Joanna glanced at me before she answered. “Not much,” she admitted. “We have only preliminary autopsy results for your sister at the moment. We believe she ingested some kind of poison, which may have been placed in your sister’s iced tea.”

“Who did it?” Cornelia asked. For her it was a simple question that should have had an equally simple answer – one Joanna Brady was currently unable to give.

“At this point, Ms. Lester, I’m afraid we have no viable suspects. My investigators are working on it, of course, but it’s still very early.”

“If it was in Tizzy’s tea, could it be a random-tampering case that has nothing to do with Tizzy being in the witness protection program?”

I have to give the lady credit. Cornelia asked tough questions. Joanna shook her head. “We can’t say one way or the other.”

“What are the chances that this second dead woman – this Deidre Canfield who was supposedly Tizzy’s friend – was somehow connected to the people who ran UPPI, the people Tizzy was so afraid were going to try to kill her?”

“That is a possibility,” Joanna conceded. “So far we’ve found nothing that would bolster that theory.”

“What about this?” Cornelia asked. “First they use Deidre Canfield to get to my sister, and then, with Tizzy gone, they get rid of Dee Canfield, too. Those UPPI folks are not nice people, Sheriff Brady.”

“I’m convinced your sister was right to be scared,” Joanna agreed. “But as for Deidre Canfield being tied in with them, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“What about Tizzy’s boyfriend then?” Cornelia asked, switching directions. “What’s his name again?”

“Jenkins,” Joanna supplied, glaring at me. “His name is Bobo Jenkins, but I must object to Mr. Beaumont here giving you access to confidential information. He may be a special investigator with the Washington State Attorney General’s Office, but he has no business…”

Oops. I should have come clean with Cornelia Lester and told her who I was. Now the cat was out of the bag. My ears reddened under her shrewdly appraising look.

“Mr. Beaumont?” she said finally. “Why, he never told me a thing about Mr. Jenkins. It was that nice man up at the antiques store. What’s his name again?”

“Harvey Dowd?” I asked tentatively.

Joanna Brady shot another baleful look in my direction. I had noticed earlier that her eyes were a vivid shade of green. In the dim light of the hotel lobby, however, they looked more like chips of slate.

“That’s right,” Cornelia said with a nod that somehow conveyed she had forgiven me my sin of omission. “Harvey Dowd is the one. He gave me to understand that Mr. Jenkins has quite a temper. He told me about a serious confrontation of some kind up at the gallery the other day – serious enough that police officers had to intervene.”

“That’s true,” Joanna said. “There was a confrontation. In fact, I’m the one who broke it up, but in Mr. Jenkins’s defense, you have to understand that he had just learned of your sister’s death – the death of the woman he had known as Rochelle Baxter and whom he had cared about deeply. When he discovered that Deidre Canfield still planned to go ahead with her grand-opening party, he was outraged. And when he learned Dee was raising the prices on the pictures…”

“Raising the prices?”

“Yes. Her position was that, with the artist dead, the few paintings that did exist would be that much more valuable. Mr. Jenkins took exception to that. He thought the show should be canceled and the pictures turned over to their rightful owners – the artist’s family.”

“He wanted the paintings returned to us?” Cornelia asked.

Joanna nodded. “That’s what the big fuss at Castle Rock Gallery that morning was all about.”

“He was trying to keep the gallery from selling them?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “So they could be given to you.”

Cornelia Lester shook her head thoughtfully. “Mr. Dowd didn’t say a word about that,” she said, after a moment.

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I’m sure he didn’t, because he didn’t know it.”

Cornelia Lester sighed. “I’ve never met Mr. Jenkins, but when I do, I owe him an apology and my thanks. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’d better go on upstairs and go to bed. My body’s still on East Coast time. I’m running out of steam.”

She used the arms of the deep leather chair to raise herself to her feet. “There’s a lot more I’d like to discuss with you, Sheriff Brady, but not tonight. I’m just not up to it.”

“I understand,” Joanna said. “I know you already have my phone numbers. Feel free to call anytime.”

Nodding, Cornelia started toward the elevator. As she rounded the stairs, she stopped and turned back to us. “By the way,” she added. “I’m glad to know you and Mr. Beaumont are working on this situation together, Sheriff Brady. It gives me a lot more confidence that something will come of it.”

Not wanting to be chewed up and spit out by Sheriff Brady, I stood up, too. “I could just as well be going,” I said.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

I sat back down and slumped down on the couch. Here it comes, I thought, remembering being hauled on the carpet by the daunting Miss Heard.

“How long have you been in town?” Joanna asked.

“Since around one P.M.,” I said.

“And who all have you talked to since then?”

I pulled a tattered notebook out of my pocket and consulted the list of names I had jotted there. “Cornelia Lester, Harvey Dowd, Angie Hacker, Archie McBride, and Willy Haskins. Later on I spoke to your chief deputy Mr. Montoya and also to a reporter named Marliss Shackleford.”

Sheriff Brady’s eyes registered surprise when I mentioned the last name on the list. “You’ve talked to Marliss?” she asked.

“You know her, I take it?”

Joanna nodded grimly. “We’re not on the best of terms.”

I suppose I should have let it go at that, but I felt constrained to tell her the rest. “You should be aware that I met with her earlier this evening,” I said. “Marliss introduced herself to me down at the crime scene, the one where you sent me packing. Then, a little while ago, she came here, to the hotel, and interviewed me.”

“About?”

“She wanted to know why I was in town,” I said.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I was sent as an observer for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. I doubt that was what she was really after, though. She seems to be under the impression that Ross Connors doesn’t think your department can handle the Latisha Wall case. I believe her exact words were: ‘Ross Connors has no faith in Sheriff Brady’s ability.’ Something to that effect, anyway.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That both Mr. Connors and I thought you were doing fine.”

Joanna blinked. “Thanks,” she said.

“There’s something else,” I added.

“What’s that?”

“She started asking questions about the Bobo Jenkins interview.”

“How did she know about that?” Joanna demanded.

“I sure as hell didn’t tell her,” I responded quickly. “I may be a royal pain in the ass as far as you’re concerned, Sheriff Brady, but I know better than to compromise an ongoing investigation by leaking information to the press. The same can’t be said for everyone in your department, however. Someone on your staff needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

There was a long period of silence after that. The longer Joanna Brady went without speaking, the more I figured I had blown it for sure. If there had ever been a remote chance of the two of us working together successfully, it was gone for good.

“Thanks for telling me,” she said finally. “I’m pretty sure I know who Mr. Big Mouth is, but I haven’t figured out what to do about him.”

“If I were you,” I told her, “I’d kick ass and take names later.”

She laughed then. “I’ll take that suggestion under advisement.” Her single burst of laughter seemed to put us on a whole new footing. “Cornelia Lester isn’t the only one who needs to hand out apologies,” she said. “I believe I owe you one as well.”