"No one specific."

"Have you any leads?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

Donna frowned. "I mean-what I really mean is that it must be difficult to obtain evidence from a fire scene. Everything was destroyed, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Has the volunteer search party turned up any information on the whereabouts of the so-called recluse known as Old Nick?"

"Not to my knowledge, although my deputies are still sifting through their reports."

"Are the volunteers going out again tomorrow?"

"I believe at least some of them will. This is not an official search organization. SkyCo takes no responsibility for their actions."

"Thank you." Donna sat down.

I wondered if she had been deliberately trying to put Milo on the spot. Maybe, after all these years, she harbored resentment against him because Art had been killed while working for the sheriff.

High school coach Rip Ridley asked a different sort of question, something to do with hunting rifles and ammo. My mind drifted.

So did the Q&A session. Alfred Cobb struggled to his feet to ask why the turkey shoot had been canceled at the Overholt farm. Milo responded that it had ended when the Overholts stopped raising turkeys, which had been about thirty-five years ago. Alfred cupped his hand behind his ear, said, "Eh?" and sat down on Ione Erdahl's lap. Ione let out a yelp. Edna Mae Dalrymple scurried up to the working microphone on the podium, thanked Milo, and announced that the meeting was over. Alfred didn't budge until Coach Ridley bodily picked him up and carried him to the exit.

Several people, mostly men, converged around the sheriff, asking more questions. I gave Milo a thumbs-up sign and started out of the stuffy, ill-ventilated room. By chance, I found myself next to Donna Wickstrom.

"How's the art gallery doing?" I inquired.

"It's a hobby, really," Donna replied. "It's something I always wanted to do. When Lloyd Campbell expanded his appliance store, the couple that owned the original gallery in that building moved it to Sultan. You should stop by to see my setup. I'm only open Friday nights and on the weekend."

"I should," I said as we walked down the hallway that led to a side entrance by the parking lot. "Vida wrote about it when you opened a few years ago, but we might be able to do something new. Do you have any special exhibits?"

"Nothing in particular. Come fall, I plan to hold a holiday crafts fair. Very few people in town buy art for art's sake. Thank G.o.d for the summer tourists. Not to mention the skiers in the winter."

"I'll stop in after work tomorrow night," I promised. We'd reached the parking lot. A blessed breeze was blowing off from the mountains. "What time do you open?"

"Five," she replied. "I insist that parents pick up their kids by four-thirty on Fridays. Except for Ginny's, of course. I bring her boys with me and she or Rick collect them at the gallery."

"By the way," I said as I reached my Honda, "I was wondering if you had a theory about the Rafferty murder. You seem to be following it quite closely."

Donna shrugged. "Who wouldn't? It's a terrible thing. And I know what it must be like for Tiffany, losing your husband at so young an age." For a moment, a shadow crossed Donna's pretty face. "I feel for her. I wish I knew her better."

"Don't we all?"

Donna's gaze flickered behind the long, curling lashes. "Yes. I see what you mean. Tiffany is . . . well, not standoffish, but she and Tim always seemed so tight that they didn't have room for outsiders."

"Did you know her at all?" I asked, ignoring Alfred Cobb, who was standing on the edge of the parking lot still demanding that the turkey shoot be resurrected, apparently with or without turkeys.

"No," Donna replied. "I'm a few years older than she is. I only know Tiffany by sight."

"I thought maybe she'd contacted you about day care," I said as one of Alfred's sons and Coach Ridley tried to haul the old coot to a big Chrysler parked in a spot marked for the handicapped.

Donna shook her head. "Maybe Tiffany didn't plan to work after she had the baby. Besides, I don't run the only day care in Alpine."

"No, of course not." I paused. "I take it you didn't know Tim very well, either?"

Donna shook her head again. "He started high school after I graduated. Our paths didn't cross much. I always thought the Raffertys were Catholic, but I see that Tim's services are being held in the Lutheran church."

"The Raffertys-at least the father, Liam-were Irish, but not Catholic," I pointed out. I knew what Donna, born an Erlandson, meant. Going back a generation or two, Alpine's Irish and Italian Catholics hadn't always mixed well with the predominantly Scandinavian Protestants. "I'm sure the Eriks family wanted Tim buried out of their own church. I don't know Beth Rafferty's religious convictions."

"I do know Beth," Donna said. "She's a nice woman. I feel sorry for her, too. With her mother in such poor shape, Beth has no real family left. Except when the baby comes, of course."

Alfred Cobb was being stuffed into the car in the handicapped spot. Unfortunately, he was put in the driver's seat. His son and Rip Ridley stepped aside. Alfred gunned the engine and shot straight over the curb and across the sidewalk. The Chrysler slammed into the library wall.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Donna cried. "Was that Mr. Cobb?"

"It wasn't Durwood," I murmured.

Donna ran toward the car. Rip and Alfred's son were already there. So were a couple of other people who had barely escaped getting hit by the Chrysler. Fearing that medical help might be needed, I got out my cell phone and dialed 911. I recognized Evan Singer's voice on the line.

"The public library?" Evan echoed. "I'll send an ambulance right away. Is that you, Emma?"

"Yes," I replied, keeping my eye on the activity around the Chrysler and wishing I'd brought a camera. "I can't tell about injuries. Alfred only went about fifteen feet, but he went fast."

"Okay. Is Dodge still there?"

I looked around the parking lot. Milo's Grand Cherokee was parked a few s.p.a.ces away from the side entrance. In fact, the sheriff was coming out of the building even as I answered Evan's question.

"Yes. I see him. I called you first because I thought Alfred should be treated before he was arrested."

Whatever damage the crash had done to Alfred, it hadn't harmed his lungs. He was swearing his head off as Rip and the younger Cobb-whose name I suddenly recalled was Myron-disentangled him from the air bag.

"Air bag meets Windbag," I muttered as Edna Mae Dalrymple twittered and twitched over to my side. "I don't think Alfred's seriously injured."

"But what about the library?" Edna Mae asked in her birdlike voice. "I can't tell from here. I don't want to get too close in case there's blood. I can't take the sight of blood. Oh, dear! Alfred sounds very upset!"

"I'll check out the building," I said, watching the sheriff approach the damaged car and the cussing Alfred.

The ambulance siren sounded nearby. I couldn't see into the Chrysler. Milo's big form blocked Alfred from sight, if not from sound. Close to the library's outer wall, I could see that the Chrysler's grille was badly mangled and a headlight was broken. The building's brick facade was intact, though undoubtedly marred. The flower bed that bordered the walkway apparently hadn't been crushed, because the front tires never got farther than the concrete.

"A scrub brush should take care of it," I told Edna Mae as I rejoined her by the curb. "The main thing is that no one seems to be badly hurt, including Alfred." Indeed, Alfred was now demanding to know who had moved the G.o.dd.a.m.ned building.

"Thank heavens he's alive!" Edna Mae's small face was still stricken. "I really must go back inside and sit down. This is so terrible! Oh-here comes the ambulance."

"I'll go in with you," I said. "We need to give the EMTs some room to work."

That wasn't precisely true, but I wanted to talk to Edna Mae. I'd forgotten to contact her about the Rafferty disaster.

She led me back into the meeting room, which was now empty except for the custodian who had begun to tidy up. The urns that held coffee and hot water for tea had been unplugged, but were still warm. Edna Mae insisted that I join her in a cup of tea.

"Poor Mr. Cobb," she lamented. "He really shouldn't be driving. He's not only hard of hearing, but doesn't see as well as he used to."

"Yes," I agreed. "That seems to be the case."

She shot me a quick, anxious look. "Do you think he might sue us? I mean, we didn't move the building, of course. But Mr. Cobb is a county commissioner."

"He's lucky he doesn't get cited for reckless driving," I replied. "Besides, there were a half-dozen witnesses in the parking lot who saw that it was his own fault for not putting the car in reverse."

"Yes . . . yes, I suppose that's so." Edna Mae plucked at her lower lip. "Goodness, this has been a very nerve-racking week."

She had segued into my line of interrogation. "It certainly has. You were the one who called in the fire, weren't you?"

Edna Mae shuddered. "Oh, I certainly did! I was sitting up late, reading the new Anna Quindlen book. Such an excellent writer, so adept at touching the heart." She smiled softly. "Then I heard this crackling sound. I thought it was fireworks, left over from the Fourth of July. I peeked outside-I always draw the drapes at night, even in the summer-and I could see flames coming from across the street." Edna Mae shuddered again. "I thought it was the Rafferty house, but I couldn't be sure. It was dark by then, you see, and even though the fire cast a glow, it was hard to see with the smoke. So I called 911." She pursed her lips, and the hand that held the paper cup of tea trembled. "If only I'd noticed sooner. Maybe I could have saved Tim."

"I doubt that," I murmured. "It's probable that the fire was started after Tim was already dead."

Edna Mae leaned forward on the folding chair. "But you can't be sure, can you? I feel so guilty!"

"You mustn't," I insisted. "What you can do, though, is to try to remember if you saw anything unusual at the Rafferty house lately. Someone watching it, maybe, or even Old Nick, who was allegedly living in the vacant place next door."

Edna Mae's eyes grew huge. "I've never seen Old Nick. I'm sure I'd know if I had. He's very peculiar-looking, isn't he?"

"He's got a long gray beard and wears ratty old clothes," I said. "You'd notice someone like that in the neighborhood." I hadn't, I reminded myself. Emma, Professional Observer, flunks another test.

"Oh, my, yes, and anyone like that who came into the library. Not," she added, "that we don't get some old and rather odd fellows from time to time. Occasionally, a strange old lady, too. It's very sad. They spend hours, just reading the newspapers, especially in the winter when it's cold."

I nodded. "They're lonely. And maybe they have no heat where they live."

"You'd think there would always be firewood around here," Edna Mae remarked. "It's certainly hot enough now. I was so afraid that the fire at the Raffertys' might jump the street. Everything's so dry. I think summer is a much more dangerous time around here than winter."

"I don't suppose you've seen anyone else around the Raffertys' house lately," I said in a casual manner. "They seemed to keep to themselves."

Edna Mae looked faintly indignant. "I'm not like some who go around keeping track of their neighbors' every move."

I knew that Vida was first and foremost among those some, but I merely nodded.

"Of course," Edna Mae continued, "you have to keep an eye out. For one thing, that cul-de-sac was always a magnet for teenagers before Tim and Tiffany built their house. The high school and college youngsters would go there to party and do heaven-knows-what." She shuddered yet another time, though not so strongly. "And of course, the vacant house was always a problem. Remittance people, that's what I thought. You know-or runaways and such who'd move in. Squatters, too, if you count any of the older ones who lived there."

"Yes," I agreed. "That section of Fir Street's always caused problems."

"It's very close to the high school, too." Edna Mae looked worried. "I do like to keep an eye on the playfield. You never know what's going to happen there at night when it's deserted."

"Not much if it's deserted," I noted.

"What?" Edna Mae stared. "Oh! Yes." She smiled. "You always have your little jokes, Emma. But you know what I mean."

"So you haven't seen anyone out of the ordinary around the Rafferty house?" I repeated, steering Edna Mae back to my original query.

"No." She shook her head. "Just family now and then. Tiffany's parents. Tim's sister, Beth. I believe Beth brought her mother over once right after they moved in. I doubt that poor Mrs. Rafferty knew where she was, though. It's very sad."

The custodian looked as if he was getting impatient for us to leave him to his business. I wasn't getting very far with my own. "Did you bring your car?" I asked Edna Mae. "If not, I could give you a ride."

"Oh, yes," she replied. "I've been here since nine o'clock this morning. I don't like to walk in hot weather."

"I don't blame you." I stood up. "I should go. I suppose I'd better check to find out if Alfred's okay."

Edna Mae also got to her feet, though she teetered a bit. "I do hope so. He's really quite frail."

I agreed. Moments later, I was back in the parking lot. Milo was still there, along with Coach Ridley and a tow truck driven by Cal Vickers from the Texaco station. I inquired after the county commissioner.

"Alfred wouldn't go in the ambulance," Milo replied, "so Myron took him to the clinic. He looked okay to the EMTs, at least as far as they could tell. The old fart wouldn't let them come near him." The sheriff nodded at the Chrysler, which Cal was studying with professional aplomb. "That's a fairly new car," Milo went on. "It's got some other dents and sc.r.a.pes. I guess Durwood Parker's got a successor as the worst driver in SkyCo."

"How are the Parkers?" I asked. "I haven't spoken to them since Tim died."

"Dwight Gould went to see them Tuesday afternoon," Milo replied. "Dwight worked in the pharmacy while he was going to high school. He told me they were holding up pretty well. They're tough old birds."

"They're smart, too," I noted, "Durwood's driving record notwithstanding."

Coach Ridley chuckled. "I remember my first season as the Buckers' coach. Sultan was down on our four-yard line, going for the winning TD in the final seconds. Durwood drove his car onto the field and d.a.m.ned near wiped out both teams. Time expired while everybody was running for cover. Durwood claimed he had to work late at the drug store and was only trying to find a parking place."

The sheriff and Cal Vickers laughed, too.

"I don't know how many times I had to tow Durwood's cars," Cal put in. "He was always so good-natured about it all, too. h.e.l.l of a guy."

The three men were absorbed in their conversation. They didn't notice me. I went over to the Honda and headed for home.

The library is located on First, between Pine and Cedar streets. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a big truck stalled on the hill, so I took a right instead of a left and drove along Pine. Slowing to a stop before turning right on Fourth, I noticed a figure leaning against the side of the Alpine Building. It was almost dark. My first thought was that whoever it was had staggered out of Mugs Ahoy across the street and couldn't quite manage walking. But then I looked closer.

The man was tall and slightly stooped. Or maybe he seemed that way because he was propped up by the building. His T-shirt and pants were old and ratty. He had a long gray beard.

I was certain that he was Old Nick.

ELEVEN.

THE SIGHTING OF a man who looked like Old Nick presented a logistical dilemma. There was nowhere to park, except for a loading zone by the tavern across Pine Street. The object of my curiosity lifted his head and looked straight at the Honda. His reaction was the same as if he'd been a deer. He froze for just a second, then turned away and started scampering down the street toward Front.

A car coming uphill had the right-of-way. The driver was going very slowly, not more than ten miles an hour. I had to wait. As the vehicle crossed the intersection, I thought I recognized Darla Puckett. She wasn't the worst driver in SkyCo, but she was the slowest, never going over twenty-five, even on the highway.

As for the man I thought was Old Nick, he was much fleeter of foot than I'd imagined. By the time Darla had pa.s.sed by, he'd turned the corner on Front. A quartet of teenagers was crossing the main drag, apparently headed for the late show at the Whistling Marmot. I had to wait for them, too. By the time I turned onto Front, Old Nick had disappeared.