Sue Lawrence had joined the department right out of college and quickly became the person he assigned to major criminal investigations. Sue was bright, insightful and took advantage of the in-service training available from state and federal agencies, especially the FBI.

Over the years Ray and Sue had also developed a strong friendship that had almost spilled over into a personal relationship. Ray worked hard at maintaining a professional distance, wary of the risks and negative consequences of crossing the line.

“Great tan,” commented Ray, remembering that Sue had spent a week in Florida with her parents before his own vacation.

“It’s starting to fade,” she responded.

“Anything happen last week I should know about?” he asked.

“Nada. How about the week I was gone?” she asked.

“Same.”

“It’s about time things slowed down. Remember when deep snow and frigid temps used to keep the bad guys indoors or out of state for weeks at a time?”

“It’s just one more negative consequence of global warming,” Ray shot back. “How was your vacation?”

“A week with the parents, not too exciting. I hit the beach every day, read a stack of books. We went out to eat a lot. That’s what they seem to do in Florida. I think my mom has stopped cooking. How about you?”

“We skied every day. Salt Lake has great snow. And in the evening we did the opera, the symphony, chamber music. I got back Saturday, slept most of yesterday.”

“What does your friend do?”

“He says he’s an investment banker—I’ve never quite figured out what that is. It appears that he’s sort of retired or has taken a sabbatical. He obviously doesn’t like to talk about it, so I left it alone. His main focus now seems to be skiing, music, volunteer work, and a long-term girlfriend.”

“In that order?” asked Sue.

Ray thought about the question before responding. “That was probably true last week. My presence might have skewed the data.”

“The opera,” Sue started, “the one we went to, I really enjoyed that. The next time your love life falls apart and you have an extra ticket, I’d be happy to go again. Only this time it would be nice not to work a homicide scene before the show. The onstage carnage was enough for one day.”

Ray’s focus was drawn to his secretary standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you,” Jan said, “but I have a Mrs. French waiting in the outer office. She insists that she has to see you. She says that it is very important.”

“It’s okay, bring her in.”

Less than a minute later Jan escorted Ma French into the office. Ray steered her to his conference table. He sat at the end of the table, while Sue sat across from her.

“Sorry to hear about Pa,” said Ray. “I saw the obit in the paper and hoped to get to the funeral but….”

“I understand, Ray,” she said. “I read the papers, too. Horrible things were going on. And I appreciate the card and your nice note. It meant a lot. That card is something that I will hold on to.”

“Jan said you needed to see me.”

Ma unbuttoned her coat—an ancient, heavy, red and black wool hunting jacket—and extracted a small brown paper bag. She set it on the table in front of Ray.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Money, lots of it. Ten thousand dollars by my count. All in hundreds.”

“Do you want to tell us about it?”

Ma French made no attempt to summarize her story. She started with the economics of dying, and how she and Pa had talked it over with the undertaker in the fall when it was clear he wasn’t going to last much longer. They found that a cremation was far cheaper than burial, and Pa liked the idea. Then she told Ray and Sue how Pa had asked her to spread the ashes nearby in a deer blind, in the burial place of the family dogs, and on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan near Camp E, their nickname for the Hollingsford Estate. She explained that they’d met there the summer before she graduated from high school.

Ray was tempted to prod her a bit to summarize, but he took a deep breath and allowed her to continue. Mamie, her given name, but not one used by the locals for decades, told them about her trip over to Lost Lake to spread Pa’s ashes, how she’d parked and walked across the ice-covered lake to the grounds of the old estate. Then how she had followed the snowmobile track through the woods to shore. Finally, Ma told them about stopping at the burial plot and her dog Roxy unearthing the jar with the money near Rose-Marie Hollingsford’s grave.

“Did you see anyone else that day, from the time you left your car until you returned to it?” Ray asked.

“No one,” she said. “Not that time or the next day.”

“You made two trips?” asked Sue.

Mamie flushed. “Well, when I first opened the jar and saw the money, I didn’t count it or anything. I just put it in my pocket and looked around to make sure no one saw me. When I got home, I laid it out on the kitchen table and counted it. I couldn’t believe how much was there. Right from the beginning, I knew it wasn’t right—all that money and me just taking it. So I thought I should put it back. I went over there again the next day after I got off from work.”

“What days and times are we talking about?” asked Ray.

“Wednesday and Thursday. Last week. Both times I was over there it was probably ‘bout four-thirty, quarter to five. But the second time it was different. When I was there the first time, there was no footprints, but Thursday there was prints everywhere. I could see someone had been raking around, looks like they used their hands. You know, open fingers. I got scared. Headed out fast. Got back to the car and out of there.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“How about the footprints? Did it look like someone might have followed your trail from Wednesday?”

“I thought about that. I didn’t see none. I think they came on a sled. There’s still enough snow along the shore, but it’s going fast.”

“How about when you were on that access road?”

“No. I didn’t see anyone either time. What are you going to do with the money?”

Ray sat for a long moment before he answered. “I would like you to count the money again in front of us. I’ll then give you a receipt. Sue will check for fingerprints. She will record the serial numbers and send them on to the FBI. They’ll see if there’s a match to any bills in their database that are connected to criminal activity. In the meantime, it will be held in the vault of the county treasurer.”

“And if no one claims it, and it’s not part of law breaking?” probed Ma.

“Let me check with the prosecutor’s office. I think after a certain period of time, pending no other claims, the money has to be returned to the finder.”

“That would be something,” she said. “I desperately need a new roof and lots of other stuff.”

“Don’t talk to anyone about this,” Ray warned. “Did Bobby see you with the money, or did you tell him about it?”

“No.”

“Don’t go back to the Hollingsford Estate.”

“I won’t, Ray.”

“Tell me again about your connection with the Hollingsford Estate. You worked there as a teenager?”

“Yes, it was my first paying job. One of my cousins worked there, and she got me in. We stayed right there on the property all summer. It was my first time away from home.”

“What did you do?” asked Ray.

“Domestic work mostly, helped in the kitchen and laundry. There was a lot to do. They had china and crystal and silver. Everything had to be polished and dried spot-free. As you know, I grew up on a farm not far from there, but I didn’t know people lived like that. They had late dinners every night. Everything was by candlelight. It was beautiful.”

“And you said you met Pa there?”

“Yes. He was older than me, been in the Army for a few years. He was the handyman, and he also helped the chef some. Pa had cooked in the service. We fell wildly in love, the way kids do, got married a year later when I graduated high school. Pa stayed on as the assistant caretaker for a few years.”