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Lowry turned around to face me. All these made my stomach turn over. I wanted to be where the things and people were familiar. To check on Arch.
    Ahead of us, the county coroner’s van carrying Philip Miller pulled out slowly onto Highway 24. There were no blinking lights. There was no siren.
    “You were telling me what he ate,” prodded Lowry. “I need to know what he drank, too.”
    “I’ve told you all I saw him eat. He may have had some juice or coffee, I don’t know.”
    “Did he complain of stomach or headache, fever, dizziness, chest pain, anything like that?”
    “No.”
    “Okay,” said Lowry. He asked about how to reach me and said someone might call later. I gave him the Farquhars’ address on Sam Snead Lane in the Meadowview area of Aspen Meadow Country Club.
    I started to get out of the car, then said, “I just don’t think I’ve conveyed to you how weird this accident was. An hour ago he was fine. He drove like a maniac into town and now he’s dead. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
    Lowry looked at me. He said, “Sometimes when something’s wrong, or when somebody’s drunk, say, they just speed up. They think, I won’t stop, I’ll just get where I’m going and then everything will be okay.”
    “But it was so . . . strange.”
    His jowls trembled when he shook his head. He said, “A lot of car accidents look strange, lady.”
    Investigator Tom Schulz was talking with a short, big-bellied red-haired man when I walked up.
    He gave me a sympathetic look and said, “You okay?”
    I nodded. He made an introductory wave with one large hand.
    “This is one of the coroner’s deputies.” “I just got here,” the man mumbled to Schulz. “This guy a crispy critter or what?”
    I stared at the red-haired man and then lunged for him. Somebody started shrieking, “You bastard, you—”
    “Whoa, Goldy, whoa,” said Schulz as he deftly grabbed me around the middle. “He didn’t mean anything.” But the red-haired man looked at Schulz, who must have given him a Get Lost look.
    He mumbled, “Catch you later, Schulz,” and slunk off.
    Tom Schulz gently turned me around and held me against his big body. He arranged the blanket over my head, then held me out to make sure I was all right. Tom Schulz could use his size to threaten those whom he did not trust. He could transform the broad expanses of his handsome face into a scowl, a smirk, or impassive flatness. But now his green eyes were full of worry, now his jaunty sand-colored eyebrows were drawn into an anxious line. He pulled me in for a hug. I closed my eyes and let his warmth envelop me. He said, “I thought you said you were all right.”
    “Not if I have to listen to some idiot.”
    “Sorry about that. You work for the coroner, you gotta keep the distance.”
    We got into his car, a nondescript Chrysler you would expect a cop to drive. I looked down at my shoes. They were soaked, splotched with melting snow and mud. I turned to him and heard my voice waver. “A friend of mine just died.”
    Schulz turned and looked at me. He offered his hand, which I took and held. It was warm and fleshy and completely enclosed mine.
    After a moment, he pulled his hand away and leaned over to fasten my seat belt. “Okay, Miss G., let’s get you back to your new place. You’ll have to give me directions, seeing as how I’ve never been there.”
    I told him to drive to the club area. I did not look at the crumpled BMW as we inched past. We traveled in silence. The snow stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun: June in the high country. The clouds, which were low, began to lift from the ground and part in wisps over the hills of Elk Park and Aspen Meadow. Sunlight made occasional passes across the meadow, turning it to glitter.
    “Daylight,” said Schulz. “One P.M., ’bout time.”
    I struggled under the seat belt to untangle my purse, which I had miraculously remembered, then rummaged around for sunglasses. Halfway through my search I