After they’d absorbed this, Joe said, “He hasn’t heard from the owners?”

“Oh, he has,” she said, pouring more iced tea from the jug. “But they keep saying no one wants the job permanently, even though it’ll come with the house, which the owners rented to . . . the previous family.”

None of them wanted to talk about the previous manager of the filling station/store. Or his kids.

When their food came, Diederik ate every scrap on his plate. There was no conversation once the food was in front of him; he consumed it with single-minded concentration. He only paused to raise a hand to greet Fiji, who’d come in to pick up her lunch to take back to her shop. After he’d wiped his mouth with his napkin, as he saw the others doing, he seemed to be thinking hard about something.

“This is a good place,” Diederik said suddenly. “Why is it hard to find someone who would live here?”

“We like it here just fine,” Joe said. “But I guess, for a lot of people, there’s just not enough going on, and they don’t like to drive to Davy or even farther to do their serious shopping.”

“But there are wide-open spaces, and you can see people coming. And there aren’t many peoples,” Diederik said, sweeping his arm to indicate the vastness of the country around them. His accent became more pronounced, and Joe tried to figure it out. But he hadn’t traveled much. He glanced at Chuy, who gave a tiny shrug. Chuy didn’t know, either. “That’s wonderful. It’s safer.”

Fiji looked worried at the inference that Diederik was used to living in danger, but she didn’t speak. Joe gave her an approving smile. He liked Fiji for her warm heart, but at the same time, it was what occasionally made her indiscreet.

It was a good moment for Bobo to come in, the sun lighting up his hair like a halo, an irony that made Joe smile. Diederik smiled when Bobo entered, too; everyone did, especially Fiji. It was the charm of the man, and Joe was sure that charm would last until Bobo was old, if he was fortunate enough to live that long.

“The reporters are getting bored hanging around Manfred’s, and some of them are heading this way,” Bobo said.

Diederik looked from one adult to the other, trying to figure out if he should be scared. Joe said, “Diederik, we’re going to leave out the back door and drive to Davy. Have you ever had ice cream?”

The boy shook his head. “What is it?”

“Something really good,” Fiji said. “You’re going to have a great time.”

“Explain to the Rev,” Joe told Chuy. “Okay, buddy, here we go!” He extended a hand to the boy, and Diederik took it without hesitation. They made their way through the kitchen, with a wave to Madonna, and then they were outside. Joe and the boy walked back to the street, peering around the corner of Home Cookin until the little gaggle of reporters went inside. Then they crossed Witch Light Road and walked to the parking area behind the store to climb into Joe’s truck. Diederik buckled his seat belt without Joe saying a word, and in short order they were headed north on the Davy highway.

Joe smiled at the boy. “I think you’re really going to like ice cream,” he said, and he was right.

The next day, Olivia turned onto Old Pioneer Street, which lay in the heart of Bonnet Park. Most of the houses on Old Pioneer had been built in the sixties and seventies, or earlier. They were positioned strategically on narrow, deep lots, and all had well-established lawns and plantings. Though many had been renovated, refurbished, and repaired, they had one thing in common: They were sizable, and they made a statement.

Eyeing the numbers on the brick pillar mailboxes, Olivia turned into the gravel drive of the third house on the right. Visitors were clearly supposed to take the right turn onto the circle around a large rosebed full of mature plants, all in bloom. Only the family or tradesmen would continue to the back of the house. Or a gardener, like the young man at work on the roses. He appeared to be Hispanic and maybe nineteen. He was snipping the deadheads and tossing them into a bucket. He was very curious about Olivia’s arrival. He turned to watch as she parked in front of the house.

Olivia’s feet crunched on the gravel as she went up the shallow steps to the double front doors and knocked. She was a blonde at the moment, and she wore blue contacts and bright red lipstick to complement her dramatic eye makeup. Her sleeveless blouse was a bright print, and her trousers were navy blue.

“Yes?” said the maid who answered the door. She was Hispanic, and short. Her hair was thick and long and still solid black, though the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes put her in her forties. “Can I help you?” She craned a little to the side to see the young man working in the rosebed.

“I’m Rebecca Mansfield from Home Health,” Olivia said, her voice solid with confidence. She waited.

“I’m Bertha,” said the woman, reluctantly. “I’m the housekeeper. What can I do for you?”

“Nice to meet you, Bertha. We got a signed application from Mrs. Goldthorpe about receiving our services.” She had a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a clipboard. The combined force of these authority symbols was just too much for the maid, who stepped back to let Olivia enter. The moment Olivia was inside, she moved swiftly to the center of the foyer, and her eyes got busy taking in everything. It was the scale she needed. To her pleasure, she found that Manfred’s floor plan had been more detailed than she’d ever expected.

Bertha, who was clad in scrubs in lieu of a maid’s uniform, said, “Miss Mansfield, Mrs. Goldthorpe passed away.”

“She what?” Olivia looked at the woman, apparently shocked.

“She died of pneumonia, or something,” Bertha said. “So we don’t need any home health care. You want to talk to her daughter, Annelle? She’s upstairs.”

“Of course,” said Olivia-as-Rebecca. “I’m so sorry. Ah, she did agree to our terms. . . .” Olivia felt she might not make it past Bertha if she didn’t hint that money might be involved.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get her.” The maid turned to go up the stairs.

“I’ll just come with you,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want to drag her away from whatever she’s doing.”

Bertha looked at her doubtfully but led Rebecca up the stairs and into the large room that was the second left after the landing. Yes, Manfred had been right. This was clearly the master bedroom. A woman who must be Annelle was standing in the doorway of a walk-in closet, looking tired and sad. She was short and plump, though not nearly as plump as her mother had been, and her hair was dark brown and graying just a bit.

Annelle was surprised to see someone she didn’t know, and not pleased. “Who is this, Bertha?” she said, making a visible effort to pull herself together.

“This is Miss Mansfield from Home Health,” Bertha said carefully. “Your mom must have filled out some forms?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Annelle said incredulously. “What else is going to happen? Why’d she do that?”

Bertha remained, looking curious, too. “I didn’t know anything about it, Miss Annelle,” she said rather smugly.

“Miss Mansfield?” Annelle was looking at her doubtfully. “I’m Annelle Kling, Mrs. Goldthorpe’s daughter. I’m afraid you didn’t get the news that my mom passed away very suddenly.”

“Bertha just told me. I’m so sorry for intruding on your grief,” Olivia lied. “We had an appointment set up with Mrs. Goldthorpe a few days ago, but when we rang the bell, no one answered, and when we left a phone message, we didn’t hear back. So my office sent me by to do a wellness check. We get worried when we don’t get a response from an elderly client.”