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bright-eyed, matronly type with three kids in high school and an ex who was constantly delinquent with his payments. Her prime responsibility at Sundown was to handle the administrative details of the operation. She wrote contracts, scheduled maintenance, hired subcontractors. She was also a born conservative who understood the difference between risks and gambles, and who thereby exercised a restraininginfluence on Max’s occasional capricious tendencies. Had she been along, Kerr would have had his Lockheed Lightning, no questions asked. “Don’t get emotionally involved with the planes,” she warned him now and then. “These are business ventures, not women.”
    She greeted him on his arrival at the Sundown offices with a disapproving stare. “Hello, Max.”
    “He wasn’t the right guy for the P—38,” he said.
    Her eyes drifted shut. “Our business is to restore and sell airplanes. Not find homes for them.”
    “He was a jerk,” Max said. “No good comes from that kind of money.”
    “Yeah, right. Max, the world is full of jerks. If you’re not going to sell to them, we are going to eliminate most of the population.”
    “The male population,” said Max.
    “ You said it; I didn’t.”
    Max picked up his mail. “I was up on the border last night.”
    “Really?” she said. “Doing what?”
    “I’m not sure. Tom Lasker dug up a yacht on his farm.”
    “I saw it on TV,” she said. “That’s Lasker’s place? I didn’t realize that.”
    “It is. I spent the night up there.” Max drew a chair over beside her and sat down. “I need your help, Stell.” He opened his briefcase. “Ginny gave me some pictures.” He handed over six nine-by-twelve glossies.
    “It’s in pretty good condition,” she said, “for something that was buried.”
    “You noticed that, huh? Okay, look, what I’d like you to do is find out who made the damned thing. There’s no ID on it of any kind. Fax these around. Try the manufacturers, boat dealers, importers. And the Coast Guard. Somebody’ll be able to tell us something.”
    “Why do we care?” she asked.
    “Because we’re snoops. Because your boss would like to know what the hell’s going on. Okay?”
    “Sure. When do you want it?”
    “Forthwith. Let me know what you find out.” He went into his office and tried to call Morley Clark at Moorhead State.
    “Professor Clark is in class,” said his recorded voice. “Please feel free to leave a message at the beep.”
    “This is Max Collingwood. Morley, I’m going to fax you some photos. They’re of a yacht, and there’s a piece of writing on the hull. If you can identify the language, or better yet get a translation, I’d be grateful.”
     
    Everett Crandall came out personally to usher Lasker into his office. “I saw your boat the other day, Tom. You’re a lucky man, looks like to me.” Ev was more or less permanently rumpled—both he and his clothes.
    “That’s why I’m here,” said Lasker.
    “What’s going on? Whose boat is it?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Come on, Tom. You must have some idea.”
    Ev’s office was packed with old law books, framed certificates, and photos, most of which had been taken during his tenure as county prosecutor. Prominently displayed on his desk was a picture of Ev and Senator Byron Glass at last year’s Fourth of July celebration.
    Lasker sat down. “Ev,” he said, “I’ve got a prospective buyer.”
    “For the boat?”
    “Yes. Is it mine to sell?”
    Ev nodded, but his dark eyes said no. He took off his glasses, wiping them with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Hard to say,” he said.
    “It’s on my property. That should make it mine, right?”
    Ev’s hands were in his lap. He looked down at them. “Tom, if I left my RV over at your place, would it be yours?”
    “No. But this was buried .”
    “Yeah.” Ev considered that. “If I chose to hide my family silver by burying it out back of your house, would it be yours?”
    “I don’t know,”