The name sounded familiar. I rubbed my cheeks with my hands. "I don't know. . . . I don't remember."

Detective Scott stared at me. Corporal Fletcher's raised eyebrows indicated that he thought I'd just lied, which wasn't good because, of the two of them, I thought he liked me better.

"You don't know Peter Ramsey?" Detective Scott asked.

"Should I?" I looked at him and frowned. "I know I've heard the name, but I don't remember where. I haven't been sleeping well and it's affecting my memory."

"We have evidence that you do."

I leaned toward him. "How could you have evidence that I know someone I don't know?"

"Your name and the address of Four Oaks Self-Storage were in his pocket." Detective Scott leaned toward me. "You were seen in an altercation with him."

The light dawned. I recalled why the profile of the man with Stefanie at the dry cleaners had looked so familiar. "Carey Snook. Carey Snook is Peter Ramsey. I knew there was something screwy about him. I mean, that hair said it all, really."

"Carey Snook?" Corporal Fletcher's pen-filled hand was in the air above his notebook.

"Trish, what are you talking about?" Detective Scott asked.

I tapped my fingers on the table. "He told me his name was Carey Snook, and he lied to me about being a reporter at the paper. He's no reporter."

While the two law officers exchanged glances, I wondered how they'd found out about my argument.

The detective turned to me again. "Tell me about Carey Snook."

"Well, besides being an obnoxious liar, he's about your height, big mustache, fake hair. That was the ugliest-looking mess I've ever seen. Sort of like a raccoon. He had funny-looking glasses. Big and black."

"Hmm," the detective said.

I got mad. "Hmm, what? I hate it when people hmm. Especially you. Don't do that to me."

"Tell me more about Carey Snook," Detective Scott said.

"He's sneaky," I said. "I wanted to yank off his ugly hairpiece."

Corporal Fletcher's pen flew over his notebook.

"And?" Detective Scott stared at me with his blank expression. He began to tap his pen on the table.

"And what?" I snapped.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

I wanted to break his pen.

The detective scowled. "And what happened then?"

I couldn't imagine why all this was so important. "He stomped out. Hank, one of our customers. . ." I paused in realization. "That's how you found out about the fight: Hank. He never did like me when he was my teacher. Did you know that he gave me a D in history? I think it was to get even for the time I glued the pages of his teacher's book together. I've never seen anybodya""

"Trish, please answer my question."

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

"Well, Hank accused me of trying to beat Carey up, after which Shirl said it seemed like everything around here was going to you-know-where."

"You-know-where. . . ? Oh." The detective sighed. "Did you threaten him?"

"What? Threaten him? Sure, Detective Scott. I always threaten everyone who irritates me." I jumped to my feet. "If you don't tell me what this is all about, I'm going to leave." I crossed my arms and tightened my lips. "And I won't talk to you again, either."

Before he could answer or argue with me, the door to the interview room opened and a clean-shaven, portly man carrying a very expensive briefcase strolled in. I could tell the gray suit he wore had been made for him. Six years of contact with Max's family had taught me at least that much. And he was so stereotypical of all of Max's father's acquaintances that I knew who he was before he introduced himself.

He placed his briefcase deliberately on the table and gazed at all of us in turn. "I am Calvin Schiller." His smooth, polished voice made me think of a politician. "I'm here to represent Mrs. Cunningham. She will not answer any further questions without my counsel and until I know if you're going to charge her."

I turned around and exchanged glances with Corporal Fletcher. Then I rolled my eyes. I saw the twitch of a smile pass over his lips.

"Mr. Schiller, I don't mind answering their questions." I dropped back into a chair.

He looked down his nose at me, with an expression amazingly like my mother-in-law's. The one that said, Did I give you permission to speak, redneck peon? "Mrs. Cunningham, your husband hired me to give you legal advice. At this point in time, I advise you to say nothing else."

"But it's no big deal," I said. "All Ia""

"Why is she here?" The lawyer stepped between me and the officers, effectively cutting me off.

Detective Scott stood. "Peter Ramsey was found murdered early this morning. It appears that Mrs. Cunningham was one of the last people to be seen with him. Unfortunately, they had an altercation yesterday."

Altercation sounded coppish and made me irritable. I jumped to my feet, scooted around Calvin Schiller, and stared at the detective. "Peter was Carey," I repeated.

"That might very well be the case," Detective Scott said.

I was mad. Carey Snook had had the nerve to die with my name and number on a piece of paper in his pocket, putting me on another murder-suspect list. I'd humiliated myself by getting sick in the hallway of the sheriff's office. Then there was my uppity lawyer who treated me like I was a grease stain on his tie. I wanted a lawyer like Andy Griffith's Matlock character. A down-home, country person who ate hot dogs and sang folk songs.

"I don't like Calvin Schiller," I grumbled at my husband while I sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the toast and jelly on my plate that he'd shoved in front of me. "He's a snob. He probably went to Harvard."

"Well, so did I." Max stood across the table from me. "Calvin is the best lawyer I know. From now on, you don't set foot in the sheriff's office without him."

"I don't want aa""

"I also took the liberty of calling Dr. Starling. You have an appointment with him in two days, right after work. I'll stay with Sammie while you're there."

"You did what?" I clenched my fists. "Does Harvard have classes to teach the students how to be autocratic? So what's next? Are you going to start telling me when to breathe?"

His nostrils flared. "If I feel like I have to, I will."

"Your bossiness is out of control, Max. Besides, I'm feeling better now."

"I'm out of control?" He snorted and crossed his arms.

I glared at him. He glared back. We were in danger of having another fight. Two in as many days would be two too many. I backed off, stuck my finger in the jelly, and then smeared it on the plate like Sammie does.

"We need to talk," Max said.

"Can't talk." I refused to look at him. "I have to eat. That's what you ordered me to do. And we have to go to work, you know."

He ignored what I said. "I'll go get ready while you finish your toast. I'll be back, and then we're going to talk."

He left the room. Reduced to childishness after spending the morning with pushy men, I stuck my tongue out after him. Then I shoved another piece of toast in my mouth. With the interruption of Mr. Harvard Law School at the sheriff's office, I hadn't had the chance to say anything to Detective Scott about Stefanie possibly knowing Peter-Carey, nor had I mentioned that I thought the liar was trying to take over Jim Bob's blackmail business. To me, that meant the two murders might be related. Did I dare call the detective without first contacting my cultured counsel? I was, as my mother would say, between a rock and a hard place. Help Detective Scott or obey my husband? What I really wanted to do was look at my mystery list, but I didn't dare do it right now with Max in this mood.

I washed the crust down with my last gulp of orange juice and wondered who would have killed Peter-Carey and why. Stefanie?

Max appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a work shirt. I wasn't ready to forgive him enough to enjoy how he looked.

"You done?" he asked.

My plate was empty. My glass of orange juice was empty. My stomach felt okay.

"No," I said.

He walked into the kitchen and glanced pointedly at the table. "Are you planning to eat the plate?"

"I might get something else." I didn't look at him. He ignored my words and sat opposite me.

"Detective Scott isn't going to like you anymore," I said. "And you're not winning any popularity contests with me."

Max shrugged. "I'm not trying to be popular. And Eric understands I'm protecting you. He told me to watch out for you when all of this started. And frankly, even if he didn't like me, he isn't my concern. You're all I care about."

I was glad Max cared for me, but I didn't like the way he was showing it. I'd never seen him this controlling. Then again, I'd never before been interviewed by the police about two different murders.

"I didn't kill Peter-Carey, whoever he is, and I didn't kill Jim Bob. Why do all these people die and point the finger at me?" I looked up at him. "If I'm a suspect, do you think this means I won't be able to teach Sunday school anymore? I love my Sunday school class."

Max shrugged again and shook his head. "I don't know why that would happen unless a parent complains or something. I'm going to call the pastor anyway in the next few days. I'll talk to him about it. The problem is, I don't know exactly how you fit into all this, but I'm worried."

I tapped my fingers on the table. "It all makes no sense at all. Like I'm that important?"

Max's jaw tensed. "Trish, you're the one who said that you're involved in all of this up to your eyeteeth. I agree. Do you recall the conversation we had last night?"

I stared at my plate. "The one where you yelled at me?"

He reached for my hand, and I reluctantly let him take it. "I'm sorry for that, but yes, that one. Listen, Trish, from what Calvin said, the sheriff's office thinks the two murders are related."

My suspicions were confirmed. I opened my mouth and took a breath to ask for details.

Max held up his hand. "Calvin doesn't know anything for sure. That's just his gut feeling. He also doesn't think you're top on the list of suspects, or even if you're a suspect at all."

I shifted in my chair. If Stefanie did indeed know Peter-Carey, then maybe she did it. I had to get my notebook out and study my clues. I also needed to investigate more.

"Honey?" Max leaned forward, eyes full of concern. "Listen to me. You found Jim Bob. For some reason, Peter wanted to talk with you. Then someone attempted to break into our house. Peter came to see you again, after which he was found dead with your name and phone number in his pocket. Not to mention this thing with Russ and the road sign. There are too many unanswered questions in which you are an active participant."

I stared at Max but didn't see him. Spelled out like that, it sounded really bad for me.

Chapter Fifteen.

My mind whirled with thoughts I itched to write down on my list, but I had no time. Things at Four Oaks Self-Storage were crazy, people coming in one after the other, and all of them seemed to have issues and questions. That afternoon after work, I was doing chauffeur duties, picking up Karen from the library and Charlie from Mike's.

I guided my SUV up the drive between the library and the woods that bordered the other side. Picnic tables under the tall trees of the lawn reminded me of summers past when I would bring the kids here for reading hour. After that, we'd eat lunch in the shade. I felt a rush of nostalgia that too quickly my kids were growing up. When I was young, I'd dreamed of having a huge family, but then I found out I couldn't. I was grateful I married a man who already had children. Sammie had been my only baby.

Charlie was two when I married Max. Karen had been nine, and Tommy eleven. They weren't too young to feel grief over the loss of their mother. I'm convinced that the loss of a parent, especially at such a young age, leaves lifelong scars that only God can mend.

From age ten to fourteen, Karen had been happy. Although she'd never been cheery like Sammie, she'd been quietly content with her head stuck in a book or listening to music. Our best times were when we read together. That's why I couldn't let Max take her library privileges away, even though I suspected she used the time to meet Julie.

Karen walked from the building, climbed into the car, and said nothing, just slouched in her seat and stared out the window.

I faced her. "Did you have a good time?"

She turned and glared at me. "Why would you care?"

Her tone and words burned me like fire. Perhaps the time had come to prod her and give her an avenue to vent her hostilities. That was the only way I knew to really find out what was wrong.

"Why do I care?" I murmured. "Well now, there's a good question. Probably because I love you. And whether you like it or not, I'm your stepmother and will remain so." I'd said the stepmother thing on purpose, knowing she would explode. I braced for the blow, asking God to help me.

Her eyes turned to slits, and a red flush crawled up her cheeks. "You're not my real mother," she screamed. "I hate you. The day Dad married you was the second worst day of my life."

I turned away quickly to hide the tears that filled my eyes. She'd aimed to wound me, and it worked.

After I regained control, I faced her. "I'm not your real mother, but I've always loved you as though I were."

She clenched her fists. "Well, you embarrass me. Always hanging all over Dad. Kissing him and stuff. Is that all you guys think about?"

Hurt and anger threatened to choke me. "No. But you need to remember that your father is my husband. That's what married people do." I paused for a breath. "Is that all that's bothering you?"

She slammed her fist on a book in her lap. "No." Her chin quivered. "You're always doing something to get Dad's attention. Like this morning. All those police there. It's so embarrassing. And now you're a suspect. Isn't that just great? My stepmother, the killer. The woman who smashes people to death. How am I going to live that down?" Tears rolled down her cheeks.

I was right. She was jealous. I understood to a degree, but I'd never lost a mother. I also knew that I couldn't deal with this problem myself, nor would it be taken care of by simple conversation. It was bigger than me or Max. God needed to intervene, and perhaps we needed to get some help.

I wished I could cry or scream back at her. Her words cut me as deeply as she'd intended. I felt as though someone had just taken a knife to my heart and sliced it into tiny slivers. But one of us had to be an adult, and since I was older and supposedly more mature, that would be me. I breathed another quick prayer for wisdom.

"Do you really think I'm a killer?" I asked softly.

Her anger must have run its course, because her body sort of folded in on itself. "No." Then she jerked around to face me. "I suppose you're gonna tell Dad about this?"

"I don't know," I said.