“We’re not little children,” Dillon said. “I’d rather have known, even if there wasn’t anything we could do.” Earlier, up at the school, when they heard sirens, the girls had come running to see what was going on. They had stood watching as Ryan, strapped to a stretcher, was lifted into the emergency van. Later, when Ryan was out of ICU, Dillon’s mother had taken them to the hospital for a brief visit. Clyde was there sitting with her. She was disoriented and dizzy. Clyde had smuggled in his gray tomcat, who was lying on her bed, and they thought that was cool.

Lori finished her cornflakes and orange juice, pronounced it delicious enough to send the recipe to the Kellogg company, and rinsed her bowl. Cora Lee returned, looking snug and comfortable in soft corduroy pants and jacket the color of caramel, suede boots, and a suede cap. Heading out to the car thinking about the award, the girls swung from incessant talking to dead silence. Cora Lee, starting the engine, checked herself from saying that the world wouldn’t end if they didn’t win. She was praying hard that she’d see them walk away with the prize.

But whatever happened, she had no doubt that their bright and innovative playhouse would sell at the auction for a nice price. That thought, however, wouldn’t calm the girls’ competitive spirits.

And that’s as it should be, Cora Lee thought. Even if they didn’t win, the creative high of that long, demanding project wouldn’t vanish. The girls would be down for a while, but the joy of conquering what they’d set out to do, of making something beautiful that others would treasure, would still be a part of them, as would the thrill they got from competing against tough competition. Losing couldn’t take that away. I should know, Cora Lee thought. I’ve lost enough times-but I’ve come out on top just as many times.

And Gabrielle? she thought. Will Gabrielle bounce back and come out on top again, too?

She had left Gabrielle to lick her own wounds. But Gabrielle should feel somewhat comforted, with the Bureau man there; if anyone could bring back those files, Cora Lee thought an FBI technician surely could do it.

And if the money was gone, Gabrielle had a roof over her head; she wasn’t starving, and they’d all do the best they could for her. But right now, Cora Lee thought as she turned up Ocean Avenue, the sun is shining, the judging is about to start, and tonight is Christmas Eve-tonight is concert night. Tonight she must forget everything else in the world and give herself fully to the music.

But then tomorrow, she thought feeling suddenly heavy and dead, as if her heart had stopped, tomorrow Corlie’s aunt Louise will be here. And, too soon, Corlie will go home. We’ll have Christmas together, and then Corlie will be gone again, headed home to Texas…

Turning in to the school’s gate and waiting in line to park the car, she sat still and rigid, caught in the painful realization that she’d tried to avoid. She would soon lose little Corlie, too. Lose all that was left of Donnie.

Dillon spoke, but Cora Lee hardly heard her. She sat swallowing back sudden tears, trying to get hold of herself, trying to come to terms with this additional, painful loss that seemed too much to bear.

T HE ALLEY BEHIND Jolly’s Deli, with its fancy brick paving and tiny shops, smelled of roast turkey, though it was not yet Christmas day. The shops’ stained-glass windows glowed with Christmas candles and bright decorations. At the back door of the deli, beside a potted poinsettia, stood an empty plate, its surface licked glossy clean. Three satisfied felines sat before it, happily licking their paws and whiskers.

Dulcie and Kit had spent the morning crouched in the oak tree behind the jail, pummeled by cold wind, eavesdropping on Leroy Huffman and Ralph Wicken-while Joe enjoyed a comfortable two hours lounging in Juana Davis’s office watching Max Harper on Davis’s TV monitor as he interrogated Betty Wicken.

Afterward, the three deployed to Jolly’s alley, following the scent of roast turkey-turkeys had been roasting at Jolly’s for days, for deli slicing and for the Patty Rose picnic, and each morning George Jolly saw to it that the village cats got their share of generous scraps carefully boned and arranged on the nice white plates that he kept for that purpose.

Now, full to bursting, the cats had a leisurely bath and exchanged the morning’s intelligence.

“All they did in that cell was argue,” Dulcie said, “and Ralph whined a lot. Leroy said Ralph messed up the heist by calling attention to them with his fixation over little children, and Ralph said it was the blue van that did them in, that the van had been a stupid idea. I don’t see that we learned much that could be of use to the department. Except-”

“Except,” Kit interrupted excitedly, “Leroy Huffman did kill that girl in Arkansas. Evina’s niece. Ralph said if he hadn’t done that, killed that girl and then run, no one would have followed them, that Evina wouldn’t have followed them out here, and they wouldn’t be in this fix now, so it was all Leroy’s fault.” As cold as Kit and Dulcie had been on that oak branch outside the jail window, it was always satisfying to listen to a couple of no-goods laying the blame on each other.

“I wonder,” Dulcie said, “how they found out Evina was watching them.”

“Betty Wicken saw her,” Joe said. “She finally told Harper-she glimpsed Evina twice in that downstairs window. Didn’t pay much attention the first time, then later caught a glint that looked like binoculars or a camera. She called Leroy to come look, and of course he knew her. That was just yesterday.

“And,” Joe said, “Harper got her to tell him how she knew about the mural. He told her the more she cooperated, the easier it would be for Ralph. She really cares about that little-scum brother of hers. Max said he had enough on Ralph to lock him up for the rest of his life. I’m not sure he does,” the tomcat said, smiling. “But he made her believe it. She went on a long time about how hard she’s worked to keep Ralph away from children.”

“How did she know about the mural?” Kit said, licking a smear of turkey from her whiskers.

“She worked there,” Joe said. “She worked as a housecleaner for the Patty Rose Home, early in the fall. She cleaned up the old studio after the Home bought it.”

“But the mural was hidden,” Kit said. “How…?”

“Some old book about Anna Stanhope that Betty read when she worked in a gallery in Oregon. It said Anna had completed a mural that had never been on exhibit or listed with any collector. Some collector had looked for it, years ago, on the Stanhope estate. Betty got curious, came down here, and got a job there so she could nose around. She said she pried off a part of the wall, and then patched it.”

“She told Harper all that,” Dulcie said, lying down in a patch of sun, “to protect that no-good brother?”

“She did,” Joe said. “Well, Dorothy Street will soon have the mural back where it belongs.”

“I wonder,” Dulcie said, “will they install it in the school, in the main hall? Or sell it to pay for work on the new classrooms? A valuable mural that the school never knew they had.”

“I thought you were the art lover. When did you get so money conscious?”

“When I saw how hard Dorothy works to support the school. You think this playhouse contest is just for fun? She’s hoping that enough of the builders will donate their houses to the school as tax write-offs so when they’re auctioned, the school can add to the trust fund. You know she has a long list of homeless children waiting.”

Joe did know. It was hard for the state to adopt out older children when, say, something had happened to their parents. Joe yawned. Full of turkey and warmed by the morning sun, he was thinking of a short nap when Dulcie nudged him. “They’ll be gathering for the award.”