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me. How many people, I wondered, was he questioning about me? Was I the focus of the investigation?
    “Drugs,” Carlo said.
    “What?” I said, shaking off my speculations.
    “Carlo reminded the sheriff about the drugs,” Rosa added quickly, with a clear relief at the change of subject.
    “All the drugs that go through here, there’s bound to be violence,” Carlo said. “There’s a lot of money in marijuana.”
    Carlo sat in his wool fisherman’s sweater, the wine glass held momentarily before his craggy Italian face. I was always surprised when he spoke—not only because he was usually so quiet, but also because he had no trace of an accent. Though he was in his late fifties, his hair was only partly gray, his face weathered from those years fishing at sea. He was a small man, but his arms and shoulders were well-muscled, perhaps in compensation for his injured leg.
    “They grow marijuana up north. They drive it through here to San Francisco. Bound to be crime. Frank must have got caught in it. Maybe he had connections in San Francisco. I told the sheriff that.” Carlo put down the wine glass, signaling the end of his statement. He had said more in these few minutes than I had heard him say in the entire year I had lived here. Usually he sat comfortably in the background, watching Rosa make everyone at home, listening to Chris and his brothers-in-law talk about the fish, watching his daughters and their children.
    Now he pushed himself up, nodded, and headed for the door.
    As the door shut after him, Rosa said to me, “He’s going to dig a trench behind the Millers’ house on the High Road. Last year the water caused a lot of damage there. It’s busy for him this time of year. People need a lot done right before the flood comes.” She stacked our plates and carried them to the sink. “It’s good for him to have these jobs,” she added, with her back still toward me. “It was hard, so hard for him, after he got hurt. He couldn’t keep his balance on the boat. He couldn’t fish anymore. He tried.…But this is good.”
    I wished I could say something comforting to Rosa, like she did for me yesterday, but what? Still, there was a diversion I could offer. I said, “Yesterday morning, I drove to the freeway to get my newspaper. And, in the restaurant there, guess who I saw together?”
    Rosa turned, thinking, probing her collection of facts and possibilities, then giving up. “Who?”
    “Madge Oombs and Skip Bollo.”
    “What?” Chris laughed.
    “Now, Chris,” Rosa said. She and Madge had been friends since grammar school.
    “But, Mama, Madge and Skip!”
    “I didn’t say it was romantic,” I said.
    “I shouldn’t think!” Chris was still laughing.
    “Now you know what I know,” I said, as I stood up to leave.
    Both Rosa and Chris urged me to stay, but I had my route to finish. I needed to be alone to think through Frank’s possible drug involvement, Frank’s murder, and how suspect I appeared to the sheriff.
    Rosa and Chris, I would leave with more pleasant thoughts—wonderfully intriguing speculations—that would last the rest of the afternoon. And I was certain I assured Madge a dinner invitation.

CHAPTER 5
    E VEN THE F ORTIMIGLIOS SUSPECTED Frank’s death had been drug-related. I hadn’t considered the question. But once it had been raised, the likelihood was so great I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it myself. Millions of dollars worth of marijuana passed through here every year, coming from the wild country to the north, heading for the cities down south. And Frank was in an ideal position to be a middleman. It was definitely something to think about.
    I pulled the truck into the parking lot behind the Henderson PG&E substation.
    The substation was a three-room stucco storefront that accommodated customers in the front, the manager’s office in the middle, and the storeroom that doubled as a meter readers’ area at the rear. There we congregated in wet and cramped