Winifred waved off the suggestion with a motion that shifted the heavy Indian bracelet she always wore at her wrist. "You just keep the rats off Carly's pillow and I'll do fine."

"How did you find out about the rat?" Carly asked, startled.

"Alma's sister-in-law works for the sheriff," Winifred said. "She about hurt herself laughing over the rat."

"What a sweetheart," Carly muttered.

If Winifred heard, she didn't show it. She just went to the corner adobe hearth and added two more chunks of pinon to the already fierce fire. "With the Senator dead, things are going to change. His son isn't a patient man. I want my history book in one month, not three. You get it done, and get it done right, and I'll give you twice as much as we agreed on."

Carly looked into the old woman's blazing black eyes and wondered again just how sane Miss Winifred was. "I'll do everything I can."

"If you need to hire some work done, I'll pay for it," Winifred said.

Dan put his hand on Carly's arm. "I'm lazing around doing nothing. I'll help her just to keep from getting bored."

"Then start hauling boxes," Winifred said.

"Melissa was worried that some of the documents you have might be so valuable that Governor Quintrell would have to approve their removal," Carly said.

"Sometimes Melissa is as full of crap as a Christmas goose."

Carly blinked. "So I guess it's not a problem."

"Not for me," Winifred said. "What's mine is mine and to hell with the Senator's son."

"Okay, then I guess I should pack the things I'll need in the next few days," Carly said.

Reluctantly she started to leave. She really hoped that there wouldn't be any more gory surprises on her pillow, but she was afraid there would be.

"I'll come with you," Dan said. "Wait while I load this stuff into the truck."

"You don't have to go with me."

"Yes I do."

Carly smiled, hoping she didn't look as relieved as she felt. She wasn't a helpless little flower, but the sly violence of the dead rat, the paint-drenched car, and the threatening phone call made her feel angry and sick and more frightened than she wanted to admit. She'd much rather deal with Alma's brand of in-your-face bitchiness.

Dan made quick work of the cartons, boxes, bags, and ancient leather suitcase Winifred had gathered. Carly picked up the shirt, sweater, and jackets that she and Dan had shed.

"I'll call you as soon as the car is fixed," she said to Winifred.

"You do that. And put that man of yours to work. He has the best mind of the lot."

Carly didn't ask which "lot" Winifred meant. She just let herself out of the overheated room with a sigh of relief and went to catch up with Dan. Together they pulled on warm clothes, got in the truck, and drove it around to the guesthouse.

"Thanks for doing this," Carly said when Dan parked close to her room. "I know I shouldn't let that dead rat bother me, but…" She sighed. "It does."

"Don't worry about it. You're not used to ugly little games."

"Can people get used to this?"

"Oh, yeah." And a lot worse.

But talking about it wouldn't make her feel better, so he shut up and climbed out of the truck. Together they walked quickly through the cold night to the old house. The wide front door stuck as it always did, the gallery was chilly and dark, and there was a light burning in Carly's room.

"Did you-"

"No," she cut in, her voice low.

"Same shit, different day," he muttered.

"The door is wide open this time, does that count?"

He pushed her down next to the antique sideboard. "Stay here."

"Deja vu all over again," she grumbled, but she didn't get up and follow him.

Dan walked quietly toward the open door. There wasn't any noise from the room. He crouched and took a swift look inside.

The bed was neatly turned down.

Not a dead rat in sight.

No living ones either.

Just to be sure, Dan went through the room and then the small bathroom next door, which served the other guest rooms as well. Clean towels neatly folded. Clean glass in the holder.

He went back to the hall. "It's okay."

Despite the assurance, Carly hesitated just an instant before she looked at her neat room. "Well, somebody lit a fire under somebody's butt."

"What do you mean?"

"Turn-down service on the sheets. My pajamas neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Everything but a piece of chocolate on the pillow."

"The towels in the bathroom looked fresh. Place smelled like disinfectant, too."

Carly lifted her eyebrows. "Gee, and I have to leave all this belated luxury."

"Life's a bitch." Dan went to the tall cupboard that served as a closet. "Where's your suitcase?"

"Under the bed, along with my other stuff."

He bent and pulled out a suitcase and several other pieces of luggage, including some specialized aluminum cases of the kind made for carrying cameras or guns. Given what he knew about Carly, Dan was betting on cameras.

"Dan?"

The quality of her voice brought him to his feet in a single motion.

She was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at some boxes that had been pushed into a corner of the small room.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Carly went to the boxes and looked again. No mistake. The boxes had all been closed wrong.

"I left them lined up along the bed," she said. "Now, even if a really helpful maid put them along the wall out of my way, what was the maid doing pawing through the contents?"

"How can you tell?"

"I get a lot of boxes of stuff in my line of work," Carly said. "The first thing I learned was to mark the boxes so that I know what's inside without having to look. With cardboard cartons I mark one flap on the top and two sides. I close the box so that the inventory flap is on top."

He looked at the top box. The overlapping flaps were bare of any writing.

"Wonder what's missing. Or added," Carly said bitterly.

He caught her hand before she could touch the box. "Let me do it."

But instead of opening the box, he pulled off his jacket, crouched on his heels, and studied the two-foot-square carton.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Wires."

"Wires," she repeated. Then she understood. Her breath came in raggedly. "You don't really think anyone would rig my files to explode?"

"Paranoia is just part of my job description."

Carly swallowed hard. "What job is that?"

"I'm on vacation."

Dan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding knife. A flick of his thumb opened up a wicked blade. He didn't really expect anything lethal in the box, but he didn't want to die with a surprised look on his face. Gently, patiently, he slit each flap where it joined the box until nothing visibly attached the flaps to the box. The flaps shifted and slid to the floor.

Nothing on top but papers.

"How does it look?" he asked.

She cleared her throat. "Normal."

"About as full as it was the last time you closed it?"

"I guess so. I don't stuff the boxes. It creases everything."

"Okay." He casually riffled through the papers inside. No wires. No rats. Not even a mouse turd. "Looks good. Check it out for anything obviously missing."

Carly crouched next to him and flipped through the box. Notebooks, genealogical forms, manila envelopes of photos or documents labeled as to approximate decade and/or family relationship. There wasn't anything missing, but something wasn't right.

"Someone has been through this," she said.

"You sure?" he asked without looking up from his study of the remaining boxes.

"Yes. I'm totally anal when it comes to my work," she said. "Genealogy and family history are built on small facts. If you don't organize, organize, organize every single little piece of information you find, you'll drive yourself crazy looking for proof of something that you've already researched and nailed down-and then put the document in the wrong place. But in this box, an envelope holding documents is mixed up with the photo envelopes. The decades are out of order on the photo envelopes. It's not a big thing," she added, rearranging envelopes as she spoke, "but it's real."