Gretchen looked questioningly at her aunt, remembering the promise Nina had made to keep the jar's existence confidential. Nina's eyes shifted to Bonnie, who had originally shared the information with her. Bonnie grinned conspiratorially. "I had to share a teensy bit of police work with my favorite group." She held up her right hand and pressed two fingers together to show how minuscule her sharing really was. "But remember, no talking outside our little circle."

  "Change stations now," the programmed voice commanded, and everyone shifted to the next station in the circle.

  "After all, you are my best friends." Bonnie's arms swung to encompass all Curve's members working out, even two women who had signed up that very morning and had only introduced themselves moments before. Her "best friends" nodded enthusiastically.

  "That's right," said Rita Phyller, the Barbie collector.

  "That's right," Ora, the Curves manager, echoed.

  "We're buddies."

  "Does anyone have a theory about the jar?" April asked.

  "I do. I do." Bonnie shouted, waving her right hand like a kindergarten student. "Charlie always thought her sister had been murdered. Matty is looking into it again."

  "Wouldn't that be something if Sara really had been murdered," Rita said, shaking her head. "Too bad Charlie's ticker gave out before the investigation was over."

  Gretchen glanced over at Nina. Other than law enforcement officials working the case, the true cause of Charlie's death should only be known to Gretchen, Caroline, and Nina. This was the moment that would tell her how reliable her aunt was.

  No one said anything. Charlie's suspicious nicotine overdose was still under wraps.

  Nina glared at Gretchen as though she knew that her niece hadn't trusted her, and Gretchen gave her an I'm-sorry look.

  April huffed loudly and paused in her workout to rest. April had chased Gretchen and Ryan down the street yesterday. Today, she couldn't get through a ten-minute circuit, working slow. April's adrenaline must really spike when she gets excited, turning her into superwoman, Gretchen thought.

  "I think someone scared Charlie to death," Bonnie said.

  "Literally. Her heart gave out."

  "That's impossible," Rita replied.

  "No, it isn't," April said. "That son of hers was pretty scary-looking. His face could frighten a person enough to bring on a heart attack."

  "I wouldn't go that far," Gretchen said. In spite of Ryan's grungy appearance, he had seemed young and frightened.

  "I almost fainted from fear after looking into his eyes."

  April shivered. "He's lost his grip on reality; that's obvious."

  "If Sara was murdered, I'd put him first on the list of suspects," Ora said. "Look how he hurt Gretchen."

  "What if Charlie was murdered, too?" Rita called out.

  "That kid's a drug addict, you know," Bonnie said.

  "Crack cocaine, pot, booze, you name it. He's been in and out of rehab centers, and nothing works. What if he killed his mother in a fit of rage? Maybe she wouldn't give him money for more drugs, and he was strung out. An addict without drugs will do anything to get them, even if it means killing his own mother."

  "There wasn't any sign of a struggle," Gretchen said before the exercise group got too carried away. "And no marks on Charlie's body."

  "Does your detective son know about Charlie's son?"

  Rita asked Bonnie.

  "Of course, Matty's onto him like lint on Velcro." Bonnie grimaced. "That isn't a very good analogy."

  "Like toilet paper on a shoe?" Nina offered.

  "Like a flea on a dog?" April said, laughing.

  "I'm out of here," Gretchen said, heading for the stretching area. Nina followed her over. "I'm having breakfast with Britt."

  "Sounds good," Gretchen said, bending at the waist and touching her toes while the inside of her head pounded on her skull. "Don't worry about coming to the shop. Mom accomplished so much yesterday, we might wrap up the project today."

  "I'm your chief problem solver," said Nina. "I'll be there. After yesterday's excitement, I'm staying close by. Who knows what disaster will happen next?"

  Matt Albright's unmarked blue Chevy passed Gretchen's car going the opposite way. The detective waved, not a friendly hello wave, but rather a trying-to-flag-you-down sort of wave. Gretchen recognized the hand gestures but ignored him. She gave him her best smile and wiggled her fingers as if to say toodle-oo.

  Matt wasn't much of a team player. He worked alone and kept his progress to himself. He didn't take her seriously enough, so today she was following his example and working alone.

  Gretchen turned onto Central Avenue, wondering what the detective was doing in this neighborhood. Central Avenue divided the city into two grids. Numbered streets ran north and south on the east side of Central. Numbered avenues lined the west side. Gretchen drove slowly up First Street, crossed Central, and cruised down First Avenue. Gretchen was looking for Nacho and Daisy, two destitute characters whom she'd become friends with. She had to find time to help out more at the homeless shelter, but life had been busy. Soon, though.

  Nacho, an alcoholic who lived inside his mind most of the time, appeared to enjoy his life of freedom from the heavy responsibility imposed on others by what he thought of as a tyrannical society.

  Daisy, a would-be actress, was always on the lookout for Hollywood talent scouts; and considered herself an honorary member of the Red Hat Society and dressed accordingly. Gretchen had tried to change the two derelicts with limited success. She'd opened her home to Daisy in hopes that a normal environment would improve her roving ways. Occasionally, Daisy stopped in for a bath and a soft bed. But then, to Gretchen's frustration, she would be gone again, back to the streets and her own circle of friends. Gretchen drove past Saint Anskar's soup kitchen without spotting them. The streets were quieter today than usual, less foot traffic, fewer homeless with all their possessions stuffed into plastic garbage bags or shopping carts. When she turned onto Central Avenue for one last look, she finally spotted Daisy, wearing her purple sundress and a red hat adorned with a large feather. The homeless woman was pushing a cart that brimmed with junk. "Today's my lucky day," she said with a big grin after Gretchen stepped out of the car. "I can feel it in my bones and in my heart."

  Daisy's purple dress was crumpled, and her best hat showed signs of wear. Gretchen thought she saw a smidgen of pigeon droppings on the brim. Daisy's secondhand sandals exposed dirty feet.

  "It's time to take a break from the street," Gretchen said.

  "Why don't you come home with me for a few days and get some rest?"

  Daisy shook her head. "Not today. I'd miss an important opportunity to break in to the biz. I'm trying out for a part at Orpheum Theatre."

  Gretchen hid her frustration. "Where are all your friends?" She didn't see any of Daisy's usual acquaintances. Even the pigeon-feeding ladies were missing from their designated bench.

  "On vacation. I stayed behind for the audition."

  Gretchen almost laughed out loud. Daisy must really be delusional today to think all the street people were away on vacation. "Where did they go?"

  "San Francisco." Daisy adjusted her dress, and Gretchen caught the faint scent of the perfume she had given to her, among other odors. "How do I look?"

  "Like a million bucks. You're kidding, right? About San Francisco?"

  Daisy shook her head. "No. Nacho heard that San Francisco closed the homeless shelters. Instead, the government is handing out money every month. If you're homeless, you get dough. And they can't tell who's a resident and who isn't, because none of us carry identification. Slick. We're like a secret society. Like Masons."

  "Did Nacho go, too?"

  "He led the pack," Daisy said. "I tried to tell him that the grass is always greener, but he has to find out on his own. California, here he comes."

  "How long are they on this . . . ah . . . vacation?"

  "Just long enough to pick up some cash and tour the city. Speaking of cash, when is your aunt going to need my services again?"

  "I'll ask her."

  Daisy was a natural with animals, connecting with them in a way she couldn't with people. Daisy occasionally helped out with the purse dog training whenever Nina had more business than she could keep up with.

  Matt Albright's blue Chevy swung around the corner, two blocks down. Gretchen had been expecting him. The man never gave up. She was running out of time. Gretchen kept an eye on the unmarked car. "I'm looking for a drug addict named Ryan Maize. Do you know him?"

  "We stay away from the druggies," Daisy said. "They're insane. Totally over the top. And they steal from us." She looked down at the shopping cart filled with her possessions, then up at the blue car pulling to the curb.

  "Wait here," Gretchen said to her. She stepped off the curb and rounded on the driver's side. "Please stay in your car," she said.

  Matt paused halfway out of the car and gave her a dazzling, toothy smile. "You're telling me to remain in my vehicle?"

  "Correct."

  His eyes swung to Daisy, who had her hands on her hips and didn't look pleased to see him.

  "She's never going to talk to me if you're part of the conversation," Gretchen explained.

  "What are you two talking about?"

  "This and that. Now please stay in your car."

  "Okay," he said and climbed back in.

  "What's he doing here?" Daisy wanted to know.

  "You remember Matt Albright. His mother is the president of the doll club. He's a friend."

  Daisy glared at his car. "A cop is a cop. I know you like him, but I wouldn't trust a cop as far as I could spit, and I can spit a long way. He'll be nice and friendly until he gets what he wants."

  That wasn't news to Gretchen. That pertained to all men, not just cops.

  "I need to find Ryan," Gretchen said. "Can you help me?"

  Daisy tilted her head, considering the request. "I'm not sure," she said. "Try Twenty-fifth and Van Buren, pink stucco house. But be careful. Those druggies are dangerous." Daisy shook her head and clicked her tongue before adding, "This city ought to clean up its streets."

  * 14 *

  "Come with me," Gretchen said to Matt after Daisy had wandered out of range.

  "Where are we going?" Matt said with a suggestive grin.

  "Have you found Charlie's son yet?"

  "Almost," Matt said.

  "Almost doesn't count. If you want to talk to him, I'll take you there."

  "I'll follow you over."

  "Come with me. It will give me a chance to tell you about my first impression of him."

  "My mother already told me. But I'd like to hear it from you."

  He slid in beside her. Gretchen related the story of yesterday's chase down Scottsdale Road. Matt sat next to her, gripping the sides of the car's seat.

  "You can trust me," Gretchen said, noting his clenched fists and braced posture.

  "I've heard that before," he quipped.

  Gretchen had never driven with a cop in her car. She drove as carefully as she could, obeying every traffic sign, coming to complete stops, using her directionals properly. What a pain! Twenty-five miles an hour was much slower than she thought.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she had the feeling he was watching her every move. She was relieved when he answered a call on his cell phone. Business kept him occupied until they were close to their destination. Gretchen made a turn onto Van Buren and slowed to look for the house.

  "This must be it," she said. "It's the only pink stucco."

  She pulled to the curb.

  "Wait in the car. I'll be right back," Matt said.

  "Not in a million years. This is my gig. You're tagging along for the ride. I'm the one who found him."

  "You're impossible. I knew driving over with you was a bad idea when you suggested it. We should have taken my car." Matt didn't look like he meant it. Or maybe he did, but his lips had that amused turn to them. "What next?" he said. "Should we surround the house and go in with guns drawn? You can cover me. Oh wait, you don't have a gun."

  "Shush."

  They both stared at the house. Chipped pink stucco. A broken window boarded up with plywood. Discolored blinds, all drawn.

  "Stay here," Gretchen said.

  "What? I'm the law enforcement official, in case you haven't noticed. You're stealing my line. You stay here."

  "No way. I'm the one who found this address. If you weren't so busy following me, you would have found Ryan by now."

  "I haven't been following you."

  "I'm going in."

  "I happen to be the detective in charge of this case. I don't wait in cars."

  She gave his garb an appreciative glance and wondered if he'd look as good in a uniform. He wore one of his social causes T-shirts, a white one that proclaimed, Running Strong for American Indian Youth. She'd seen him wear several with different motifs. This one had teepees against a backdrop of soaring eagles and an orange setting sun.

  "You look like a cop," she said.

  "No, I don't. That's the whole point of working undercover. So I don't look like a cop."

  "He won't even open the door if you go up to it."

  "He isn't going to open it either way."

  Gretchen was already making her way up a broken sidewalk. Wilted shrubs framed the house. It looked deserted. She knocked softly and listened for movement inside. Nothing. She banged loudly. Then banged again. Gretchen could smell Matt's Chrome cologne floating on the breeze behind her.

  She thought she heard something inside. A scurry sound like a mouse. Or a rat. The place was probably crawling with rodents and insects. The door opened a crack, and an eyeball peered out.

  "I'm looking for Ryan Maize," Gretchen said. "Is he here?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "Gretchen Birch. I'm a friend of his mother's."

  "No, you're not. You're a cop."

  "I'm not a cop."

  Gretchen heard a chuckle behind her.

  "Do you have a search warrant?" the person inside asked.

  "No. I'm trying to tell you, I'm not a cop."

  The minuscule opening in the door began to close. Matt's arm shot out to stop it. He flashed identification with his other hand. "I'm the cop," he said. "Don't make a bad choice. Open the door and talk to us."

  "Don't you need a warrant?"

  "Not to ask questions about a death."

  The door swung open, and Ryan stepped hesitantly out onto the porch wearing the black do-rag. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders slumped with an air of defeat, like he expected life to keep disappointing him. Classic drug addict's philosophy, Gretchen thought. They blamed their circumstances on bad luck and the actions of others, instead of taking control and making different choices.

  "I don't feel too good," Ryan said, leaving the door ajar.

  "I think I'm sick."

  Matt gave him a cold stare.

  The porch was covered with cigarette butts and round burn holes. Gretchen tried to look past Ryan into the house, but the interior was dark. The sunlight blinded Ryan. He covered his eyes. "Make it quick," he said. "I gotta go. I'm gonna be sick."

  Gretchen tried not to look at the silver ring piercing his lower lip.

  Matt leaned against the stucco wall, outwardly relaxed and appearing casual. But he wasn't. "First, I have a complaint. You assaulted this woman."

  Ryan glanced at Gretchen. "She chased me down the street and grabbed me. I was looking through the window, and she started yelling and coming after me."

  Gretchen squirmed. He wasn't lying. When he said it like that . . .

  "You struck her and knocked her down."

  "She started it." Ryan said, a kid's whine in his voice.

  "Let it go," Gretchen said to Matt.

  "But he assaulted you. Don't you want to press charges?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Gretchen didn't know why not. All she knew was that she felt sorry for him. She'd worked with the afflicted before, serving meals and donating money when she could spare it. Ryan, although not exactly destitute, had a certain helplessness about him. He brought out the maternal side of her, as weird as that sounded.

  Go figure. She felt sorry for the guy who'd slugged her. She looked up at the crumbling pink stucco and wondered how many drug addicts lived inside. "I only wanted to talk to you about your mother," she said to Ryan. "You didn't have to hit me."

  "I really think it's important that you press charges,"

  Matt said.

  "No."

  "Can I go now? I'm really gonna be sick."

  "Not yet," Matt said. "How did you learn that your mother died?" He didn't say murdered. Ryan was too messed up to wonder why he would be questioned if his mother had died from natural causes.

  "One of her friends came by and told me."

  "When?"

  "Saturday . . . um . . . like afternoon."

  "Who?"

  "Britt somebody."

  "What did she say?"

  "That my mother had a heart attack."

  "What kind of relationship did you have with your mother?"

  Gretchen studied Matt. Cool, crisp, and professional but with the appearance of casualness. Even though he wasn't taking notes, she was sure he'd remember every word of the conversation.

  "Not too good, but it was her fault. She didn't approve of my lifestyle. Wanted me to be more like her, like everybody else." Ryan's eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pale. Who would want to look and feel this bad every day?

  After several more questions, Ryan hunkered down on the side of the porch and retched.

  Gretchen and Matt looked at each other.

  "We'll have more questions later," Matt said to him. Gretchen wasn't sure Ryan heard.

  She stepped off the porch with Matt right behind her. "I don't understand you at all. I thought we were in agreement," he said in a low voice. "Wasn't the whole point to bring him in for questioning? The assault was a perfect opportunity. His mother was murdered and . . . I don't know why I'm even trying to explain it to you."

  Gretchen frowned at him. Men! Talk about miscommunication. Or more like no communication. Other than a few Neanderthal grunts, none of them had the ability to express themselves. "I wish you had told me you were going to threaten him," she said, looking back. Ryan had disappeared inside.