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Cindy was Frank’s wife; Greg would be Gregorio—Aunt Louisa’s husband’s brother. Julio’s uncle, on his father’s side. “The police brought the news?”
    “Yeah, I guess so.” Frank led them across the small living room to the dining room where Aunt Louisa, Wager’s mother, and a couple of other women all sat at the oval table with its crocheted cloth dangling over the edges. Wager was relieved to see that his older sister’s face wasn’t among them; she had never forgiven him for divorcing Lorraine, and she sure as hell would not have been happy to meet Elizabeth.
    One of the women whom Wager vaguely remembered as some second cousin on his grandmother’s side said, “Theresa, Gabe’s here.”
    His mother looked up. The fringed lamp over the table’s center cast hard shadows in the lines of her face, and for a moment Wager glimpsed the skull beneath the flesh. Then his mother stood and beckoned him over and murmured something to Aunt Louisa, who, handkerchief jammed against her mouth, and eyes swimming with freshly started tears, stared at Wager and slowly shook her head from side to side. All he could do was hold her thin shoulders in his arm, and after a while that seemed to be enough. The circle of faces waited silently, Elizabeth joining it and dabbing a tissue at her eyes, too.
    Cousin Frank, anxious for something to do, started bringing in some coffee cups and saucers, and the second cousin, the one whose name Wager hadn’t yet dredged up, pushed back from the table to help him.
    “Can you tell me about it, Aunt Louisa? Where Julio was going when he left the house?”
    “The store.” A shuddering breath. “I wanted him to go to the grocery store. Butter. Eggs. I told him he’d been around the house too long doing nothing—it was time he helped. I sent him out—” She broke down again, face hidden in her hands.
    “Shhh, shhh, it’s not your fault, Lou. …” His mother stroked the gray hair at the back of the woman’s jerking head, and Wager could see a hint of anger in her eyes as she glanced at him.
    But the questioning was only beginning, Wager knew. Unless Golding had a suspect already identified, sooner or later he would be here to interview Aunt Louisa, filling in the victim’s last movements, probing for any information the woman might knowingly or unknowingly have. It would be easier on her if Wager did it. “Did he receive any phone calls before he left?”
    “No.”
    “Did you notice anyone hanging around the area when he left?”
    “Gabe.” His mother’s anger was plainer now. “You stop that. You quit acting like a cop!”
    “It’s all right, Theresa. He’s trying to help.”
    And Wager was a cop. “Did Julio say anything when he left?”
    “Just … just that he’d be back in a few—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Wager’s mother said, “That’s enough,” and led her sister into the bedroom to lie down. A few moments later she came back. “You didn’t have to do that.”
    “She’s going to have to answer questions sooner or later, Mom.”
    “ ¡Basta! Let it be later, then. When she feels up to it.” That topic was closed. Now her eyes glanced from Wager to Elizabeth. Wager made the introductions.
    The two women studied each other; Elizabeth smiled, his mother did not.
    “Elizabeth Voss. I’ve heard the name. Would you care for some coffee, Miss Voss?”
    “Please.”
    “She’s on the city council, Mom. That’s where you heard her name.”
    “I know that Gabe. Get us some milk for our coffee, will you?”
    Wager could take a hint. He also took his time in the kitchen, and when he came back with the milk, the two women were seated at the table and leaning toward each other, their voices quiet as the other women watched and listened.
    “I’m going over to talk to Golding,” he said. “See what he can tell me.” He asked Elizabeth, “You want me to take you home?”
    “I’ll drive her home, Gabe.” His mother’s voice had lost its