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front page. But now I had to consider the space that would be allotted to the homicide story. The phones had been ringing ever since Vida and I returned from the sheriff’s office. I wasn’t used to not having Ginny there to answer them. No doubt there were two dozen irate subscriber messages on the voice mail that we ordinarily used only on weekends and after hours.
    When I went back into the news office, Vida was gone. Leo informed me that she was lurking outside the sheriff’s office. I nodded. That was good. Maybe Vida would worm something out of Milo or Bill Blatt before the end of the business day.
    As it turned out, Vida wormed Honoria and her brother into
The Advocate.
Just after four-thirty, the trio arrived, with Honoria’s wheelchair gliding across the threshold.
    “I couldn’t let these poor people go back to Startup without a few comforting words,” Vida said. “They’ve had a terrible afternoon.”
    The Whitman siblings’ demeanor attested to the fact. Honoria’s customary self-possession was badly shaken. Her fine features seemed strained and her short ash-blonde coiffure had lost its flair. Everything about Honoria seemed different, including her lack of vitality, her tailored clothes, her wheelchair. She greeted me with a pathetic smile and an outstretched hand that somehow struck me as clawlike instead of graceful.
    “Emma!” she said in her low voice. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you. And now, like this …” Her hand fell away into her lap.
    The man who stood behind her wheelchair bore apassing resemblance to his sister. He, too, was fair, though there was gray at his temples and he was beginning to bald. The bone structure might have been as aristocratic as Honoria’s, but there was too much flesh on the face. Trevor Whitman looked puffy, and his color was poor. Prison pallor, I thought fleetingly, and offered my hand as Honoria introduced us.
    “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said, the trite words sounding typically inadequate.
    Trevor Whitman didn’t respond. For an awkward moment, the only sound in the editorial office was the distant wail of the Burlington-Northern, slowing as it passed through town on its way to Seattle.
    Trevor finally transferred an Alpine Medical shopping bag to his left hand and shook his head several times. Then he reached out to shake my hand. And shake it until I felt my arm would fall off. The shopping bag bounced weightlessly at his side as he stared somewhere past my right ear. After another strained pause, I gently squeezed his fingers. He still didn’t let go. I had the impression that he was utterly dazed.
    I turned to Honoria. “How are you going to get home?” In times of tragedy, I embrace mundane matters. It’s easier that way.
    “My car’s here.” Honoria paused; Trevor finally released my hand. I had seen Honoria’s car parked in the space reserved for handicapped persons outside the sheriff’s office. The Nissan sedan was specially rigged for her needs and also had been equipped with snow tires for winter in the Cascade Mountains. “We should leave right away, before the snow gets too heavy. Mother’s all alone at my house.”
    Vida made a sympathetic noise. “Your poor mother! I didn’t realize she was visiting you, too. You’ve talked to her, I assume?”
    Honoria nodded. “But only about twenty minutes ago. We had to wait and wait for official word, and then we debated about whether to phone or tell her in person. It was snowing so hard for a while that we thought we’d have to put the chains on. It was even possible that we couldn’t leave at all because Milo needed us to make arrangements or …” Her voice trickled off.
    Vida was awash with compassion. “Then you must be off. My goodness, I didn’t realize you had such a houseful! You should have told us about your company!” In any other context except this grief-stricken atmosphere, I would have taken Vida’s words for reproach. But she went