"Did you look around? See anyone?"

"I scanned the beach. Didn't beat the bushes. He acted like he'd been left."

"Be right down. No, I haven't had breakfast," he said to her unasked question.

Wilma hung up, laughing, made fresh coffee, and put more bacon in the skillet.

When Harper arrived, Lamb greeted him with dignity. But the dalmatian was all over him, whining and leaning against him. Harper looked him over, feeling him for wounds, looking at the pads of his feet. Removing his collar, he examined it. He looked in the dog's eyes, his ears, his mouth-wanting to know the dog was all right, Wilma thought, simply because he was that kind of man. But, as a cop, wanting to find anything unusual about the lost animal.

Apparently he found nothing of note. Buckling the collar on again, he gave the dog a pat. The dalmatian lay down by the door, full of breakfast and attention, sighing deeply.

Harper sat at the table between Wilma and Susan, looking with appreciation at the tall stack of pancakes on his plate, and the eight slices of bacon. Max Harper still ate like the wild young bull rider he'd been at eighteen; and he weighed about the same. Clyde claimed Harper took in enough groceries for three men. Everyone had said he'd gain weight when he quit smoking, but he hadn't.

"We have no line on a Lenny White," he told Susan. "No one by that name or fitting that description was treated in the hospital emergency room. We do have a response on the other set of fingerprints-which could belong either to the victim, or to whoever attacked him."

Susan stopped eating, watching Harper.

"There was a fair set of prints on the computer. None on the hammer we picked up, though it appears to be the weapon. Traces of blood and flesh embedded in the creases of the metal. The prints belong to a man named Augor Prey. Does that name mean anything?"

"No." Susan shook her head.

"We'll have a picture later today. Prey's father is a professor of history at Cal, Berkeley. Dr. Kenneth Prey. He taught at Davis while the son was in grammar school. Augor's description fits your dog-walking friend. Thirty-four, slim, about six feet, brown hair, hazel eyes."

Susan nodded uneasily. "If that is Lenny, he gave me a false name. And it's strange. He said he'd moved out from New York, but he didn't sound like the New Yorkers I know."

"Prey seems to have spent his adult years bumming around up and down the coast, working here and there. Never been in real trouble. A few minor arrests, fighting, tearing up a beer tavern, petty theft. No record of burglaries. He ran an antique shop in Salinas for eight months, and worked in a San Francisco book store. He's been living in a cheap room in Half Moon Bay, sometimes works in an antiques shop up there. He's also worked here in Molena Point, for Richard Casselrod, when Casselrod or Fern has taken time off. When he does that,he sleeps at the shop. Casselrod said he hasn't needed extra help recently, hasn't seen Prey for six months.

"If Augor Prey is your Lenny White," Harper said, "it's possible he may have been staying somewhere else in the village. We've found no motel registration in either his name or for Lenny White."

"You've been very thorough," Susan said, "considering that we don't know whether this was a murder or an assault, considering the only charges I could make were for breaking and entering, and vandalism-not for theft."

"It could turn into murder," Harper reminded her. "Meanwhile, the detectives have been over your place again. They have everything they're going to get, pictures, prints, blood. You can go ahead and get someone in to clean up, get your life back in order."

Susan smiled. "I'll call Charlie this morning."

"Please let us know if you find anything missing when you get back home. You still have no idea what they might have been after?"

"No. The only thing I've bought recently that wasn't in the house was the carved chest I called you about. That was in my trunk."

"I'd like to see it."

Taking her keys from her pocket, Susan stepped out to the drive. In a moment, they heard her car trunk slam. She returned carrying a small wooden chest, perhaps eighteen inches long, its lid shaped like a peak, with the top cut off to form a three-sided slab. She set it on the table before the police captain.

"There's an old chest like that in the mission museum," Harper said. "Only much larger-made to use as a saddle rack. Just fits a stock saddle."

The sides and lid of the chest were roughly carved with geometric patterns and simple medallions. The wood was oak, apparently unfinished, darkened by age. One end had split through the carvings. The inside of the box was so rough they could see the chisel marks.

"You said you bought this at the Barmeir estate sale?" Harper asked.

"Yes. I got there before seven that morning, took a number, came back at ten to wait my turn. It was mobbed; the estate sales always are. When I saw this little chest on a table in the den, I just-well I grabbed it up and bought it and got out of there. Didn't even look at anything else."

"Why?" Harper asked, watching her.

"Because of the play. Elliott Traynor's play. Do you know the story?"

Harper nodded.

Susan looked at Harper. "Catalina died on the Stanton Ranch, just a few miles from here. Apparently no one knows what happened to the chests."

"You bought this after you met Augor Prey?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever mention it to him?"

"I-yes, I did. We talked about the yard sales, and about our plans for Senior Survival, about our buying and selling on the Web. I'm afraid I did tell him about the chest."

"How long was this before the break-in? You discussed these matters only once or several times?"

"Only once. Just… just a few days before the break-in." She lowered her gaze. "I told a lot to a stranger. Though most of our conversation," she went on defensively, "concerned my suggestions for him to meet people in the village, meet some younger folks."

Wilma said, "Didn't it seem strange to you that he would need help meeting people? Everyone's friendly, and there's more to do here than a person could handle in ten lifetimes with plays, concerts, classes."

Susan nodded. "I put it down to shyness."

"Did he know where you lived?" Harper asked.

"Yes," she said, embarrassed. "He never came to the house, but I told him where it was, while talking about the weather, about how much wind we get. So foolish of me."

Wilma rose to pour coffee, glancing out her kitchen window. "There's Mavity." She went to open the back door, calling out as Mavity turned up through the garden. "We're in the kitchen. Where's your VW? Don't tell me you're having car trouble?"

Mavity laughed. "That old bug wouldn't dare. I'm parked up the street to clean at the Rileys'. They like me early, but… Well, I saw the captain's pickup truck…" She glanced shyly at Harper. "Wondered if anything was wrong, if anything else has happened…"

Wilma poured coffee for her. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Oh, yes. But coffee would taste good. Yours always tastes better than mine." She sat down, smiling at Susan. "It's pretty early, even for the Rileys. Guess I get restless staying home anymore, thinking about the city tearing down my house. Seems like I can't feel cozy, knowing it will be gone soon. I just wish the city would make up its mind. If they decide to condemn, then get on with it." Mavity's uniform this morning was the ubiquitous white, with pale blue piping at the seams, likely a top-of-the-line model that had seen its share of launderings.

Wilma laid her hand over Mavity's. "You know my guest room's yours as long as you want."

"And my house, too," Susan said. "I'll be going home today, to get that mess cleaned up. And who knows how soon we might find a big place that's just right for all of us."