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bereft Hobo. She was lost in these thoughts when a horrified scream jolted her nervous system with the power of a lightning strike.

Chapter 3
    A heavyset woman in her forties, with pepper-and-salt hair as short as a man’s and a deep shelf of a bosom, stood frozen in the kitchen entryway. She’d run out of voice, but her mouth was still wide open. She clamped her plump hands over it as if she were afraid of what else might jump out.
    Rory saw the color drain out of her cheeks as she started to rock back on the heels of her flip-flops. For a woman of her girth, she had surprisingly slender legs and delicate ankles. Rory noted this as she was rushing toward her. She grabbed hold of the woman’s substantial forearm before she could rock backward again and overbalance. It was like playing tug-of-war with the law of gravity, and for a few hectic moments it seemed that gravity might win.
    Fortunately the pressure of Rory’s hand seemed to focus the woman, bringing her around like someone being awakened from a trance. Once she was in control of her faculties, she was able to help keep herself upright. Rory waited a few moments to make sure that her charge was no longer in danger of keeling over, before she maneuvered her out of the doorway and down the hall toward the front door. The woman rocked from side to side as she walked, as if she were trying to navigate the deck of a ship in heavy seas.
    “What happened to Brenda?” she asked breathlessly. “Where are you taking me?”
    “This is a crime scene, ma’am,” Rory said, “so we’re going to have to leave the premises and wait outside for the police.”
    The woman nodded, her double chin waggling, the leather tote on her arm swinging back and forth with each step like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.
    When they were outside, Rory helped steady her as she sat down on the top step.
    “Can I get you some water?” she asked, remembering the unopened bottle in her car.
    The question didn’t seem to register with the woman, who was busy riding her own train of thought.
    Rory repeated the question.
    “No—yes—I mean . . . oh dear,” she said, struggling to regroup from the grisly scene in the kitchen. “No, no water. I don’t need water.”
    Rory had yet to meet anyone in this situation who actually needed water. Some of them would say yes to the offer, but after an initial sip would just hold on to the glass or bottle until someone else relieved them of it.
    “What happened to Brenda?” the woman asked, her cheeks beginning to pink up. “Is she . . . dead?” She whispered the word “dead” as if saying it aloud would give it too much power, make it more irrevocable than it already was.
    “Yes, I’m afraid she was gone when I got here,” Rory said. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Right.” The woman bobbed her head, then looked up at Rory as if she were seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”
    “Rory McCain.” She held out her hand and the woman grasped it more as a lifeline than a handshake. Rory could feel her trembling, vibrating as if her whole body were a tuning fork. “How did you know Brenda, Mrs. . . . ?”
    “Sugarman . . . Marti Sugarman. Brenda’s one of my closest friends . . . oh dear.” Her hand went to her mouth again. “I guess I should have said was. For more than ten years. In fact she called me just this morning and asked me to come over. Were you a friend of hers too?”
    “No, I never actually met her,” Rory said, gently withdrawing her hand since it was becoming awkward to stand there, leaning over and holding hands with Marti. “I found Hobo wandering around near my house. When I saw the address on his ID tag I figured I’d bring him back.”
    “That was very nice of you,” Marti said, social conditioning kicking in on autopilot. “Hobo can be a handful, but . . . wait a minute, where’s Tootsie?”
    “Who’s Tootsie?”
    “Brenda’s Maltese.” Marti looked around the small front yard as if perhaps