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The little town was stirring at last, with shoppers out on the streets and deliverymen stocking stores. Leary opened for her, and she discovered a wiry mustachioed man in a blue serge suit, the sole occupant.
    â€œConstable Roach, may I present a fine lady, Mrs. McPhee. There’s been a bit of trouble.”
    â€œTrouble, eh? What sort of trouble? Have a seat, madam. And you, if you want,” Roach said, nodding at a stool.
    She poured her story into the silence, starting with the cave-in, quest for help, the pair sent by the funeral parlor, and later, that night, the thump, the fire, the loss.
    Roach listened intently, rheumy brown eyes assessing her in a way that made her feel as if she were not the victim, but the suspect.
    â€œGold mine, was it?” he asked. “I think I know the one.”
    She saw where his thoughts were running.
    â€œAnd what is this gent’s role in all this?”
    â€œMr. Leary offered help when I arrived deep in the night and didn’t know how to locate you or get help.”
    Roach eyed Leary with the same assessing gaze, adding to his list of suspects. But then he surprised her. “My powers extend only to city limits. That’s a matter for the sheriff, up there. But I think the fire was likely an accident. You were a bit distraught, weren’t you? Losing your source of income. I’d hardly call it arson, much less manslaughter. It doesn’t take much. Leave a lamp burning, did you?”
    She fought back the impulse to shout at him. The mine was sealed with an explosion. The cabin was doused in kerosene. An obvious attempt to kill a surviving heir to Kermit McPhee’s property.
    She glanced at Leary, who sat on the stool with compressed lips. Somehow she could read Leary’s thoughts, and he was warning her to back away, fast, hard.
    â€œThose people at Laidlow’s. Fine fellows, and that young lady’s a niece of mine, Mistletoe Harp, a bit flighty but otherwise just fine,” Roach said. “Those boys, they’re my nephews, Jones and Carp. I can’t say I’m proud of them, not wanting to go in there to help free your husband. But boys are scaredy-cats, and I guess you showed ’em a thing or two. They just need some weathering.”
    That’s all it took. March felt as alone in the world as a mortal can be.
    â€œThat mine’s not worth a plugged nickel anyway, so I hear, so there’s no cause for anyone to cop it. Whoever planted the charge did you a favor,” Roach said. “Pocket mine. Clean out a ledge and quit the place. Was McPhee trying to pawn it off?”
    Leary’s lips were tight.
    March stood. “My husband is dead,” she said.
    â€œWell, I don’t speak ill of the dead,” Roach said. “I’m sure you are feeling some loss. But after the funeral, how about you stop in here for some record-keeping? I’d like to know what that mine was producing, and whether that vein was pinching out, which is obviously what lies behind all this stuff. It looks like a scheme. But as I say, I’ll speak no ill of the dead.”
    March ignored Leary’s tight lips, and flared up. “So that’s how it is, is it? Well, someone tried to kill me and my boy.”
    She scarcely knew where that had erupted from, but it sure quieted that little nook. There was a single-cell jail, mostly an alcove with iron bars, but it was empty. She wanted to throw Constable Roach into it and throw away the key.
    â€œCome along, Mr. Leary; I’m done here. We’re going to the newspaper. They’ll write it up.”
    Roach stared, unmoving.
    â€œI’ll expect you at the funeral for my husband and son, Constable,” she said. “I know you’ll want to pay your respects.”
    With that, she headed for the street, with Leary at her heels.
    â€œI always pay my respects,” Roach said. “With interest added.”
    His great mustachios twitched like cat