“Who knew?” Kara said.

“Lots of possibilities. Evan, for one,” Candace said. “Or anyone else in the family. Maybe even the guy who fired him. And let’s not forget Hoffman. Maybe he and the professor were in cahoots.” Candace stood. “I need to get on the phone with the chief about this. Thanks, Jillian.”

“You should thank Shawn for reminding me what we all saw that night,” I said.

Candace left the room, and Kara looked at me. “You said there was something I could contribute.”

I explained what Shawn had mentioned about activists communicating on the Internet.

“He’s right. I don’t know about animal rights people, but remember the election rebellion in Iran? Twitter was invaluable at getting the word out of the country about the protests and the resulting brutality.”

“Lots of people use this way to communicate?” I said.

“Millions. It’s mostly innocent stuff, but I can see how a terrorist might use this form of social networking to talk to other terrorists. How can anyone possibly follow all the hundred-and-forty-character messages going out every second of every day?”

“One hundred forty characters, not words?” I said.

“Right. Tweeting is a new language full of abbreviations. It takes some studying to get the hang of it,” she said.

“Shawn said there are other sites like Twitter. What do you know about those?” I said.

“There are. Twitter is big business and wouldn’t want their network used for anything even bordering on illegal,” she said. “They suspend suspicious accounts all the time. But some of the clones probably aren’t as careful.”

“Can you show me on my computer how this works?” I said.

“I can show you on your new phone,” she said.

A few minutes later, Candace joined us as I learned how to join the Twitter world. She learned a few things, too, though she already did have a Twitter account herself. But the bad news was, Kara doubted we could ever backtrack to identify anyone who was sending messages this way. Social networking was her thing, and she said the technology wasn’t there yet. How could anyone track the millions of messages going out every second?

But at least I felt more up on this now. And then while I was closing down the application, my phone rang.

I nearly dropped the thing. “Is Twitter calling?” I said before I pressed the TALK button.

Not Twitter-not even close. The female voice said, “This is Sarah VanKleet. I’d like to talk to you, if you have time.”

“We’re talking,” I said.

“Not over the phone. Can you come here? To the bed-and-breakfast where we’re staying? It’s called the Pink House.”

I kept myself from admitting I knew. “What’s this about?”

“My sons. Please? Can you humor me?” she said.

“Sure. When?” I said, wondering why she was calling me instead of Chief Baca or Candace.

“They do a very nice lunch here. Say, eleven thirty?” she said.

“I’ll be there,” I replied.

After I disconnected, I told Candace we had a lunch date.

The Pink House is an old Victorian, one of the first houses built in Mercy. I knew the place well because it had also been the scene of the murder last fall. I had stayed away from the place since then, so I was amazed by what I saw today. Less than a year ago, the house had been about to fall down. Now it had a fresh coat of salmon pink paint, and all the gingerbread trim was once again white. Flowers and manicured shrubs lined the walkway up to the front stoop.

“This is amazing,” I said to Candace as we reached the front door. “I never thought I’d come back here, but I’m glad I did.”

Kara had promised she wouldn’t wait alone at my house while we were gone and would instead take her computer to Belle’s Beans, the place she called the “hotbed of Mercy gossip.” I knew she was right about that, and I realized I actually looked forward to what she might learn while she was there. I had to admit, I’d come to admire how intelligent Kara was. And she’d loved her dad, loved cats, and maybe one day she’d care for me, too. I wanted her in my life. She was my family.

I rapped on the door using the gleaming brass knocker-definitely a new addition-and a petite woman with short brown hair answered. She seemed about my age but probably had plenty of those little jars of face cream like the one Kara offered Candace last night, because her skin was creamy and smooth.

“Anita Stone,” she said, glancing back and forth between Candace and me. “Can I help you?”

“Jillian Hart. I’m having lunch with Mrs. VanKleet.”

Anita Stone smiled. “Ah yes, but we only expected one guest.”

I thumbed at Candace. “She goes where I go.”

Candace held out her hand. “Deputy Candace Carson, Mercy PD.”

I didn’t think Anita Stone’s skin could have gotten any paler, but she did lose color. She finally took Candace’s hand in greeting and said, “Please come in. I’ll tell Phillip we’ll have one more for lunch. He’s my husband and does all the meals.”

We followed her through the large foyer, and though I knew the layout of this house well, the place had been transformed back to what it had once been probably fifty years ago. The wood banister and trim were shiny with polish, and fresh flowers sat on an antique table we passed. No dust mites or musty odors, either.

“You’ve done an amazing job renovating this house in such a short time,” I said.

“That’s for sure,” Candace said.

“You know the history, then?” she said as we reached the dining room. Then she shook her head. “How stupid. Of course you do. You’re the police.” Anita looked at me. “Are you an officer, too?”

“No. And I’m not signing up anytime soon.” I perused the dining room. The massive oak table that had once been here was gone, replaced by four round tables sporting white linens. A vase of fresh daisies and yellow mums sat on each one.

“I’ll talk to Phillip about the menu and get another place setting. Mrs. VanKleet and her professor friend should be down shortly.”

Shortly was right. They came into the dining room mere seconds after Anita left.

Sarah glared at Candace. “What are you doing here?”

Douglas Lieber rested a hand on Sarah’s back. “It’s okay. I’ve told you that you have nothing to hide. Perhaps it’s better that Deputy Carson came along.”

But Sarah still didn’t look happy. “I can’t throw you out, can I? First of all, this isn’t my home, and second of all, you’re the police.”

“And you’d be right,” Candace said with a smile. “You can’t.”

“Shall we sit down in the parlor while we wait for lunch?” Lieber said. “I assume you’ve met Anita?”

“We did. She’s making sure I get to eat, too.” Candace walked across the polished wood floor to the parlor.

We all followed. The huge pieces of furniture that had once filled this room had been replaced as well. Smaller antique dressers and tables were used only to display artwork or showcase beautiful candles and Lladró figurines. Slipcovered easy chairs and a love seat against the wall sandwiched a coffee table. We all sat down, with Sarah and Lieber taking the love seat. He immediately took her hand in both of his.

I ran my fingers along the arms of the chair, admiring the gorgeous floral fabric, but Candace was all about business.

“Why did you ask Jillian here today?” she said.

“The honest truth?” Sarah said.

“That’s the best kind,” Candace said.

“Um, we were hoping for a friendly conversation,” Lieber said.

“I’m not real good at friendly when two people are dead,” Candace said.

“But I’m glad you called me,” I said quickly. Candace was being the touchy cop again, and I had a feeling that wasn’t the best approach with these two.

Sarah smiled at me. “I called you here to apologize, for one thing.”

“For what?” I said, totally confused. I didn’t even know this woman.