“We wanted to bring the children to feel the spirit too, but it was so late, and we have church tomorrow.”

Molly smacked the speaker across the butt with the flat of her sword, a good two-handed stroke that sent her stumbling into the street. “Go home!”

Molly was winding up to smack the other one when she turned and held up her hand as if refusing a refill on coffee. “No thank you.”

“Then you’re going and you’re not coming back, right?”

The woman didn’t seem sure. Molly turned her grip on the sword so the edge was poised to strike. “Right?”

“Yes,” the woman said. Her friend nodded in agreement as she rubbed her bottom.

“Now go,” Molly said. As the women walked away, she called after them, “And stop dressing alike. That’s fucking weird.”

She watched them until they disappeared into the fog, then went back to where Steve was waiting in trailer form. “Well?” She threw out her hip, frowned, and tapped her foot as if waiting for his explanation.

His windows narrowed, ashamed.

“They’ll be back, you know. Then what?”

He whimpered, the sound coming from deep inside, where the kitchen would be if he were really a trailer.

“If you’re still hungry, you have to let me know. I can help. We can find you something. Although there is only one hardware store in town. You’re going to have to diversify your diet.”

Suddenly an electric guitar screamed out of the fog, wailing like a tortured ghost of Chicago Blues. The dragon trailer became the dragon again, his white skin went black, then flashed brilliant streaks of red anger. The bandages Molly had spent all day applying shredded with the abrupt shape change. His gill trees hung with tatters of fiberglass fabric as if toilet-papered by mischievous boys. The Sea Beast threw back his head and roared, rattling the windows through the trailer park. Molly fell in the mud as she backed up, then rolled and came up on her feet with the broadsword poised to thrust into the Sea Beast’s throat.

“Steve, I think you need to take a timeout, young man.”

Such a short period of time to have so many new experiences. In just the last few days, he had coordinated his first major missing person search, including talking to worried parents and the milk carton company, whose people wanted to know if Theo could get a picture of Mikey Plotznik where he wasn’t making a contorted, goofy face at the camera. (If they found a better picture, Mikey would end up with great exposure on the two percent or nonfat cartons, but if they had to go with what they had, he was going on the side of the buttermilk and would only be seen by old folks and people making ranch dressing.) Theo had also had to deal with his first major fire, the hallucination of giant animal tracks, and opening a real live murder investigation, all without the benefit of his lifelong chemical crutch. Not that he couldn’t nurse at his favorite pipe, he’d just lost the desire to do so.

Now he had to decide how to go about investigating Bess Leander’s murder. Should he pull someone in for interrogation? Pull them in where? His cabin? He didn’t have an office. Somehow he couldn’t imagine holding an effective interrogation with the suspect in a beanbag chair under a hot lava lamp. “Talk, scumbag! Don’t make me turn the black light on that Jimi Hendrix poster and light some incense. You don’t want that.”

And amid all the other activity, he felt a nagging compulsion to go back to the Fly Rod Trailer Court and talk to Molly Michon. Crazy thoughts.

Finally he decided to drop by Joseph Leander’s house, hoping he might catch the salesman off guard. As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed that weeds had grown up around the garden gnomes and there was a patina of dust on the Dutch hex sign over the front door. The garage door was open and Joseph’s minivan was parked inside.

Theo paused at the front door before knocking and made sure that his ponytail was tucked into his collar and his collar was straight. For some reason, he felt as if he should be wearing a gun. He had one, a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver, but it was on the top shelf of his closet, next to his bong collection.

He rang the bell, then waited. A minute passed before Joseph Leander opened the door. He was wearing paint-spattered corduroys and an old cardigan sweater that looked like it had been pulled out of the trash a dozen times. Obviously not the sort of attire that Bess Leander would have allowed in her home.

“Constable Crowe.” Leander was not smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

“I suppose,” Leander said. He stepped away from the door and Theo ducked in. “I just made some coffee. Would you like some?”

“No thanks. I’m on duty.” Cops are supposed to say that, Theo thought.

“It’s coffee.”

“Oh, right, sure. Milk and sugar please.”

The living room had bare pine plank floors and rag rugs. An antique pew bench took the place of a sofa, two Shaker chairs and a galvanized milk can with a padded cushion on the top provided the other seating. Three antique butter churns stood in the corners of the room. But for a new thirty-six-inch Sony by the fireplace, it could have been the living room of a seventeenth-century family (a family with very high cholesterol from all that butter).

Joseph Leander returned to the living room and handed Theo a hand-thrown stoneware mug. The coffee was the color of butterscotch and tasted of cinnamon. “Thanks,” Theo said. “New TV?” He nodded to the Sony.

Leander sat across from Theo on the milk can. “Yes, I got it for the girls. PBS and so forth. Bess never approved of television.”

“And so you killed her!”

Leander sprayed a mouthful of coffee on the rug. “What?”

Theo took a sip of his coffee while Leander stared at him, wide-eyed. Maybe he’d been a bit too abrupt. Fall back, regroup. “So did you get cable? Reception is horrible in Pine Cove without cable. It’s the hills, I think.”

Leander blinked furiously and did a triple-take on Theo. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw the coroner’s report on your wife, Joseph. She didn’t die from hanging.”

“You’re insane. You were there.” Leander stood and took the mug out of Theo’s hands. “I won’t listen to this. You can go now, Constable.” Leander stepped back and waited.

Theo stood. He wasn’t very good at confrontation, he was a peace officer. This was too hard. He pushed himself. “Was it the affair with Betsy? Did Bess catch you?”

Veins were beginning to show on Leander’s bald pate. “I just started seeing Betsy. I loved my wife and I resent you doing this to her memory. You’re not supposed to do this. You’re not even a real cop. Now get out of my house.”

“Your wife was a good woman. A little weird, but good.”

Leander set the coffee mugs down on a butter churn, went to the front door, and pulled it open. “Go.” He waved Theo toward the door.

“I’m going, Joseph. But I’ll be back.” Theo stepped outside.

Leander’s face had gone completely red. “No, you won’t.”

“Oh, I think I will,” Theo said, feeling very much like a second grader in a playground argument.

“Don’t fuck with me, Crowe,” Leander spat. “You have no idea what you’re doing.” He slammed the door in Theo’s face.

“Do too,” Theo said.