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Yolanda’s fine.”
    “Will she be helping you on Tuesday night?”
    “Yes, she will, unless you and Rorry want to come out into the kitchen and do the work yourselves.” According to Marla, Rorry Breckenridge was the sole heir of the Boudreaux Molasses fortune, but—wait for it, Marla had said—Rorry had never so much as baked a spice cookie. I very much doubted she’d be willing to stand in for hardworking Yolanda. And Sean? Forget it.
    “I just want everyone to be comfortable,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to worry about getting sick.”
    “The guests will be fine. Do you want me to make an announcement at the beginning of the dinner as to Yolanda’s health?”
    “No, no.” He hesitated. “We had a call from someone who wants to come and bring a date. It’s not too late to add another couple, is it?”
    “Oh, Sean, for God’s sake.”
    “Is it all right or not? This couple is willing to pay double the thousand dollars a plate. The church could use an extra four thou, Goldy. Besides, Rorry’s table holds sixteen, so everyone would fit.”
    “Who is this extra couple?”
    “Why does that matter?” Sean asked.
    I wanted to say, Because if it’s Kris Nielsen and another woman, you can cater your own damn party. As the silence between us lengthened, it became clear Sean was not in a sharing mood. “Oh, all right,” I said finally, wondering feverishly about the number of racks of lamb chops I had on hand. “But no more. Fourteen people, and that’s it .”
    I thought he was going to sign off, but he said only, “Is your husband home?”
    I was immediately wary. “Tom? Yes, why?”
    “Does he . . . did he . . . know Ernest McLeod?”
    “Let me give him the phone,” I said noncommittally.
    But Sean hung up.
    Well, now, that was interesting. I’d just found out about Ernest McLeod, and even if the news had been on TV, why would Sean call our house instead of the sheriff’s department? And most curious of all, why would Sean Breckenridge be interested in Ernest McLeod?
    I stared at the phone.
    Had Ernest been investigating Sean, and Sean had somehow gotten wind of it? Or had Sean Breckenridge been one of Ernest’s clients?
    I returned to the kitchen, where the interview had apparently reached another stalemate. I wrote a quick note to Tom that Sean Breckenridge was curious about Ernest. He glanced at the note, nodded once, and mouthed, “Thank you.”
    “I did call the sheriff’s department,” Yolanda said at length, her tone miserable.
    Tom said mildly, “When?”
    “I told you.”
    “Tell us again.”
    “When Ernest didn’t come home Saturday afternoon, which was when he said he was going to, and there was no answer on his cell, and no answer at the Bertrams’, I got worried. He had told me how much he was looking forward to the seafood enchiladas that I was making that night. And then he didn’t even give me a ring to say he’d be late? That just wasn’t like him. So that’s when I found out the name of his dentist—”
    “Why?” Tom said sharply. “Why would you do that?”
    Yolanda’s face crumpled into a look of helplessness. “God, Tom! Because he was late! Because I couldn’t reach him! Because Ferdinanda said he hadn’t looked well when he went out! Because I have a crazy ex-boyfriend, and Ernest had told me about these cases, and I thought . . . oh, I don’t know what I thought. And anyway, Ferdinanda was right, he did look weak when he left—”
    “Weak?” Tom interrupted.
    “I’m not a doctor.” Yolanda rubbed her eyes. “But I was making his dinners, and even though he said he loved the food, I told you, he didn’t eat very much. Then yesterday morning, he said, ‘I’m going to walk to my appointment, get some exercise.’ But he didn’t come back. We were scared he’d been hit by a car or something. So I went through his Rolodex. Drew Parker has an office just above Main Street, in that new office complex. You know the one? That whole new