“Who was the other man?”

“A priest. When he came to visit other times, he was wearing a collar, they said.”

“What priest?”

“We asked that, too. They didn’t know.”

Mary looked troubled, then straightened her shoulders and began to ask Rachel a lot of questions about her work as a cop in Phoenix and as a private eye here in Las Piernas. When I hinted that grilling the volunteer help might show a lack of manners, she told me to mind my own damned business.

I was hanging up Briana’s moth-eaten wool coat, half-listening to them, when I impulsively reached into one of the pockets, thinking the trait of forgetting to empty one’s coat pockets might run in the family. My fingertips met a stiff piece of paper, and my imagination ran ahead of me-this would be a three-by-five card with Travis’s address on it. Instead, to my dismay, I withdrew a holy card.

I might have sworn, but Saint Somebody-or-another was looking right at me, and there are limits to my sacrilegiousness. It was a familiar image, a monk in long brown Franciscan robes, holding a stalk of lilies and the child Jesus. I turned the card over to see who it was and received a shock that made me reach clumsily for the edge of the bed, where I sat down hard next to Rachel.

“What’s gotten into you?” Mary said sharply.

“Arthur-”

“What?”

“Arthur Spanning. He’s dead. This is a holy card from his funeral Mass.”

On the back of the holy card-a likeness of St. Anthony of Padua, as it turned out-was a prayer for the dead. A few added lines of print indicated that Arthur Anthony Spanning had died three weeks ago at the age of forty-eight.

We each took turns looking at the back of the card, not speaking for several moments.

“Poor Travis!” Aunt Mary said softly. “Both parents in such a short period of time!”

“They followed one another to the grave a little closely, didn’t they?” I said. “A week apart.”

Rachel nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

“This funeral home,” I said, studying the card, “is in Las Piernas. Do you think he died here?”

“Kind of strange to think of him living here in town all this time, isn’t it?” Rachel said.

“Yes. And Briana must have been in contact with him, or kept track of him, anyway. Otherwise, how would she know about his funeral? I wonder why she went to it?”

“Maybe to make sure he was really dead,” Rachel said. “You know, if he faked the wedding…”

Aunt Mary was pacing, ignoring these remarks. “This is going to be very hard on Travis,” she said.

“Was he close to Arthur?” I asked.

“I have no idea. I used to see them once in a great while when Travis was little. After Briana moved from Las Piernas, she and I never exchanged more news than would fit on a few lines at the bottom of a greeting card. She never mentioned Arthur, and only wrote ‘Travis is doing well in school,” or ’Travis is growing so tall,“ things like that. She did tell me that he wasn’t going to be living with her at the new apartment, but I suppose I just thought it was high time he was on his own. I asked for his new address, but she never sent it.”

“Maybe he already knows about his father’s death,” I said. “He may be the one who told Briana about it.”

“But to lose his remaining parent so quickly!” Mary said, pacing again.

“You have her old address? The place where she lived before she moved to this apartment?” I asked.

“Yes, I think I have it somewhere around here.”

“That might help us find Travis,” I said. “Maybe one of her former neighbors will know where he’s living these days.”

She searched for it and found it. I made a note of it and asked, “So she was at this place from the time of the murder until recently?”

“No, she didn’t leave Las Piernas immediately after the murder. But she was at this place for a number of years.”

“Do you remember anything about the murder of Arthur’s first wife?” Rachel asked.

“Certainly. Arthur’s wife was Gwendolyn DeMont, the sugar beet heiress.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Sugar beet heiress?”

“Yes, this area used to have lots of sugar beet fields. That’s how her grandfather started out, but that was just the seed money for their wealth. He made money in real estate and by investing in aerospace and oil companies-with a sense of timing that made the rest of us wish we had his crystal ball.”

“You said this was her grandfather?” I asked.

“Right. He raised her. Her parents died when she was just a baby, not long after World War I, I believe.”

I looked at the holy card again. “World War I? She must have been at least thirty years older than Arthur!”

“Yes, she was much older than he. I know you think of him as being much younger than Briana, but after Gwendolyn, Briana must have looked like a regular spring chicken to Arthur.”

“Did you know Gwendolyn?” Rachel asked.

“Oh, no. But the family was wealthy and Los Alamitos isn’t so far away, after all. Irene’s grandfather used to like to go to the Los Alamitos Race Course, which is in Cypress, not Los Alamitos-but that’s another story.”

“What else do you know about Gwendolyn?” I asked, knowing where racetrack discussions could lead, and not especially inclined to have Rachel learn all about my grandfather’s various pastimes and diversions.

“Not too much. She was a very shy woman. A recluse, really.”

“Arthur was apparently attracted to shy women,” I said.

“Perhaps he was-what of it?” she snapped. I didn’t answer, and she scowled at me. “Maybe there are two pairs of Prissy Pants in the family.”

Rachel didn’t even try to hide her amusement.

I was saved further humiliation only because the doorbell rang. Mary answered it, and soon we heard our husbands’ voices and the sound of their laughter. Rachel’s face reflected nothing but pleasure when she heard it, and I hurried after her into the living room, where Frank and Pete were chatting with Mary.

“Caw,” Rachel said, running a hand over Pete’s sunburned bald head. “You didn’t put the sunscreen on like I told you to!”

“See what happens when you don’t go with us?” Pete said.

I found myself wondering what on earth had ever made me think she was flirting with McCain.

Frank put an arm around my shoulders. “Thought you’d like a ride home.”

“That would be great,” I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I need to get a few things out of Rachel’s car.”

We divided up the rest of Briana’s belongings as planned, and Frank helped me to move the photos and desk papers from Rachel’s car to his.

Once, while Frank was out of earshot, Pete asked, “You want us to try to look up this cousin of yours in DMV records?”

I shook my head. “McCain has undoubtedly already tried that. And things have been bad enough for you two at work lately. You might get in trouble.”

He laughed at that and told me not to worry.

I thanked Rachel again, and we said good night to Mary and the Bairds. As we drove home, I made Frank tell me about his day first. He told me where they had sailed, about the dolphins they had seen, of a predictably futile but hilarious attempt by Pete to win an argument with Cassidy, of Jack’s surprising ability to actually get the better of Cassidy once or twice-which had made Pete look at Jack with new admiration. “I kept trying to figure out if Cassidy was orchestrating the whole thing-you know how Pete is sometimes a little jealous of Jack? Maybe not jealous-”

“Yeah, jealous.”

“Right, well, you know how Pete is-anyway, by the end of the day, Pete is treating Jack like he’s his best pal. Inviting him over for dinner, asking Jack to tell Cassidy about his days in the motorcycle gang-and through all this, Cassidy-” He glanced over at me, stopped his spirited narrative and said, “Missed you, though.”