“Mom,” Ali objected. “Wait a minute. What makes you think Bryan is responsible for what happened?”

“I didn’t say I thought it, but it’s what people are saying. The husband is usually the responsible party.”

Ali was taken aback. The article she had read online a few hours earlier had stated that investigators had yet to establish a person of interest in Morgan Forester’s death. In the meantime, the good citizens of Sedona were already declaring Bryan Forester guilty before even being charged.

“What people?” Ali asked.

“Cindy Martin, for one,” Edie said. “She works at the Village of Oak Creek salon. She’s the one who always did Morgan’s nails.”

Ali sometimes forgot that her mother’s unfailing ability to see all and know all was based in large measure on the fact that Edie Larson was tuned in to an intricate network of small-town gossip.

“According to Cindy, Morgan was tired of doing all the behind-the-scenes paperwork for her husband’s construction company and was ready to do something else. I can certainly understand that,” Edie added. “Not everyone can handle working in a family-owned business. When you spend every minute of every day with someone, it can turn into way too much togetherness. It’s not easy, you know. There are times when I think I need to have my head examined for spending my whole life putting up with your father’s foolishness on a day-to-day basis.”

The Sugarloaf had been started by Ali’s grandmother, who had eventually handed it over to her two daughters, Edie and her twin sister, Evelyn. Up until Aunt Evie’s death, the two sisters had waited tables and managed the front of the house while Ali’s father had done most of the cooking. Edie’s current complaints notwithstanding, Ali knew that neither one of her parents would have wanted it any other way.

“And then there’s the boob job,” Edie went on, lowering her voice.

“What boob job?” Ali asked.

“Morgan had one a couple of months ago,” Edie said. “When a woman signs up for a surgical enhancement, you can usually bet that she isn’t doing it for the poor dope who happens to be her current husband.”

In southern California, where Ali had lived previously, that hadn’t been her experience. From Ali’s point of view, lots of women had breast augmentation, many of them with their husband’s encouragement and approval. That Morgan had joined ranks with other consumers of enhancement surgical procedures didn’t necessarily mean the Foresters’ marriage was in trouble. And it certainly didn’t seem like an adequate reason for anyone to declare Bryan a person of interest in his wife’s homicide.

Bob Larson pounded twice on a bell in the pass-through, announcing that one of Edie’s orders was ready to be picked up. Edie shot off to deliver plates of food, leaving Ali to mull over what had been said. Yes, Ali knew Morgan Forester handled the bookkeeping part of her husband’s company, Build It Construction; she sent out the invoices, paid the bills. The neighbor had said she was a stay-at-home mom, although Ali thought she had been more of a work-at-home mom.

Edie returned and refilled Ali’s cup. “Cindy also said that Morgan was always complaining that her husband was a workaholic-that he lived and breathed for his business. That’s not good for a marriage, either.”

The idea that Edie Larson was disparaging someone else for being a workaholic would have been downright laughable if Ali could have found anything in this dreadful situation even remotely funny. Bryan Forester had lived in the community all his life. Ali didn’t like the idea that people were already turning against him based on nothing more than flimsy hearsay from his wife’s manicurist. Ali felt obliged to defend him.

“One person saying it doesn’t make it so,” Ali declared. “Yes, Bryan Forester is a very hard worker, but that doesn’t mean he’s a workaholic. And it doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, most workaholics don’t have time for affairs.”

Edie seemed taken aback by Ali’s remark. “I see,” she said, although Ali wasn’t at all sure that her mother did see. It seemed instead that this was a subject on which they would simply agree to disagree.

Bob sounded the bell once again. This time Edie brought Ali’s breakfast. While Ali ate, a seemingly abashed Edie hustled up and down the counter, busying herself with other customers. When she returned, she had evidently decided it was time to change the subject.

“About Thanksgiving,” she began. “If the new house isn’t going to be ready-”

“Bryan’s crew is coming to work today,” Ali interrupted. “Let’s see how much they get done in the next few days. For right now I don’t want to cancel.”

“All right,” Edie said. “Suit yourself. I hope it all comes together.”

So did Ali. After breakfast, she drove from the restaurant to the house on Manzanita Hills Road. When she had left the night before, Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pickup had still been parked at the bottom of the hill. Now the pickup was gone, but vehicles belonging to other workers lined both sides of her driveway. True to their word, Bryan’s crew had turned up for work even if their boss hadn’t. The same thing went for the videographers. Their van was there, too.

When Ali pulled into the yard, she was surprised that she had to move aside in order to make way for the departing building inspector. Yvonne Kirkpatrick had obviously stopped by first thing to sign off on that permit.

Thank you, Billy, Ali thought. You’re getting things done after all.

The front door of the house stood open, with workmen coming and going. Ali followed one of them inside, where she was thrilled to see that after months of seemingly no progress but the framed skeleton of a building, studs were now disappearing behind sheets of expertly installed wallboard. She found Billy Barnes in the bathroom of what would be a master suite. He was deep in conversation with one of his crew of wallboarders, walking the worker through some thorny issue.

“Looks like you’re making good progress,” she said when he looked up and noticed her. “And I saw that the permit got signed off on after all.”

Billy Barnes nodded. “That one took some doing,” he said.

“What about Bryan?” Ali asked. “Have you heard anything from him-how he’s doing?”

“About how you’d expect,” Billy answered. “I didn’t talk to him directly, but I talked to his parents.”

“So at least he wasn’t alone,” Ali said.

Billy nodded. “His dad said Bryan was in pretty bad shape-still in shock, couldn’t believe what had happened, and all that. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe it myself.”

“It was great that you and your guys came to work this morning. I really appreciate it.”

“We’re not the only ones,” Billy said, waving aside her praise. “Bryan’s other crews are doing the same thing. We’re moving forward as well as we can without him. He can’t afford for us to shut the jobs down. If he does, he’ll go broke, and so will we. If any of us could afford to work for free, we wouldn’t be here every day busting our butts, Bryan included.”

That answered one of Dave Holman’s questions: The employees being on the job had very little to do with loyalty to their boss or with sympathy for him, either. Their showing up had far more to do with enlightened self-interest. They were working because they needed the money. Bryan’s regular paychecks fed their families and covered their bills.

“If you have a chance to talk to him directly,” Ali said, “let him know I’m thinking of him, and if there’s anything I can do to help-”

“Knock, knock,” someone called behind her.

Ali turned to find that Dave Holman had followed her down the hallway. One hand held his notebook. In the other, he clutched a half-eaten doughnut. Dave glanced at Ali and then back at the doughnut. “At least I’m eating breakfast,” he said, then he turned to Billy. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”