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blue leather couch and complex window dressings, the cream silk flowers in a big Chinese vase. “Nice,” Nelson murmured.
    Jill took her notebook out, wrote something in it.
    Three minutes later a trim woman in a white silk shirt and dark blue trousers came in alone. Her hair was streaky blond, freshly combed, her lips lightly touched with color. She wore a clunky gold necklace and earrings. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, only a little anxious, her light blue eyes wide with concern.
    “Are you Pamela McFey?” asked Jill.
    “Yes, what is it?”
    “Won’t you sit down, please, Mrs. McFey?”
    The look of concern deepened to fear. “What’s wrong, what’s happened?” she asked.
    But Jill insisted gently, “Please, sit down, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
    Mrs. McFey obeyed, perching on the very front edge of the couch, her eyes flicking from Jill to Nelson and back again. “Is it Coy?”
    “No, ma’am, it’s Robert, your husband.”
    She looked so relieved, Jill hated to say it. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    She blinked rapidly, but the relief was still there. “Oh, my, that’s sad. I suppose Dr. Moore was right the first time.” She looked up at Jill, and was surprised at Jill’s look of surprise. “I mean, he’s had this liver disease for a long time, he’s already lived two years longer than Dr. Moore thought he would.”
    “Oh,” said Jill. “Well, I’m afraid he didn’t die of liver disease, ma’am.”
    “No?” She floundered for words, gesturing helplessly.
    “Well, then, what? Car accident? No? Not . . . suicide, surely?”
    “No, ma’am. He was at the Excelsior art fair, and I’m afraid he was found in his booth a few hours ago. I’m sorry to tell you this: He was murdered.”
    Mrs. McFey gaped at Jill, then at Nelson. “No,” she said. “Robbie? Oh, no, that’s ridiculous!” A new thought came and was swiftly suppressed. “That’s ridiculous,” she repeated, and looked down at her fingers, which had clasped themselves without her volition. She pulled them apart, rested them on her knees. “I don’t understand,” she said, asking for more information.
    “He was stabbed,” said Jill. “Another artist found him and raised the alarm, but . . .” She gestured helplessness. “Nothing could be done for him.”
    “Oh!” She made a face, a twist of disgust, horror, and dismay. “Why would—who did this terrible—who would do such a terrible thing?”
    “We don’t know, not yet. It may have been a robbery. We’re investigating, of course, and a detective will be by later to talk to you. Do you know of any enemies your husband might have had?”
    “Enemies? No, of course not! I mean, who would hate Rob enough to—stab him?” She seemed surprised even to ask such a question, to connect his name with such a deed. “But you said it was a robbery, right? I mean, he had money with him, he had this metal box, to make change out of.” She gestured the shape of the box with both hands, accurately.
    “Yes, ma’am, the box was found, and it had been emptied.”
    “Yes, I see. Was, was there a struggle?” Her eyes widened as her imagination glimpsed an unpleasant scene.
    Jill recalled the small amount of disorder in the booth. “I don’t think so. He was probably taken by surprise, perhaps walking in on someone emptying the cash box. His death was quick.”
    Pam grasped that crumb of comfort. “Yes. Thank you.”
    “What did your husband do?” Jill asked. She raised her ballpoint pen, prepared to write.
    “Well, you saw them, didn’t you? Those animals he carves? He does big and small pieces—he did big and small pieces—” She stopped to swallow, overtaken by the need for past tense, and touched two trembling fingers to her lips.
    Jill looked around the expensively furnished room in this big, costly house. “He didn’t have another job?”
    She nodded. “Yes. Well, he used to. He owned Information Please, an