Of course, Alec found these cloudy, cold, short winter days a huge pain, too. Going to work in the dark, going home in the dark, the high heating and lighting bills, all were an argument for uprooting himself and moving to a more forgiving climate.

  But Alec was, among his other failings, a stubborn man. Someone had to stay and care for the helpless, voiceless animals who had voted (or been commandeered) to live in the too-often hapless custody of humankind.

  He was looking forward to Pugslee’s arrival. He loved doing surgery and knew he was very skilled at it. It wasn’t that long ago that he was up to his elbows in spays, hip dysplasia corrections, difficult births, and even, once in a while, something delicate and difficult like a mitral valve replacement. But the clients had faded away when Dr. Doug left. So, obviously, the problem was himself.

  His phone rang and he picked it up to say briskly, “Small Animal Medical Center, may I help you?”

  “Dr. Porter, please,” said a man’s voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m Sergeant Michael Malloy, a detective with the Excelsior Police Department. I need a few minutes of your time for an interview. Are you available today?”

  Alec looked at the numerous blanks on his calendar but hesitated. He hadn’t thought they’d get around to him so quickly.

  Wait a minute, maybe this wasn’t about Janet. “What’s it about?” he asked.

  “Have you got a cousin named Janet Turnquist?”

  “Well, I had. She’s deceased.”

  “That’s correct. May I come and talk to you about her, today if possible?”

  Damn. “All right, I guess so,” he said. “Can you come in to the clinic around three?”

  “Yes, I can. Thank you.”

  Alec sat still for a minute after he hung up. Thank you? I’ll be darned, he mused, a polite detective. Who would’ve thought?

  MALLOY pulled into the little parking lot of the Small Animal Medical Center right at three. There were no other cars parked there. The lot was covered with snow tamped down into a slick, potholed surface; his car jounced over the ruts. The clinic was on a corner lot, a stand-alone, one-story, brick building that could have used some tuck-pointing. Its few windows were small, high up, and tinted a dark green.

  He parked and climbed out, standing for a moment to take the environment in. The neighborhood was mostly residential; there was a mom-and-pop grocery store across the street, flanked by houses probably built in the early and middle of the last century, all in good repair. Up the street was a flower shop, and three blocks away he’d passed a park with a playground. A good, middle-class neighborhood, its streets lined with mature trees, its sidewalks cleared of snow. No one around, but that was to be expected during a workweek, with schools in session. Malloy went through the thick glass door into the clinic and was greeted with the heavy, sharp smell of nonhuman medicines and dry pet food—there was a shelf stacked with bags of high-end dog and cat food.

  A receptionist’s counter took up a third of the small room, but there was no receptionist. Everything looked a little shopworn but very clean. One of those dome-shaped bells with a little button on top was on the counter. Malloy tapped it twice; it rang nice and loud.

  Less than a minute later, a slender man in his late thirties or early forties, about five feet nine, wearing an unbuttoned white lab coat over jeans and a brown cardigan, came up the corridor that was off to the right. He had dusty brown hair cut short on the sides and a narrow, beaky nose, and his mouth stretched in a smile that did not reach his hazel-green eyes.

  “Well, I believe you are Sergeant Malloy,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for being willing to talk to me.”

  They shook hands. Porter’s hand was cool and dry, but he was looking a little nervous. “No problem, except I can’t tell you much about poor Janet.” The smile went away. “When did it happen? I only heard about it yesterday.”

  “That’s something we’re still trying to figure out.”

  “You don’t know how long ago she died?” He was surprised at that.

  “She died outdoors during a snowstorm that covered her body. She lay there long enough for her body to freeze. Under those conditions, it becomes very difficult to accurately determine a person’s time of death.”

  “I see. That’s too bad.” Alec’s shoulders moved in an uncomfortable shrug and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

  “I understand you have a good reason to want to know when she died.”

  He froze for about three seconds, then suddenly relaxed. “I wasn’t going to mention that.”

  “No, sir?” Malloy watched him keenly.

  Porter smiled wryly. “You’ve heard about the will, right?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  Porter sighed. “If Janet died after my Uncle Jasper, the money goes to her—or now, her heirs. But if she died first, half of it comes to me.”

  “How did you find out about the terms of the will?” asked Malloy.

  “An attorney in Fargo called me. A Ms. Kingsolver. This was after Uncle Jasper’s funeral. It was a newer will than one I knew about, where he left everything to me. She asked me if I knew where Janet was living, but I didn’t.” He looked away, frowning. “I don’t understand how her body wasn’t found right away. It’s not like she was in a ditch somewhere out in the country.”

  “That’s true, but she was on the front walk of a house belonging to a couple away on vacation. We’re thinking that either the killer buried her in the snow already on the ground, or it snowed the night it happened, covering the body.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s a hell of a thing.”

  Malloy nodded. “Makes the case much more complicated.”

  “This other homeless woman that was found, was she a friend of Janet’s?”

  “It’s possible they knew one another, moving in pretty much the same circles.”

  Porter nodded. “Strange that both of them died around the same time.”

  “Very strange.”

  “Could it have been natural causes, and just a coincidence that there were two of them?”

  “I’m afraid you’re stretching the possibility of a coincidence past the breaking point. There are other factors involved.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t want to go into them at present. When did you last see Janet Turnquist?”

  Alec had to think about that. “A long time ago. At a funeral—yes, she and her husband came to Jasper’s wife’s funeral in Fargo. That would’ve been . . . ten or twelve years ago.”

  “She didn’t come to Jasper’s funeral?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Isn’t that a little strange? It was held in Fargo, after all, and that’s where she’s from. She must have known him well, since he made her his sole heir.”

  “Yes, well, that will was written back when she was just a little strange, not totally bonkers like she got later.”

  Mike almost smiled. Gotcha! “If you haven’t seen her in ten or twelve years, how do you know she had gone, as you say, ‘totally bonkers’?”

  “Someone at my uncle’s funeral mentioned it. She said she was very worried about Janet, that she was living on the street and really needed to be put somewhere safe. Or something like that.”

  “Who was this person?”

  “Let me think.” Porter nibbled on his top lip for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I really don’t remember. It was just a brief comment, not said directly to me, I just heard it in passing. The only reason I remember it at all is because it’s uncomfortable knowing an actual relative of yours is living like a bum. Especially a female relative.”

  “If it was known in the family that Janet was mentally ill, why didn’t Jasper change his will?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know how ill she really was. I didn’t. Or maybe he thought that by leaving her his money, she would get the help she needed. But, you see, it depends on the time frame. I don’t know how long Janet was homeless, but Uncle Jasper lived with Alzheimer’s for years, so it’s possible that he couldn’t understand about her, even if someone tried to tell him. And even if someone could make him understand, he probably wouldn’t have been competent to make a new will.”

  “How long was he incompetent before he died?”

  “About four years, I’d say. I visited him until he didn’t know me anymore.”

  Malloy nodded. According to his information, Janet had been homeless for about three years, perhaps a little longer. But she’d started slipping from eccentric to crazy before that.

  “Do you know when your uncle made the new will?”

  “No. But it was before he was diagnosed. I was surprised by it, because he had made that earlier one, the one leaving everything to me. You see, I was the golden-haired boy of my family, supposed to go to medical school, to become a surgeon—and I did, only not for human beings. He was angry with me about that; he’d given me money for medical school and I disappointed him. But I didn’t think he’d make a new will.” A sour smile pulled at Alec’s mouth. “So I guess it was my turn to be disappointed. Ms. Kingsolver said Janet was the heir but I was a ‘contingent legatee.’ She said she had hired someone to look for Janet, but I guess she died before he could find her.” He gave a faint shudder. “Even half of the estate is a lot of money, and I sure could use it, but not at that price. It’s awful to think about, a death like that, all alone in the frozen dark.” The troubled look in his eyes seemed authentic.

  “Yes, a very unpleasant thought,” agreed Malloy, writing things down. “One other question: Do you know a Carolyn Carlson?”

  “No. Is she mixed up in this somehow?”

  “She’s the other dead woman.”

  “Is she? Carolyn Carlson—okay, I guess I did read that name. Maybe this Carlson woman was the one the killer was after, and Janet just got in the way somehow. Or do you think he went after both of them? Did they both die of the same thing?”

  “I think so. There are still some tests to be run.” No need to tell him the testing was on hold for now.

  “Tests—so you’re thinking poison?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Porter nodded, his expression grim. “Well, good luck to you.”

  As Malloy got in his car for the drive back to Excelsior, he considered the interview he’d just completed. Porter’s story hung together and fit with the other pieces he’d gathered so far. On the other hand, he had said himself that he badly needed money.

  This was a hell of a case. He could find someone with a motive for killing either Janet or Carrie. But not both. What was he missing?

  BETSY was at home, doing the backstitching on a Joseph Hautman counted cross-stitch pattern of a male and female cardinal perched on a blooming apple tree branch. It was coming along really well, and she was beginning to feel competent in the area of counted cross-stitch. The backstitching was giving definition to the male cardinal’s head and breast. She paused for a minute to admire it. The pastel blossoms of the tree gave an oriental air to the pattern; the bright colors of the birds were almost shocking in contrast. She liked it so much that perhaps, when she finished using it as a model in her shop, she’d bring it back to her apartment.

  Her doorbell rang. She looked at her watch; it was almost bedtime. Who would be calling on her at this hour?

  She never had gotten around to installing a two-way speaker system down at the entrance to her building, and this was a reminder that she really must call someone about that soon.

  She pressed the door release button and opened the door to her apartment to see who came up the stairs.

  It was Margaret Smith, looking very stressed.

  “Oh, Betsy, I need to talk to you!” said Margaret, panting a little as she hurried up the last few steps.

  “Of course, Margaret, come in.”

  Betsy led her into the living room and bade her take a seat on the couch, recently upholstered in a deep, browny purple. Margaret had pulled off her silver fox coat to reveal a wool suit the color of a daffodil. She looked like an exotic flower, small and lovely, sitting in the dead center of the dark upholstery. But she was clearly scared.

  “Now tell me, what’s the matter?” asked Betsy.

  “You had lunch with Marty today, he told me about it.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, he’s nervous about your conversation with him.” Margaret began entwining her fingers in complicated patterns.

  “Why is he nervous?”

  “He was surprised, I suppose. You aren’t what he expected.” Betsy didn’t know how to reply to that. “I think he thought you’d be . . . I don’t know—diffident, understated, that you’d let him lead the conversation.”

  “But I did let him lead the conversation. What is it you’re trying to say?”

  “He thinks you suspect him of murdering Carrie!” Margaret blurted out the words in a defiant rush. “I thought you were going to help us!”

  Betsy said as gently as she could, “You asked me to find out what really happened. I warned you that it might not go as you wished, that things might turn up that you would rather be kept secret. I could see at the time you were not pleased, and I wondered what was bothering you, but you said to go ahead, that I should do whatever it took to clear this up. I think both of you are keeping something secret. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

  Margaret said, “It has nothing to do with Carrie!”

  “I hope you’re right about that. Do you want me to stop investigating?” Betsy wasn’t sure she’d be able to just stop sleuthing, but she could try to stop doing it on Margaret’s behalf, if asked.

  Margaret started to say something, then changed her mind. She sat thinking about it for a long minute. Betsy held her tongue.

  At last Margaret said, “No, I don’t want you to stop. I just wish I could convince you that by looking at us, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

  Nine

  THE next day, Betsy took I-94 across the Mississippi and exited on the far side of downtown Saint Paul. She had punched the address into her GPS—a device she had almost immediately come to think of as indispensable—and it took her to a modest stucco building on an obscure side street. The sign announcing its presence in the neighborhood was so set back she nearly missed it.

  She parked on the street, went into the small lobby of the building, and stopped at the window to a tiny, cluttered office where a plump woman sat working at a computer.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I have an appointment with Mary Compagne.”

  “Your name?”

  “Betsy Devonshire.”

  “Just a minute.” The woman checked a log on her computer. “Yes, you’re right on time.” She picked up a phone and punched three numbers into it. “A Ms. Betsy Devonshire is here to see you.” She hung up and said, “She’ll be right out.”

  In about a minute, Betsy saw an attractive young woman come toward her. She had flaming red hair cut to just below her jawline, and was wearing a close-fitting brown skirt and long-sleeved green silk blouse.

  As she got nearer, Betsy could see that her darkly lashed eyes were gray, and there was a scatter of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She held out her hand and said, “Welcome to the Naomi Women’s Shelter.”

  “Thank you,” Betsy replied, taking the hand.

  “If you’ll follow me, please,” Ms. Compagne said, and turned to walk away.

  Betsy followed her to a plainly furnished office with stacks of folders covering the desk. “We’re reorganizing our files,” Ms. Compagne said in apology.

  “You have my sympathy,” Betsy said with feeling.

  The woman smiled and sat down behind the desk. “Please, take a seat. How may we help you?”

  Betsy sat on the hard wooden chair indicated. “I’m inquiring into the deaths of two women who I believe had been at this shelter. One’s name is Carolyn Marie Carlson, and the other’s is Janet Turnquist.”

  Ms. Compagne stiffened just a little. “I don’t believe you told me you are with the police.”

  “I’m not. Nor am I a licensed private investigator. But I’ve been asked by Margaret Smith, who is Carrie’s cousin, to see if I can find out how she came to die in Excelsior. And since her body and Janet’s body were found not far from one another, it is possible the deaths are related.”

  “And how do you expect me to help you?”

  “I want to know when Carrie stayed here, and if Janet did, too; and if while here, Carrie got into some kind of altercation with someone that ended with her suffering bruises. Especially if that someone was Janet.”

  “I wish you had been more forthcoming when you called to ask for a meeting, because I could have saved you a trip. I can’t give you that information. We have very strict confidentiality rules against telling anyone who is or is not a resident.”

  “But this is a case of murder!”

  “Really? Are the police investigating?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Then I think we should let them do their job.”

  Ms. Compagne could not be moved from that position, so Betsy left, frustrated and upset with herself for wasting so much time on a futile mission.

  She had just about reached her car when she heard her name being called.

  “Wait up, wait up!” the voice continued.

  Betsy turned to see Annie hustling up the walk toward her. She wasn’t wearing a coat or boots—and the temperature was about five degrees above zero.

  “Annie, what’s the matter?”

  Annie stopped, her breath smoking in the frigid air. She was hopping from foot to foot—she was wearing only heavy socks—and trying to draw her hands up into the sleeves of her brown sweater. “You’re looking for information about Carrie, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. Do you know something you didn’t tell me about?”

  “No. But I can find things out for you.”