"I didn't really know him." Mrs. Ebert tucked a graying wing of hair behind her ear. "He came here once. He asked to speak with Mr. Peyton and I said Mr. Peyton wasn't seeing anyone, but then he got rather loud and Mr. Peyton came in."

"When was this?"

"Thursday night, after Tamara's funeral. Can you imagine the nerve? Lily was still here. She told her father not to speak with him, but Mr. Peyton did anyway."

Lily had told Natalie she'd only seen Lindstrom once in her store. She'd lied. "He must have had something fairly important to say to insist on seeing Mr. Peyton at such a bad time."

"I excused myself, of course. And then Mr. Peyton demanded that Lily go to her room. The girls' room is just as it was when they were teenagers. She argued with her father, but he was adamant. It was so upsetting!"

"I'm sure. I wonder what Lindstrom wanted?"

"I wouldn't know." Nick looked at her intently and her gaze dropped. He had a feeling he was dealing with a discreet but scrupulously honest woman. "Well, that's not quite true. I did overhear part of their conversation. I didn't mean to, but I'd gone to the kitchen and from there you can't help overhearing…"

"I understand." He took a sip of Coke. "I had a talk with Lindstrom once. He was pretty obnoxious."

"He was odious! Loud, rude. I didn't catch every word, but he kept asking questions about Warren. Did Mr. Peyton know Warren was having an affair with Charlotte Bishop? Did Mr. Peyton believe Warren had murdered Tamara? Mr. Peyton was becoming extremely agitated when suddenly Lindstrom said-"

She drew a deep breath, frowned, and looked down at her twisting hands. Don't let her stop now, Nick implored silently. But he knew this woman would not respond to pressure. He continued to look at her with interest but not avidity.

"Well, this has been bothering me," Mrs. Ebert resumed slowly. "Lindstrom said something about exposure to Mr. Peyton."

"Exposure?" Nick repeated quietly as the word screamed in his mind. "I wonder what he meant by that?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. I don't believe Mr. Peyton has any secrets. He's an honorable man. He was devoted to Mrs. Peyton. That's why I'm surprised by his involvement with Mrs. Cosgrove. She's so different…" She was wandering and Nick wanted to shout, "Get back to the point!" Extreme will power stopped him. "I wondered and wondered what this Lindstrom character could have meant by exposure," Mrs. Ebert went on. "And I think I have an idea."

Nick was leaning so far forward he nearly fell off the settee. He quickly grabbed the glass of Coke and drained it to hide his agitation.

"Do you need another drink, Sheriff?"

"No, I'm fine. You said you have an idea what Lindstrom meant by exposure?"

"I wondered if it might have something to do with Alison. I thought possibly she'd been in some mischief and Mr. Peyton wanted to protect her for Mrs. Cosgrove's sake."

"Alison? Mischief?"

"I can't think of anything else, particularly since I learned she's been going to the Saunders house at night, dressing up, listening to music. It's hard to tell what else she might have been doing."

"I see what you mean about Alison," Nick said. "What happened after Lindstrom made this threat?"

"Mr. Peyton told him to get out or he'd call the police. And Lindstrom left. Afterward I went in to see if I could do anything for Mr. Peyton, but he was quite sharp with me. The first time in ten years. But he was deeply troubled. He drank two snifters of brandy. Took them straight down. I've never seen him do that before."

"And then what?"

"Then he slammed out of the house and drove off. Lily had come out of her room by then and she was terribly worried. She went out, too. Mr. Peyton didn't return until near dawn. I know because I was too disturbed to sleep and I heard him come in."

"Where do you suppose he went?"

"I don't know." She colored slightly. "Perhaps to Mrs. Cosgrove's house. He often stays there quite late."

"And you didn't see Lily again, either?"

"Not that night." Mrs. Ebert rubbed at a shallow vertical line between her eyebrows. "I feel that I've said far too much, but Mr. Lindstrom was a terrible person. The very idea of verbally attacking Mr. Peyton on the day of his daughter's funeral! Not only that, but threatening him with exposure, of all things. It was distressing and ridiculous!"

Nick was quite sure Oliver Peyton found the threat of exposure distressing. He was not at all sure the man found it ridiculous.

After downing another glass of Coke and a second plate of Ritz crackers with cheese, Nick gave up on Oliver Peyton. "Will you tell him I need to talk with him when he comes home?" he asked Mrs. Ebert.

"Certainly. I can't guarantee that he'll contact you, though." She looked at him regretfully. "He seems to be dodging people lately. All the stress."

"I understand. But this is very important, Mrs. Ebert. Would you give me a call even if he doesn't? I won't mention your name to him." The woman looked as if she were going to refuse. "Mrs. Ebert, I'm trying to find Tamara's killer."

"All right," she said unhappily. "I'll call."

He felt slightly ashamed as he walked back to the car. He'd enlisted the woman's help by telling her he wanted to find Tamara's killer. He knew Oliver Peyton didn't murder his daughter. He wasn't so sure Oliver Peyton had not murdered Jeff Lindstrom.

He sat in the car wondering what to do next. He's wanted to talk to Hysell about Dee, but Hysell wasn't coming on duty until four because he'd been up all night dealing with the Alison Cosgrove attack, allowing Nick to go home for a few hours of sleep and some time with Paige. He'd talk to Hysell this evening. Now he'd make another attempt to see Dee.

Nick braced himself as he pulled up to the Fisher home. His first two visits had been less than pleasant. He had a feeling his third could provoke an actual physical attack from the frail Mrs. Fisher. He noticed an old Volkswagen in the driveway that had not been there on his previous visits. Maybe it was Dee's.

His question was answered as soon as the front door swung open. A woman of around thirty with curly brown hair stood before him. She wore jeans on a sturdy frame, and her only makeup was a slash of bright pink lipstick. She looked exhausted.

"Dee Fisher?" he asked.

"The famous Sheriff Meredith. Ted talks about you a lot." From her tone Nick guessed Hysell did not speak of him in glowing terms. "My mother has a lot to say about you, too."

"We've had a couple of conversations. May I come in?"

"Why?"

"Because I need to talk to you." Dee continued to stare at him. "If you don't want to disturb your mother, we could speak out here on the lawn." He paused. "Or at headquarters."

"Headquarters!" Mrs. Fisher appeared behind Dee like a small, squawking bird. "I knew you'd gone and done some thin' wrong, Dee. Can't keep outta trouble. Just like your daddy!"

She began to rasp, then to cough. She backed away from the door, hacking forcefully into one hand, swatting with the other at Dee when she came near. "Get away! You.only make me worse!" Splutter, gag, snort. Dee turned to Nick, looking utterly hopeless and exhausted. "You'd better come inside. As you can see, I can't leave her."

Nick stepped inside. He knew better than to suggest calling the E.M.S. Dee hovered over her mother who bent double, alternately coughing and cursing, until the siege began to subside. "I'll get you some lemonade," Dee said.

"Beer!"

"Mom-"

"I said beer!" Mrs. Fisher quavered. "And get him one, too. He's a beer-drinkin' man. Might put him in a better mood."

"Lemonade for me," Nick told Dee. "I'm on duty."

Mrs. Fisher glared at him. "Coward."

Off to another roaring start, Nick thought as he entered the small, stuffy living room. At least he'd pinned down the elusive Dee.