"I've obviously missed the small talk," Timmie ventured, sweeping a pile of papers from a third chair and pulling it over. It occurred to her that if she kept having to seat guests in the house, she wasn't going to have any floor space left. "To what do we owe this honor, Detective?"

Micklind didn't look appreciably easier now that Renfield was safely out of sight. Even ensconced on an ugly, droopy couch, he straightened himself up to interrogation posture and pulled out a regulation police notebook. "A couple of things," he said, considering it. "First, Vic Adkins."

Well, he had Timmie's attention. "He was murdered," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Micklind admitted, looking back up with calm cop eyes. "He was. And his wife didn't do it."

Timmie recognized an apology when she heard it. She settled into her seat for the ride. "And?"

"And I wanted to talk to you about who it might be."

"Isn't it a little late?" Timmie asked. "From what I heard, nobody could convince Van Adder there was a problem. Case closed. And when a coroner's case is closed in Missouri, it stays closed."

Now she got that twitch of incipient smile. "Yes, ma'am. Unless it's a cop. Then we can do pretty much what we want. Now, you want to go over this all again?"

Timmie considered him for a minute. She thought about reaching for another cigarette, but she really hadn't wanted the last one. She only smoked the damn things as a last vestige of rebellion.

"One question," she said, also ignoring the urge to scratch her staples. "Why?"

Micklind spared a quick look Murphy's way. Murphy waved him off. "I'm off the clock till you tell me, hoss. I'm just as curious as you are."

It still took Micklind a few minutes to let go. When he did, it was facing that notebook, which he held in his hands like an archaeological find. "I hear you were at Charlie Cleveland's today."

"Word does get around," Murphy allowed.

"Victor visited him before he died, too," Timmie said. "Most amazing thing. Charlie kept trying to confess, only Victor wouldn't let him."

Micklind nodded equably. "Victor wasn't allowed to let him. Charlie's had his problems. The decision was made to just let him be."

"He needed to confess," Timmie said. "But that's not why you're here. You're here to tell us that Victor found out that Charlie wasn't so delusional about people offering to kill his father for him, aren't you?"

Finally Micklind raised his eyes, and Timmie discovered the detective lurking there. "Yes, ma'am, I am."

"How?" Murphy asked.

Micklind lifted the notebook Timmie had assumed was his. "Found this in the locker room the other day. It's Vic's. Seems he was carrying on his own investigation after all."

Timmie leaned forward. "And?"

Micklind shot Murphy a quelling look. "This is all off the record."

"Then why am I here?"

Micklind gave him a ghost of a smile. "So I can let you know the reason behind that little set-to you had the other night. Has to do with Restcrest, economic opportunities, and a mayor who's going to run for reelection on the strength of the town's rebirth."

Murphy looked poleaxed. "The mayor was behind that little escapade?"

"Not in any official sense. It was probably more like the misunderstanding between Henry the Second and Thomas a Beckett. A halfhearted complaint taken as an order."

Timmie almost laughed aloud. Go figure it'd be the detective who'd finally show some residue of a real education. Timmie wondered if he knew poetry, too. "General opportunities?" she asked. "Or specific?"

Micklind didn't bother to dissemble. "You should go see the mayor when this clears up. He has a great model in his office of the hotel and convention complex that's being planned. Lots of important decisions being made right now by potential investors. Decisions made on the assurance that Dr. Raymond and Restcrest will continue to be part of the town's picture."

Money and power. Another puzzle piece neatly slotted into place. Murphy smiled a reporter's smile.

"I'm afraid there's not much you can do about the... uh, messengers," Micklind continued. "But though nobody else will do it, I apologize for the... enthusiasm of the message."

Murphy nodded. "Apology accepted. Now, what about Restcrest?"

Micklind went back to meditating, until Timmie thought she'd scream. "Nothing about it," he said. "At least nothing official. We've all been warned as far off as possible. But..." He lifted the book, weighed it. "I figure you haven't been listening to the warnings anyway. And I'd like to know what the hell's going on."

"You won't help?" Timmie asked.

"I am helping. I'm giving you what Vic had and staying out of your hair, which is not what my directive is. Besides, if something's going on over at that hospital, no cop is going to get the truth like a nurse is."

Much to Timmie's chagrin, she had to admit his point. "And any further... warnings?"

"I'm afraid you're on your own. Just remember that no matter what's behind this, it's a real hornet's nest. You're swinging your stick at the most important opportunity to hit Puckett since the railroad. Which means that whatever's going on, nobody wants anybody else to know about it."

Timmie grimaced. "We've already picked up on that. What about Victor, though?"

Micklind gave a tight little shrug on a par with his smiles. "I'd appreciate a regular update on what you find. With your experience I'm confident you won't compromise a possible case."

Now Timmie was stunned. Good lord, the second person in this town who actually acknowledged that her training meant more than knowing alternate uses for the paper bag. "That you can count on," she said. "You want our theories?"

Micklind pulled out a second, almost identical notebook and flipped it open. "Yes, ma'am, I probably do."

For the first time, Timmie smiled. "Tell me, Detective. You're not from Puckett, or I would have recognized you. Where are you from?"

"Chicago." His grin was brief, bright, and telling. "I came here looking for some peace and quiet."

* * *

When Timmie and Murphy settled at the table to study Victor Adkins's notebook a little later, two things stood out. Victor had been more careful with his private deliberations than with his public interrogations, and Detective Sergeant Micklind had done more than just find that notebook. The notes Victor kept were neat, concise, and objective. Micklind's additional comments showed up sporadically in a hastier scrawl.

Unfortunately, Victor hadn't gathered a whole lot more than Timmie and Murphy. He'd talked to quite a few people under different guises, dug through Van Adder's records, and pored over the charter for the revamped Restcrest. He'd visited families and talked to both Cindy and Ellen about their time in Restcrest, and all he'd been able to garner had been disdain for Van Adder, respect for Alex Raymond, and frustration with the families.

It was on the very last page of notes that Timmie struck gold. A list of names, meticulously recorded in Victor's round, careful, grade school-level hand. Familiar names, listed with ages, times and dates of death, and one other item. Their original admission date to Restcrest.

"Well, I'll be damned," Timmie muttered when she saw Butch Cleveland's name almost all the way down and realized what it was she was looking at. "I think it's a list of the old-timers."