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Trina worriedly.
    Sergeant Brougham steps in officiously. “Someone or something scratched his hand. The guys at the morgue reckon it could have been long fingernails. Does she have long fingernails, Mrs. Button?”
    â€œYes. And so do I,” spits Trina, waving hers in his face. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”
    â€œWe’re not saying she’s a killer, Trina,” tries Phillips with a friendly hand on her shoulder. “It’s just routine inquiries. That’s all.”
    â€œSo. You could ask her now. She’ll be scared if you take her to the police station.”
    â€œTrina. You’re out of your depth as usual,” suggests Phillips. “We’ll just take her in for a few questions and then we’ll get her some proper help.”
    â€œOK,” agrees Trina after a momentary pause, then she spins on Sergeant Brougham and stabs him with a finger, saying, “No barbecues, all right?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know what I mean,” she is saying as she opens the basement door, then she stops as she takes in the sight of an open window. “Oh. Damn. She’s gone again.”
    A kind of peace has settled over the Button household by the time that Rick arrives and peers through the basement window on his way from the garage.
    â€œIt’s all right. The crazy lady’s gone,” calls Trina as she spots her husband’s shadow, and he enters to find her sitting in front of a blank television, toying with Janet’s spiritual figurine.
    â€œI told you she was a nut,” says Rick in relief, but Trina’s expression suggests that she has a different view.
    â€œShe’s scared of something, Rick. Really scared.”

chapter three
    I t’s barely a twenty-minute run from Westchester to Dewminster on the bypass, but the aging bus driver steers with his knees and casually combs his hair with both hands as he takes the scenic route, meandering the wooded lanes and village roads like a Sunday excursionist, pausing to help passengers with loaded shopping carts and stopping for a “quick bite” at Moulton-Didsley’s village store. “Best sausage rolls in Wessex,” he loudly announces as he switches off the engine, and a couple other passengers take him at his word. Then it’s on to Lower Mansfield, where he gives his face a once-over in the mirror and detours for Molly Jenkins. “It won’t take a sec,” he calls as he trundles the thirty-seater up a rugged cart track to a thatched cottage. “Only the poor old soul’s going to the doc’s in Dewminster.”
    Daphne eyes Mrs. Jenkins cynically as the elderly, though apparently agile, woman boards without assistance, whispering to the driver, “Thanks ever so, Bert,” as she lays a friendly hand on his arm.
    That’s interesting
, thinks Daphne, noticing that neither fare nor ticket changes hands, and her skepticism deepens as the new passenger makes a space for herself in the front seat by squeezing a toddler onto her mother’s lap.
    â€œThere’s plenty of room at the back,” mutters the young woman angrily, but Mrs. Jenkins knows her place and is determined to fill it.
    â€œI’ll be all right here, luv,” she insists as she removes her hat to signify that she is settled, and she gets a nod of approval from Bert.
    I wonder if there’s a Mr. Jenkins
, thinks Daphne as she watches the couple chit-chatting like a pair of teenagers all the way to her destination.
    â€œDewminster Market Place,” sings out Bert, and Daphne dawdles for few seconds until the driver and his lady friend lightly link hands and slink together into the Market Café.
    â€œI ought to be a private eye,” laughs Daphne under her breath, then she stops herself, asserting, “That’s exactly what I am.”
    â€œYou might want to start with the church,” Trina suggested earlier, as if there might