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Deputy Sheriff called for his help about thirty minutes ago.''
      ''He's at her place?''
      ''He will be, I expect. Said he'd get the warrant and meet the deputy there.''
      ''From what Verna Mae said the other day, I assumed she lived alone. Why would he need a warrant?'' I asked.
      She yawned. ''Because Burl does things by the book. Now give me your number. When he gets home, I'll tell him you want to talk to him.''
      I gave her my cell number and said, ''Sorry to have disturbed you'' before I hung up.
      My brain was swirling with questions, and I knew I wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight. Stroking the purring Diva, I wondered if I could reach Bottlebrush before Burl Rollins was finished at Verna Mae's house.

      The drive took far less time than when Will and I had made the trip, partly due to a deserted interstate—though a speedometer hovering at eighty helped, too. I arrived before midnight and found a county sheriff's patrol unit parked in Verna Mae's curving front drive along with a dark-colored Land Rover.
      I pulled up behind the Rover, killed the engine and slid from behind the wheel of my Camry. The air was rich with country smells—the sweetness of honeysuckle in the night breeze layered over the scent of new-mown grass. When I climbed the porch steps and passed the wicker furniture where we'd sat and chatted, I looked away. I didn't care to see that bassinet again.
      The front door stood ajar, the entire lock removed and lying on the porch slats. I pushed the door wider with my toe and heard male voices in a far-off room.
      ''Hello?'' I called.
      No reply, so I stepped inside. The same overpowering gardenia smell I remembered from the other day about slapped me in the face. Verna Mae must have a punch bowl full of potpourri somewhere. I slipped off my still gritty sandals, suddenly feeling the need to respect her white carpet. Whoever had just come in had not done the same. I easily followed two sets of dirty shoe prints that led to two men standing in a study. I noticed a gigantic rolltop desk and wall-towall mahogany bookshelves. The men's backs were to me, looking in desk drawers. One wore a black police uniform.
      I cleared my throat.
      They both turned in surprise, the deputy's hand on his weapon.
      ''Good evening, ma'am. Are you looking for Verna Mae?'' the older cop said, apparently nonplussed by my arrival. His uncombed, gray-streaked hair tufted out over his ears, reading glasses sat low on his nose and he had brown eyes that sagged like a basset hound's.
      ''I'm not looking for her,'' I said. ''I know she was murdered.''
      ''Is that so? How did you find out?'' asked the man. I noted a Bottlebrush gold police shield pinned to his shirt pocket.
      ''What's your business here?'' the deputy piped in. He looked about twenty, with chiseled cheeks, a military haircut and biceps the size of world globes.
      The older man put a hand on the deputy's arm. ''Now, Glen, this is a friendly town and I'd like to maintain that reputation, if you don't mind. I doubt this little lady came here in the dead of night to cause us any trouble. Are you a reporter, miss?''
      ''No, sir. My name is Abby Rose and I'm a private
    investigator.'' I started to unzip my bag. ''I can show you my license if—''
      ''We'll get to that later. I'm Burl Rollins. Chief of Police in town,'' he said. ''Your name sounds mighty familiar. Why is that?''
      ''I left you several messages over the last few days. I wanted to interview you for a case I'm working, one that involved Mrs. Olsen.''
      ''Hmmm. And now she's departed this life. There's only one case I can think of that involves her and me, and that was a long time ago.''
      I nodded. ''Abandoned child.''
      ''How does that explain what you're doing here?'' Muscleman Glen asked. I could tell he was making an effort to be ''friendly'' this time, but he didn't quite pull it off.
      ''Son,'' the chief said, addressing the deputy