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cement building, low and square, its windows and doors also boarded over. A faded sign over the entrance read, “Groceries and Hardware.”
    Sue put the Jeep in gear and followed the onscreen directions until she reached 411 North Second Street. Much of the lot was still covered with snow, with some grey weeds and grass becoming visible along the margins. All that remained was an enormous, gnarled oak. Getting out of her vehicle , she carefully walked around the area, finding the crumbling remnants of a sidewalk and the home’s foundation. There were several remaining houses on the block—mostly abandoned and badly sagging, their naked dark siding without a hint of paint. Based on the size of the foundation and the fact that the surviving homes were all two-story, this had been a substantial structure in its day. Sue paced off the foundation and estimated that each floor probably was about 1,000 square feet. When she returned to her Jeep, Simone had moved to her side of the car and attempted to scramble out as she opened the door. After attaching a leash, she walked the perimeter of the block with Simone before lifting the dog back into the car.
     
     
     
    Ray followed Joan Barton out to her father’s home where he did a quick walk-through of the premises, taking care not to disturb anything in the small building’s interior. Then, accompanied by Barton, he checked the shed-like garage and walked around the yard. Although nothing seemed particularly out of place, Ray planned to have Sue Lawrence carefully go through the scene the next morning.
    As Ray began to say his goodbyes, Barton asked him to accompany her to a small lake about a mile up the road. She explained that her father’s greatest passion was fishing. Because of its proximity, this lake was a place he visited almost every day, either riding his bike or walking, depending on the conditions. Barton led the way. They parked on the shoulder of the road and Ray followed her down a narrow trail that ended at the shore. Open water extended from the shoreline for several yards to join a thin layer of opaque white ice.
    “Dad comes here all year long. He’s on the ice in the winter, and he uses that dinghy the rest of the time.” Barton pointed toward a small, overturned aluminum boat a few yards off the trail, most of it still buried in the snow.
    “It’s between seasons,” Ray observed.
    “Yes, I’m aware of that. But what if he had a small stroke, or something, and gets a bit dotty? I was just thinking about things that he might do if his rationality was slipping away.” She shivered and pulled at the collar of her coat. “This is one of his favorite places. I thought it might be a place that he would wander off to. I didn’t want to come here alone.”
    Ray remained with Barton a full ten minutes, silently gazing out at the frozen lake.
     
     
     
    After picking up some groceries, Ray stopped at the local bookseller, a cozy place managed and owned by a British ex-pat. The building, originally a pharmacy, dated from the 1880s or 1890s, and was one of the last original structures in the two-block long commercial district in Cedar Bay. The interior had not been changed much over the years. The maple flooring showed wear from generations of shoppers who had pushed through the heavy front door with its thick, plate glass window. Above, the tin ceiling was mostly intact, only slightly damaged by some less than skillful modifications when electric lights were added in the 20s. Books were displayed on tables appropriate in age and design to the building’s interior and on shelving that covered the walls.
    “Nice tan, that,” said Phillip Noble, getting up from his hidey-hole behind an antique display case and counter. “I’ve got the volume of Robinson Jeffers you wanted. I didn’t know anything about him, and your request got me started on some background reading. Interesting man. The things I read off the web suggest that he fell out of favor for