquist took the photo from Mary and replaced it on the side table, then came back to her seat. “You just climb up on the horse and stay on. Why can’t you?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t imagine it.”

“Haven’t you ever been on a horse?”

“Are you kidding? I can barely drive. I’m not brave.”

Mrs. Nyquist set her lips firmly. “I’m not brave, either, but I’m determined, and the horse can sense it. People can, too. Can you be determined, Mary?”

“I think so. It’s like stubborn, and the DiNunzio women are good at stubborn.”

“Well then, you come by it honestly.” Mrs. Nyquist nodded. “If you can’t be brave, be determined. And you’ll end up in the same place.”

Mary blinked. “Is that true?”

“Try it.”

Determined. “I will.” Mary looked down at the photos from the camp, which she had almost forgotten about. “Well, yes, where was I? Okay, do you know anyone else in the office, anyone you knew, who would know more about Giovanni Saracone?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Nyquist quieted, her mouth falling into the sad line she’d worn earlier. “They’re all gone, now. The last one, Millie Berglund, she worked with me in the office. Millie passed right before my son and his wife did.”

Mary felt her words like a weight. “Your son and his wife?”

“Yes, they were killed in a car accident, last year. A drunk driver, out on I-93. That’s when Will came to live here. He was their only child. He’s saving to get back to the U, but they didn’t have insurance and the burial expenses alone…” Mrs. Nyquist’s voice trailed off.

Mary hadn’t realized. The older woman had seen so much pain, in only a year. But she had gone on. Determined. Mrs. Nyquist sat stoic in her sweat clothes, and Mary got up, went around the table, and gave her another hug. This time Mary didn’t say she was sorry. The words, for once, couldn’t come. After a minute, Mrs. Nyquist patted her arm, and Mary released her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, dear.” Mrs. Nyquist reached for her napkin to wipe her eyes. “Why is it you want to find this Saracone fellow, Mary?”

“It’s a legal matter.”

Mrs. Nyquist frowned. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Hard to believe, huh?”

“But you’re so nice!”

“I’m the nice one.”

Mrs. Nyquist smiled, her eyes glistening. “What kind of legal matter is it?”

“I represent the estate of the other man, Amadeo Brandolini. And I actually think Saracone may have had something to do with the death of my client.”

Mrs. Nyquist’s lips parted in surprise. “But didn’t you say it was suicide?”

“I’m not sure it was. I think it may have been murder.”

Mrs. Nyquist’s pale eyes widened. “My goodness, how awful!”

“I’ll say. But I can’t figure it all out. There are too many pieces to this puzzle.”

“You think it was a murder? What do the police say?”

“I haven’t asked. Yet.” Mary got up to go, regretting that she’d even brought it up. “Well, thank you so much for your help. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.”

“Not in the least.” Mrs. Nyquist suddenly looked crestfallen, for a cowgirl. “You can stay and have another piece of pie, if you like. I’m a night owl. I read for an hour or so, then watch the television.”

My routine, too. Mary thought a minute. She would love to get back to the motel, but Mrs. Nyquist looked so alone. “Who do you watch, pardner? Leno or Letterman?”

“Jay Leno.”

“Right answer!” Mary smiled. “Now for the tough one. Conan or Craiggers?”

“Conan!”

“Yes!”

Mrs. Nyquist grinned. “I’ll get more pie!”

Later Mary hit the road, rejuvenated by caffeine, Conan, and her first break on the case. When she had almost reached Missoula, her cell phone started ringing. She grabbed for her purse, fumbled for her phone, and flipped it open, all at top speed. “Yo,” she said, and the voice on the line was Judy’s.

“Mare, you have to come home. Now.”

“You’re damn right I do. Listen to this, I don’t think Amadeo committed suicide. I think he was murdered, and I think the killer is from Philly!”

“Then that’s two murders we have to solve.”

“What?” Mary asked, stricken.

Twenty-One

“Frank Cavuto is dead?” Mary asked, in pain. She slumped in the soft chair opposite Judy’s desk. It was almost seven o’clock at night, and the offices of Rosato amp; Associates were quiet and still. Mary’s briefcase, purse, and suitcase were beside the chair where she’d dropped them, damp from the downpour outside. It had taken a full eight hours to get home, including a layover, and in all that time, Mary still hadn’t been able to process the news. “Frank is dead? I can’t believe it. What happened? Any more details?”

“He was killed in his office during a break-in, at about ten o’clock last night. Taken by surprise as he was working late. Shot twice, robbed.” Judy buckled her lower lip, atypically grave. “I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”

“I did.” Mary swallowed the tightness in her throat. She flashed on a younger Frank Cavuto, waving her into third base. Now, he was gone. Yet another ghost, this one too close to home. “I don’t know why he wanted to fire me, but I still liked him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Your parents okay?” Judy’s blonde bangs had been brushed off her face, and she must have been in court today because she was wearing a blue linen dress with real leather shoes, even if they were the official slingbacks of Rosato amp; Associates, from the office closet.

“Are you kidding? They’re freaked. The circolo’s freaked, too. I called Frank’s house, but nobody’s answering.” Mary’s temples began to throb and she didn’t bother telling herself it was jet lag, trail mix, or the hassle at baggage carousel B. “I don’t think it happened during a break-in. I don’t care what they made it look like, I ain’t buying.”