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office. Madge’s was next door and Sam Bush, the parish accountant, stood partly out of her room, but with his head inside. Above-average height and well-built, his relaxed posture and easy manner underscored his self-confidence.
    Cyrus hesitated again. He couldn’t just go into his office and shut the door without saying a word to Sam or Madge.
    Sam Bush wasn’t Cyrus’s choice for Madge, not that the choice would ever be his. The man’s wife, Betty, had left him without any sign that she was unhappy, or so Sam insisted. He’d been alone for a year and recently he leased a long-stay apartment at Rosebank, the resort where Sheriff Spike Devol and his wife ran a destination resort and rented suites of rooms. Madge had rooms in the samebuilding, and until Sam moved in, Cyrus had felt good about her being there.
    Recently, there had been talk about Sam looking into a way to be officially single again. Joe Gable, Jilly Gautreaux’s brother and the town’s lawyer, knew what was going on, but Joe would never reveal even a hint of a client’s business.
    Sig Smith was the man Cyrus was encouraging for Madge. A psychologist, he was a thoughtful, intellectual type who worked for Roche Savage and seemed as if he could be right for Madge.
    â€œOkay,” Sam said into Madge’s office. “So Vivian Devol would come and pick you up in your car if it’s fixed today. It probably won’t be. I’ll check in with you later anyway. It would be easier for me to give you a lift. We’re going to the same place. Either way, we’ll have dinner.”
    Cyrus didn’t hear Madge say anything to that.
    Sam hadn’t taken long to get over the loss of his wife and start looking elsewhere. Cyrus remembered Betty Bush, a vivacious and pretty woman. Why would she disappear like that when she seemed happy in her marriage? What made Sam think he could have her declared dead so soon—if that’s what he was trying to do—unless he knew something he wasn’t talking about?
    Grim, annoyed with his runaway speculation, Cyrus approached Madge’s office. “Hey there, Sam,” he said, moving briskly. “Have you finished with us for today?”
    â€œHey, Father,” Sam said, straightening up and turning serious gray eyes on Cyrus. “Yes, all finished. I’ve got plenty waiting for me at the office, though.”
    Cyrus indicated that he was going into Madge’s room and Sam released the door.
    â€œIs Madge’s car playing up?” Cyrus asked Sam, passing him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure she gets back if necessary.”
    He nodded at the man, and smiled until Sam shrugged and walked away without a word of argument. He headed toward the kitchens and eventually left the house by the back door. It slammed, and Cyrus was left to think about what he would say to Madge.
    â€œGood accountant, Sam Bush,” he said, turning to look at her. “Are you still pleased with him?”
    She sat behind her desk, elbows resting on the shiny top. Her hands propped her chin, but her dark eyes stared into his. There was no need for words; she understood him and saw through any clever maneuver he tried to pull off.
    He shut the door and sat down carefully in Madge’s favorite striped easy chair. Immediately, Millie, Madge’s black-and-white papillon, ran from beneath the desk and leaped onto his knees. He stroked her absently. Often the tiny dog and her silky fur could relax him, but not today.
    Seconds passed, and he couldn’t look away from Madge. “What are you thinking?” he finally asked.
    When she was happy, her eyes were warm and bright. When she was sad, they still shone, but the light turned distant—it was distant now.
    â€œMadge? Say something, please.”
    â€œSam’s just a friend.”
    He felt embarrassed by his own behavior. “I know that. Would he like to be more, do you