“She lost it the same night Mrs. Connors-I mean Mrs. Ledeaux-shot Mr. Ledeaux.”

“Are you sure?”

She gave me a look that would have wilted fresh flowers. “I’m positive. Mrs. Peterson was new here. She came in and demanded a guided tour of the facilities.”

“Then you were with her the entire time?”

“People think I have nothing better to do than sit at the desk all night and twiddle my thumbs. That’s simply not the case. Mrs. Peterson assumed I was a one-woman Welcome Wagon. Well, I’m not. I have phones to answer, people to check in and out, and next month’s schedule of activities to update. I don’t get paid enough to be a tour guide and babysitter.”

“So you didn’t stay with her?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Marietta snapped. Once again I was reminded of Mother Superior. Had she left the convent and been reincarnated as an irritable assistant manager? “I told her to feel free to look around,” she continued. “I’d be happy to answer any questions she might have.”

“Did she have any questions?”

“No.” The frown deepened. “Matter of fact, in all the commotion, I didn’t see her leave. She came back the following afternoon, however, and made a big fuss over losing that damn earring. Claimed it was a gift from her daughter.”

At that moment, a woman I recognized by face if not by name-blame it on a senior moment-approached the desk with a question for Marietta about the mixed bowling league. Pocketing the gold hoop, I decided to take my leave.

My brain was running at warp speed.

According to Marietta Perkins, Nadine had been present the night Lance was shot. Added to that, I was reasonably certain Nadine was the woman I’d seen arguing with Lance behind the Piggly Wiggly. And what about the envelope from Tennessee’s Premier Detective Agency, Down with Deadbeats? Was Lance Ledeaux Nadine’s personal deadbeat?

Did this make Nadine Peterson a person of interest? Or did it simply boil down to a case of circumstantial coincidence?

I was mulling this over when Janine’s strident voice interrupted my pondering. “Kate McCall! You’ve kept all of us waiting. Where on earth have you been?”

Mother Superior vs. artistic director? It was a tough call.

Bill shot me a sympathetic look while Gus Smith scuffed a sneaker along the floorboards and seemed to share my embarrassment. The rest of the cast and crew were clearly annoyed by my tardiness.

Not that I was keeping score, but I seemed to be doing an awful lot of apologizing in a relatively short period of time. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“All right, everyone, get into the space.”

We shuffled about until we found our marks on a stage littered with props on a half-finished set.

“Make it look natural,” Janine directed. “Don’t do the furniture dance.”

Janine was at it again, talking in play-speak only she could understand. I picked up the feather duster Myrna needed in act two. I could hardly wait for rehearsal to be over and detective work to begin.

I booked out of rehearsal the instant it was over. Janine would probably have a conniption that I hadn’t stuck around for her customary cast meeting, but she’d just have to deal with it.

As soon as I got home, I tossed my coat over the back of a chair and headed straight for the computer. I drummed my fingers on the desktop as I waited for it to boot. I was on to something. I could feel it clear to my toes-a kind of tingly sensation. Some might associate this sort of symptom with the onset of neuropathy, but not me. I was getting closer to the truth. What would I do if-when-I found something? Run to the sheriff? Unless I had something solid to go on, he’d laugh me out the door. He already had Claudia tried and convicted for Lance’s murder all because, even though there was no physical evidence she’d substituted a live round for a blank, six people witnessed her pulling the trigger. That, of course, and a couple other trivial details-details such as her rat-fink husband’s stealing her blind.

Things like the Holy Trinity of law enforcement: motive, means, and opportunity.

As soon as the computer finished its warm-up exercises, I clicked Internet Explorer and did a Google search for detective agencies. In less than half a second, I was confronted with more than a million possibilities-truly mind-boggling. Viva la technology! We’ve come a long way, baby, since the days the puppet show Kukla, Fran, and Ollie on TV was a big deal each evening. Focus, Kate, focus, I reminded myself. You can trip down memory lane later, but right now you’re on a mission.

I narrowed my search to Tennessee, and voilà, found what I was looking for. “My, my,” I murmured as I clicked on their Web site. I’d hit the mother lode. Down with Deadbeats, it seemed, was an agency specializing in finding deadbeats of all creeds, shapes, and colors. Men who reneged on child support. Husbands who skipped out on alimony. Employers who defaulted on workmen’s comp. Exes who took off, never to be seen again after racking up huge credit card debt. I was leaning back in my chair, debating my options, when I heard the front door slam shut.

Krystal popped her head into the study/library/den. “Janine said to tell you you’re fined ten demerits for skipping out early.”

I glanced at her over my shoulder. “And you can tell Janine… Never mind. I’ll tell her myself next time I see her.”

“I’m beat. Think I’ll turn in.”

“Night,” I called after her. Poor girl; she looked ready to drop. I needed to remind Janine to lighten up on her rehearsal schedule. It wouldn’t do to have the pregnant star miscarry on opening night.

Just as I was about to return to the computer, I caught a glimpse of a bushy orange tail disappearing down the hall leading to the guest room. If I ever had a pet, I vowed, it would be a lot friendlier than the scruffy feline that had attached itself to Krystal. I’d half a notion to switch from albacore to the store brand that came packed in oil. Tang would be sorry he wasn’t nicer to me when he had the chance.

I felt wired. A cup of chamomile tea might be just the ticket to help me relax. Turning off the computer, I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While I waited for the water to boil, I stared out the window. Lights still burned in the Brubaker house across the way, the temporary abode of Nadine Peterson. I found myself wondering exactly how much money the woman had won in the lottery. Even though she never came right out with the amount, I had a feeling it was substantial. She drove an expensive car and gave the impression she could settle wherever she wanted, cost no object.

My hand automatically went to my cardigan pocket and the gold hoop. Now was as good a time as any to return it. A glance at the clock told me it was only half past nine; not too late for a quick visit. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I turned off the teakettle, grabbed a jacket, and skedaddled out the door.

Nadine’s porch light switched on, nearly blinding me in its glare. I imagined one spooky green eye heavily rimmed with kohl pressed against the peephole.

“Nadine,” I called out, addressing the closed door. “I have something of yours.”

The door opened, and a plume of cigarette smoke drifted through the crack.

“What’ve you got?” Nadine growled.

I gave the door a gentle nudge and wedged my foot into the sill for good measure. “Mind if I come in?”

“Sure, why not,” she said, stepping aside. “Want a beer?”

Normally I drink tea-chamomile-at this hour. Occasionally coffee-decaf naturally. But beer? Once or twice a year I’ll admit that I enjoy a brew, usually in July or August on days when the humidity surpasses the temperature. But, what the hey, there’s no rule against having a cold one in February. “Sure, why not?” I replied.