He winked at me and grabbed my hand.

After lunch, I rewarded Charlie for his quick thinking by agreeing to sit down and watch Mysterious Disappearances with him. I had to admit that by the time the show was half over, I was hooked.

During a commercial break, he turned to me with a wide grin. "This is how I knew that Mrs. Jenkins was a bad lady."

"Huh?" I'd missed something.

"I saw a show about a lady who rips off rich men. She marries them and disappears with all their money."

I gaped at him.

Apparently that was enough encouragement because he began to talk faster. "I tried to tell you, Mom. First I saw a picture of that guy who worked at my school on the show. Then I saw a really bad picture of her. He was her husband, but he was supposed to be dead."

That's why Charlie saw dead people. And everyone thought he was imagining things. Poor kid. "I'm sorry we didn't listen." Things began to fall into place in my mind. I ruffled his hair. Charlie would be getting his own Mysterious Disappearances book for his birthday.

I needed to review all my clues. If what Charlie said was true, then Steffie had plenty of motivation to murder Jim Bob. But she wasn't there that day, was she? And where did Peter-Carey fit in? Was he the accomplice? The supposed dead man who was now really dead? She had denied any part of the murders. As much as she'd been bragging, it seemed to me that she would have bragged about that, too.

I'd spread the contents of my kitchen junk drawer on the counter to look for my mystery notebook. It was gone. Perhaps I wasn't remembering right where I'd put it.

Max had taken all the kids out for ice cream, leaving me home to rest. His orders. My short confinement in the storage unit caught up with me after lunch. My head hurt, as did my body, and of course I didn't want to take anything for the pain because of the baby. So I was going to rest as ordered. With my clues. But now I couldn't find the steno pad. As I stuffed everything back into the drawer, the doorbell rang. I slammed the drawer shut and made my way to the front door, aching muscles protesting against my attempt to hurry.

Through the peephole, I saw Detective Scott. I flung the door open. "Why are you here? I didn't do anything."

He smiled. "I know you didn't. I just need to talk to you for a moment."

I stepped back to let him in. "We can go into the family room. Max and the kids are out getting ice cream. I'm supposed to be napping."

Detective Scott followed me. He was dressed casually, in dress pants and shirt, not in a uniform or a suit, but he still made me nervous. I hoped I wouldn't have to call my erstwhile lawyer.

"Have a seat." I motioned to one of the white, overstuffed, slipcovered chairs, and watched him with suspicion.

"I'd like to review your statement from last night." He sat, holding some papers on a clipboard.

I relaxed and dropped onto the sofa. "That's fine."

He talked me through my confrontation with Stefanie, helping me remember things that I'd forgotten. Because so much had happened in such a short time, I felt as if I was in some emotional netherworld, one step removed from everything.

When we were done, he had me sign the form. Then he sat back down and studied me. His eyes were different than they had been the times he'd interviewed me. Not so pinpointed and hard. "Trish, are you feeling okay?"

"I guess I'm a little numb, at least emotionally. My body aches, and my head hurts. Probably from when Steffie pushed me across the storage unit." As if to confirm my statement, a muscle spasm in my shoulder made me wince.

He leaned forward. "You need to take care of yourself now. You've got a baby to worry about."

"Yeah." I was rubbing my shoulder. But then I stopped. I hadn't told him I was pregnant. "How did you know?"

His face twitched. "Abbie Grenville. She, ah, informed me at church. Then she told me to leave you alone."

I hadn't realized they went to the same church. I wanted to laugh at his expression. Like he'd been chastened. "She looks out for me."

"Obviously," he said.

I folded my legs under me. "We've been best friends since kindergarten."

"That explains a lot," he muttered.

I decided to let that comment go, although I was certain it wasn't complimentary. "I have something to tell you that might be important."

He sat up straight, eyes fastened on my face, becoming a cop once again.

I told him about Charlie and Mysterious Disappearances.

"Yes. I checked into that. Your son is observant." The detective tapped his finger on his leg. "A good cop follows every lead, even those from a kid."

A lesson I would do well to learn.

I decided to take advantage of Detective Scott's regard for my son's brilliance and tell him what I thought. "I don't believe Stefanie killed two men."

His body tensed, and he squinted at me. "I want you to forget about the whole thing. You don't have to be involved in this anymore."

"Then I guess I'm not a suspect?" I asked.

"I never said you were."

But you sure acted like it. I put my hands on my legs and went back to my original topic as though he hadn't spoken. "I was there with her in that storage unit. She could have killed me. If she were a murderer, she would have. What did she have to lose? I don't think I'm reading this situation wrong."

"You need to stop thinking about it," he said.

"Buta"" I started to argue, then I saw the expression on his face and understood. He didn't believe the murderer was Stefanie, either. That meant that Jim Bob and Peter-Carey's killer was still on the loose. But why wasn't I still a suspect?

Silence filled the air between us. I met his gaze and ignored his order to stop thinking. "Here's my biggest question. Why wasn't there blood from Jim Bob's body squirted all over the place in the cold room? Was it because he was on his back and got stabbed in the liver or because he was already dead?"

Detective Scott's breath hissed through his teeth. Poor man. I'd caught him off guard. "Trish, I told you to. . . You're not going to stop thinking about all this, are you?"

I shook my head. "I can't. I also have to figure out about Russ and the stop sign."

"I heard Max hired a PI," Detective Scott said.

"Yes," I grumbled. "Probably some highfalutin, educated, Cunningham-type guy who's too big for his britches. Like that lawyer."

Detective Scott laughed.

I joined him, then I sobered. "I have to know."

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time until the truth comes out," he said. "Now, you need to promise me something."

"What?"

"If you must think about all this, do it, but don't go out and ask questions." He paused and eyed me. "And stay home as much as possible. I don't want to have to worry about you."

For the first time since that horrible day when I found Jim Bob, I felt a few warm fuzzies for the detective. And his attitude toward me had mellowed. Perhaps I could use this to my advantage.

I crossed my arms. "Let's make a deal."

He snorted and shook his head. "Cops don't make deals. Lawyers make deals."

I folded my hands under my chin in proper begging fashion. "Please? All I want you to do is answer some questions for me."

He blinked a couple of times, then he laughed again. "Fine. All right. Ask. But no guarantees."

I grinned. "Okay. Who is Stefanie, really?"

He thought for a moment. "That is a matter of public record, so I can answer. Sybil Veronica Ramsey from Poughkeepsie, New York. She's wanted by the FBI."

"Sybil?" I giggled. "Are you for real?"

"Why is that funny?" he asked.

"There's this movie about this woman named Sybil with multiple personalities, and it's just ironic that. . ." I stopped when I realized what he'd said. "Her last name was Ramsey?"

He nodded.

"So Carey, or Peter, or whoever he was, was her husband?"

He nodded again. "Yep. Got it in one."

"She wasn't legally married to Jim Bob?"

"Nope."

Alley cat did not begin to describe Stefanie. "Was she a true blond?"

He stared at me as if I were crazy. "I have no idea, although her hair was different in each place she lived."

She was as bad as her husband, disguising herself. "Well, did she murder Peter?"

He shrugged. "Can't answer that."

"Can't or won't?" I asked.

"I can't, and I won't," he said.

That probably meant she hadn't. "Okay, was it true that Peter Ramsey was supposedly dead?"

He nodded. "That's what the public thought, yes. But the FBI didn't believe it. Sybil and Peter's last scam didn't go so well. Their victim figured it out before they could leave, and Peter assaulted him. After the two disappeared with thousands, the man died, thus making Peter wanted for murder. But a month later, Peter's belongings were found neatly piled on the railing of a very high bridge with a suicide note. His body was never found. Of course, there was no body to find."

I made a mental note to watch Mysterious Disappearances every day. Who knew what I'd learn? "Did you find proof of all Jim Bob's blackmailing victims in that unit?"

"That's possible," he said.

"And he had the unit to keep Stefanie from getting into his stuff, right? I mean, the timing of his rental coincides with his marriage."

Detective Scott shrugged. "Probably, but we'll never know for sure."

I frowned. "What, exactly, was she looking for in there? Seems to me, she'd have taken his money and run after he died. . . ." I met Detective Scott's gaze while my mind raced.

Jim Bob had met Stefanie in the Cayman Islands. From what I had heard about Jim Bob, he didn't strike me as a Cayman Island kind of guy. But I knew from movies that those kinds of places had banks where people hid their money.

I grinned. "Never mind. I think I get it. He probably had an offshore bank account and hid the information in his unit."

Detective Scott stood. "I think I've more than fulfilled my side of the bargain. Now promise me you'll stay out of trouble."

"Okay." I got up from the sofa, my muscles protesting mightily. Then I walked him to the front door. Truthfully, I would have agreed even if he hadn't answered any of my questions. He was right. I had a baby inside me to think about. A miracle.

After Detective Scott left, I went nuts trying to find my steno pad. I had to add the information I'd found out. I ransacked my bedroom and the kitchen drawers, then I pulled the cushions off the couch. Now I was looking underneath a stack of magazines. I'd begun to pick through them one at a time when I heard steps behind me. I turned to see Max standing in the doorway.

"When did you get home?" I asked.

"Just a minute ago. Are you looking for this?" He was holding my notebook. "Karen found it last night and gave it to me."

She was still trying to get me in trouble. He leaned against the door frame. His black jeans and red shirt made him look breathtakingly handsome, but I didn't let that deter me from my quest.

"Good. I didn't want to have to start overa"" I stopped. My mouth opened and shut like a bass. I had just confessed that I was still looking into the mystery.

"You're supposed to be resting," he said softly. "You're incorrigible."

"Yes." I met his gaze, which gave nothing away.

"Stubborn."

"Yes." At least he wasn't frowning.

"Persistent."

"That, too. But Detective Scott told me some stuff I want to add to it."

Max cocked his head and frowned. "When?"

"He came by while you were gone anda""

"You talked to him without a lawyer?" Max demanded.

"Well, it wasn't a big deal. He just wanted me to sign my statement. Then he told me to stay out of trouble and take care of my baby."

Max relaxed a fraction. "What was on the statement?"

"Just my observations from last night." I took a step toward him. "It's okay. I didn't need my snooty lawyer. Please stop bossing me around."

"I just don't know. . . ," he said.