She skipped another beat. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Don’t you do payroll or something?”

  A very long pause. “Judy was always asking him about his name.”

  I started, and a few exams toppled off my desk. “They actually did know each other then?

  “Duh.” Sarah informed me that Judy used to stop by the sheriff’s office every week. “We do lunch together on Fridays.” Another long pause. “Did,” she said. “Judy and I did lunch.”

  ***

  “Why don’t you ask P.T. yourself?” Maxine asked me. “He’s at your house quite frequently.”

  “Because I’m asking you, Maxine.”

  “Or Sarah would know his real name. Why don’t you ask her, Cassie?”

  I rolled my eyes and walked around my desk retrieving stray exams. “Because I’m asking you. You’re the pro research-person, right?”

  “Wrong.” Maxine whined and claimed to be losing her touch. “I have yet to uncover the little tyke’s extended family, and it’s been well over twenty-four hours since my column came out. Lake Bess Lore usually works faster than this.”

  I told her patience is a virtue.

  “Look who’s talking,” she said. “And for the life of me, I cannot figure out who the boyfriend was.”

  I dropped the papers I’d been gathering. “You’re looking for Judy’s boyfriend?”

  “Captain Sterling’s press conference,” she said. “He wants our help.”

  A good point. A point I might make at lunch—

  I shook myself and listened to Maxine typing away in the background. “Are you looking up P.T.?” I asked. “I already checked Facebook. He’s P.T. there, and if he has a Twitter handle, I couldn’t find it.”

  Maxine’s kept on typing and checked a bunch of other social media sites. “P.T., P.T., P.T., and P.T.,” she said. “Goodness, this is odd.”

  “Did you check Google?”

  Maxine asked me not to insult her and continued typing and tapping. “Moving on to the Herald digital archives.” She reminded me P.T. had only become our deputy sheriff within the last year. “Cross your fingers.”

  I crossed them, and she found several articles mentioning Deputy Dent.

  “P.T. this, P.T that,” she sputtered. “P.T. here, P.T. there,” she muttered. “But nothing with his full name.” She sighed. “Why would that be, Cassie?”

  A very good question.

  Chapter 37

  Jason looked up from his desk. “I guess we’re letting anyone in.”

  “Very funny.” I jiggled the paper bag I was carrying. “Lunch is served.”

  He smiled and gestured me forward, and I closed the door.

  For the record, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Captain Sterling’s office. I’d made several visits the previous summer. This was, however, the first time I brought food. After all our meals at Bouillabaisse, I’d insisted Friday’s lunch be on me.

  I pulled sandwiches out of the bag and set them on his desk. “It’s not fancy,” I said. “But the deli on campus is pretty good.” I reached back in and found two cookies and our sodas. Then I turned the bag upside down and an unopened package of pencils fell out.

  Jason blinked. “Will I need those?”

  “If history dictates.”

  ***

  For a few minutes we ate lunch like normal people and talked about normal things like the weather. But eventually we stopped pussy-footing around. I pushed aside the remnants of lunch and told him I had two theories about the boyfriend.

  “Only two?”

  I smirked.

  Jason opened that package of pencils, and held one at the ready while he mentioned our supposed agreement. “You concentrate on the kid, and I concentrate on the murder.”

  “But I felt obligated to visit Great Grandma Abernathy.”

  Pencil snap number one. “She lives in Oz, Cassie. What did you think you’d accomplish?”

  “I accomplished quite a bit, thank you very much. How about P. T. Dent?”

  “You took Deputy Dent with you? Why?”

  “Nooo. P.T. is my theory. The P could stand for Paul. P-uh, p-uh.”

  Jason scowled. “Why would Barney Fife kill Judy Tripp?”

  “People aren’t always what they seem,” I said, and while Jason groaned a few times, I explained. “Mrs. Abernathy called P.T. the Tin Man on Sunday, and point-bank referred to Judy’s boyfriend as the Tin Man yesterday. Even Joe Wylie, Mr. All Rational and Logical, thinks my idea might have credence.”

  “I thought he was Mr. Mad Scientist.”

  I waved a hand. “Whatever. But you have to agree that P.T. Dent is very entangled in this.”

  “He’s in law enforcement, Cassie.”

  “But what if he’s literally entangled?” I said. “P.T. knew Judy, and he’s great pals with Truman, who has asked zero questions about why he visits us every afternoon. I’m guessing they were friends before—”

  “I’m the Tin Man.”

  I started. “Say what?”

  “Iris Abernathy calls almost all men the Tin Man.” Jason pointed to me. “And I’d bet every pencil in this station you’re the Good Witch of the South.”

  I stared at the pencils. “But why doesn’t anyone know P.T.’s full name?” I asked. “Even Maxine Tibbitts couldn’t find it.”

  “What!?” he said, and the pencil parts went flying.

  I waved both hands to calm him down. “I didn’t tell her why I needed P.T.’s full name, but this was a job made for Maxine—she’s a world-class researcher.”

  “She’s a world class busybody. Who else have you talked to?”

  I reached out and rolled a few pencils his way.

  “Sarah Bliss!?”

  “Okay, so maybe that was a little rash,” I said as pencils parts flew. “But don’t you think it’s odd she doesn’t know his name? And by the way, it was Sarah who told me P.T. knew Judy.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t P.T. tell me?”

  Jason squinted. “Better yet, why didn’t Truman tell you? If your theory has any credence, why hasn’t the kid mentioned P.T. was his mother’s boyfriend?

  Good question.

  I explained Truman’s game of keeping secrets. “I’m guessing P.T., a.k.a. Paul, told him to keep it a secret.”

  “How does your P.T. Dent theory fit with the Great Grandma’s house angle?”

  I admitted that piece of the puzzle had yet to be resolved, and Jason mumbled a “Looney Tunes.” But he wasn’t destroying pencils, and what he said next was truly shocking.

  “No more bodyguarding duty for Deputy Dent. Don’t let him anywhere near the kid.”

  I sat forward. “You really think I’m onto something?”

  “No. I really think you’re nuts.”

  I sat back. “And you haven’t even heard my second theory.”

  ***

  Jason grabbed another pencil. “Hit me.”

  I hit him with my Paul the fugitive from the law theory. “Yet another reason I had to talk to Sarah,” I said. “She’s checking the records for any fugitives from the law named Paul.”

  The pencil broke, and Mr. State Trooper reminded me Sarah Bliss was still a suspect. “Did our deal mean nothing to you?”

  “But this theory came straight from Truman,” I said. “I was talking to him, just like you wanted, and he told me point-blank that Paul is like Evadeen Deyo.”

  “Who?”

  “You already know who. You yourself helped my father with this plot point. And now poor Evadeen is a fugitive from the law.” I sat back. “Dad’s been harping on it for days.”

  “Your father writes science fiction, Cassie.”

  “And Truman understands she’s pretend. Nevertheless, his comparison must mean something, right?”

  Jason studied the last intact pencil. Then he picked it up and found a notepad. “Tell me everything you know about Evadeen Deyo.”

  Chapter 38

  “Be glad you teach biology,” I told Bambi as I shut my office door. “How long have you been waiting?”

  “Long enough to reconsider your crazy plan.” She pointed me to a chair. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

  Frankly, I had no idea. So I tried to take her mind off our plan by complaining about the history department meeting I’d just endured. “Take a guess what the main topic of discussion was.”

  “Not what, who,” Bambi corrected. “Dr. Cassie Baxter is once again the top story on the Crabtree College grapevine.”

  “Lucky. Me.”

  Lucky me, several members of the Crabtree faculty, staff, and student body live in Hanahan County, and therefore, read the Hanahan Herald. But even my colleagues who don’t have easy access to Lake Bess Lore had watched Jason Sterling’s press conference. And good old Amy Peyton, Ms. Crabtree College Grapevine Guru, had spent all day Thursday putting two and two together, and had shared her insight during our department meeting.

  Bambi showed zero sympathy. “Did Amy tell everyone about your lunch dates with your hunky-boo state trooper?” she asked.

  I snarled in answer.

  “Did she mention Joe Wylie and his general hunky-boo-ness?”

  “What do you think? And this of course led to a rousing debate as to who’s better suited to me.”

  “And?” Bambi took her feet off my desk and leaned forward. “Who is better suited? Pretend you had to decide today. Who’s the most important man in your life?”

  What a shocker, I had a response. “How about a five and a half-year old boy named Truman Tripp?” I said, and Bambi finally got serious.

  “Any new theories on the murder?” she asked.

  I told her I had all kinds of theories. “Especially about the mystery man boyfriend, Paul Something or Other.”

  “Spill.”

  I promised I’d spill everything on the drive to Hilleville and stood up, but about then, my phone rang. I waved both hands. “We’ve already left,” I said. “Ignore it.”

  Of course, Bambi ignored me. “Dr. Baxter’s office,” she answered.

  She scowled, bit her lip, and turned to me.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Paul Something or Other.”

  ***

  In case you’re not quite sure, I grabbed the phone.

  “Paul!” I said. “I am so glad you called!” I gestured frantically for a piece of paper, and Bambi flipped over an awful essay. “I didn’t quite catch your last name.” I sat back down and poised my pen. “How did you find me? How long did you date Judy? When was the last time you saw her? Do you know where she was headed that morning? And, umm—” I stopped and cringed.

  “And did I kill her? No. Did you?”

  “Me!? I didn’t even know Ju—” I stopped again. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “McGraw,” he answered, and I jotted it down almost as if I might forget. “Are you taking notes, too?” he asked.

  “Nope.” I tossed the pen to Bambi. “Who else was taking notes?”

  “Your buddy the state trooper. He just left.”

  I scowled. “Left where?”

  “Highland Street Garage.”

  I smacked my forehead. “You’re a mechanic! Just like Evadeen Deyo.”

  “Who?”

  “Wow, Jason figured that out fast. What a pro!”

  “Who?”

  “I’m glad you’re not a fugitive from the law, Paul.”

  He hesitated. “Come again?”

  “Evadeen Deyo is running away from Commissioner Dingle, top dog at the Celestial Intelligence Agency, but now she’s stucket on Plucket.”

  “Looney Tunes,” Bambi silent-spoke to me.

  I waved a hand to shut her up and concentrated on Paul McGraw.

  “You sound as Looney as everyone says,” he said, and enlightened me that he was a big fan of Lake Bess Lore.

  Goody. “Maxine Tibbitts exaggerates my quirks,” I said.

  “Yeah, right. Take it from me, your state trooper buddy thinks you’re Looney, too.”

  “Jason Sterling called me Looney?” I ignored Bambi’s bobbing head. “What else did he say?”

  “He told me not to talk to you.” Paul McGraw chuckled. “So guess what, Cassie Baxter?”

  ***

  “I can’t believe the boyfriend called you,” Bambi said as I pushed her through the reception area.

  “Which one?” Amy asked.

  I gave Bambi a solid shove into the hallway and hurried her down the stairs.

  “Pete warned me this would happen,” she muttered.

  “Your husband’s brilliant.” I ushered her out the door. “What did he warn you about?”

  “You. You talk me into one errand, and look what happens. We get errands coming out the yin-yang.”

  “Maybe.” I pushed her toward my car, but she leaned back.

  “I heard you,” she continued complaining. “You told this Paul person we’d meet him at some bar in Hilleville. Who’s ‘we,’ as if I didn’t know?”

  I tried smiling.

  Bambi sighed. “I’m not crazy about meeting murder suspects, Cassie.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! No one suspects Rebecca Pryce or Molly Donahue of murder, okay?”

  “Who?”

  “The coworkers!” I pointed to my car. “It’s where we’re headed.”

  Bambi sighed but kept walking. “I bet Paul is a suspect.”

  I told her the boyfriend’s always a suspect and gave her one final push, but she stopped short and stared.

  “It’s a car seat,” I said.

  “In your car. That’s something I thought I’d never see.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  ***

  “You tell me something I don’t know,” Bambi said as we drove off campus. “Like a rundown on your errands from yesterday.”

  Fair enough. I gave her the rundown as we headed out of Montpelier, and by the time I got to my little chat with Fanny, we were halfway to Hilleville.

  “I rest my case!” Bambi threw her hands up. “Your one teeny-tiny errand multiplied into how many? Two, three, ten?”

  “Only two.” I scowled. “Three.”

  I was watching the road, but I’m almost sure Bambi rolled her eyes.

  “What else should I know?” she asked. “Tell me your latest theories. I assume you have about ten?”

  “Only two,” I said. “Both of which are now completely defunct, thanks to Paul McGraw. But maybe my luck is changing.”

  “I can’t wait to hear how.”

  “No cow crossing, for one thing.” I pointed to Mr. Hooper’s cows as we zipped past. “And no one’s waiting for me at home, so we can take as long as we want.” I pointed again as we passed Lake Bess and mentioned the male bonding adventure in Burlington.

  “What about our adventure?” Bambi asked as Route 19 turned into Hilleville’s Main Street. “Remind me—am I Dr. Smith or Dr. Jones?”

  “Neither.” I made the turn toward the county office building. “Your just plain old Dr. Bambi Lovely-Vixen.”

  “What? No aliases?”

  I reminded her Paul McGraw knew exactly who he was meeting at the Blizzard Bar and Grill in Hilleville. “Judy’s coworkers know who I am also,” I added. “Everyone in Hanahan County recognizes me.”

  “Then what’s our story?” Bambi asked as I parked in the lot behind the office building. “Are we making up some complaint about your tax bill?”

  “Nope,” I said. “We’re simply here to report on Truman. Molly Donahue invited me to visit. Twice.”

  Bambi scowled. “You mean, we’re telling the truth?”

  “Honesty is the best policy.”

  She kept scowling. “Are you feeling well?”

  Chapter 39

  Bambi pointed to the woman taking a hammer to an old-fashioned radiator. “Is she feeling well?”

  “She’s cold.” I explained the supposedly haunted building and we decided the ghost guys must have been mad at the heat. We stepped farther into the office. “Yoo-hoo,” I hollered, and the woman with the hammer jumped and turned.

  “Oh!” she said. “I didn’t know I had company.” She took one look at me, and her face brightened. “Cassie Baxter! I’m Molly Donahue.” She put down her hammer to shake my hand, and I stared at her eye to eye. FYI, this doesn’t happen much, since most people are over five feet tall.

  I scowled and tilted my head. “You were there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At the Sheriff’s office on Sunday. We almost tripped over each other.”

  Molly’s mouth dropped open. “That was you?” She shook her head and apologized. “I was so upset right then, I couldn’t see straight.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Same as you, I assume. Looking for Truman. I rushed over right after Sarah called.”

  I kept staring. “Sarah called you, too?”

  No, but evidently she had called Judy’s boss. Molly pointed to the closed door to her right. “Dear Rebecca was too busy to help,” she said. “So I got the job.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that,” Bambi said, but Molly insisted she was glad to help.

  “Or I would have been if the cops had let me see Truman.” She squinted at Bambi, and I stepped forward to make the introductions. Molly did the usual double take at the Lovely-Vixen thing, but apologized for laughing at the name.

  “And I’m laughing at the hammer,” Bambi said. “Aren’t you a secretary?”

  “Don’t I wish that’s all I did, but the problem du jour is the heat.” Molly snarled at the radiator and invited us to take a seat. “Leave your jackets on.”

  ***

  Bambi nudged me, and I tore my gaze from the name plate on Judy Tripp’s desk.

  “I was asking about Truman,” Molly said quietly. “I was hoping you’d bring him along.”

  I explained the male bonding adventure down in Burlington and glanced around. “Your boss isn’t here, either?”

  Bambi reminded me it was after five, but Molly told us the time wasn’t the issue.

  “Rebecca’s the issue,” she said. “She ducks out early all the time.”

  “I understand she’s retiring soon?” I asked.

  “You understand, and I know. Dear Rebecca’s only been talking about Florida for the last three years.” Molly sighed. “I miss Judy. At least the two of us could commiserate.”