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business. Which would imply that he was conscientious and thorough. Wouldn’t he be on top of something like that?”
    â€œYou’d think, but you know what they say about the cobbler’s kids.” Walter chuckled nervously, then abruptly turned somber again. “A handful of fucking leaves and three men die. And this weather, too. If it hadn’t been so cold last night, they probably wouldn’t have turned the damn thing on.”
    They stared at the vent and the pile of debris.
    â€œYou’re mechanical, good with your hands,” Cubiak said finally.
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œBut you didn’t go into business with your dad?”
    Walter looked up. “No, I didn’t. Guess I was always more interested in cars. And he didn’t pressure me none, the way some might. Like I said, he was a good father, the best.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON
    A s they walked back to the yard, Cubiak nearly tripped over Walter’s heels. Walter’s pace had slackened through the course of the morning, whether weighted down by grief or slowed by age it was impossible to know. The low clouds had started to spit droplets of cold rain, and both men hunched their shoulders against the drizzle. It was just a few minutes past noon but the light had dimmed, as if time were trying to accelerate and push the day along.
    At the gazebo, Walter halted.
    Cubiak cupped his elbow. “Maybe go in, see how your mother is doing,” he said.
    â€œGood idea.” But Walter didn’t move. He seemed confused. Suddenly, he took a step back and extended a hand. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.” His face was sallow, his grip clammy.
    Cubiak watched as Walter moved across the lawn, his head bowed and one foot dragging behind the other. The weather had driven away many of the onlookers. The remainder separated into two groups: those who deliberately drifted out of Walter’s path, as if not wishing to intrude on his grief or fearful of it, and those who stepped forward to greet him. Walter had grown up among these folks, and with words and gestures they let him know that he was among friends.
    When Walter disappeared into the house, Cubiak returned to the cabin.
    Bathard and Pardy huddled under the eaves.
    â€œWe were just discussing the postmortem,” Pardy said, making room for the sheriff. “There’s no need to autopsy the bodies since there’s no sign of foul play. Blood tests will determine if the men died from carbon monoxide poisoning as we suspect. Evelyn and I will secure the samples this afternoon. I don’t expect any surprises and should be able to confirm cause of death on Monday. Unless you have something?”
    â€œNot really,” Cubiak said, drying his glasses.
    Bathard raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
    Cubiak glanced toward the door and then told them about the broken window and the dead bolt.
    Pardy frowned and brushed a tangle of damp ringlets off her forehead. She did not share the sheriff ’s concerns. “Three elderly men excited about the story in the paper, maybe half in the bag before they even meet up for the evening. They’re all talking at once and the last one in absentmindedly locks the door. I don’t see that there’s anything to it.”
    Bathard nodded. “Precisely. Here are these three senior gents. They’ve got the paper and a bottle. They’re reminiscing about the good old days and one of them happens to throw the lock.” A shadow clouded Bathard’s face. “My god, listen to me. I’m talking about them like they were frat boys reliving their glory days. They were young men fighting under god-awful conditions. Nothing but cold and fog and muck so slick a man could barely keep upright on his feet. They’ve got planes dropping bombs on them and a freezing ocean trying to suck them in. Most people don’t realize, do they, what it was like?”
    Pardy and Cubiak were