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wife-beater.”
    “Did he tell anyone he was meeting Paul?”
    “That’s a good question, I’ll ask him that next time I see him. Jill, did you ever hear or see anything that would make you think Paul was insane?”
    “That’s a funny question.”
    “I know. But Foster said Angela was afraid of what he might do if she left him, that Paul was dangerous. He said Paul was always grinning, even when he was sad or angry.”
    Jill stopped stitching to close her eyes and think. “I remember that smile,” she said at last. “But I didn’t think it was crazy, I just thought he was a happy person. It wasn’t one of those grins that don’t reach the eyes, like you see sometimes. Paul’s eyes squinched up, too.” She considered a bit more. “He seemed like a happy, friendly person to me.”
    “That’s two very different pictures. How well did you know him?”
    “Not all that well.”
    “Who was Paul’s best friend?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Who does know?”
    Jill smiled faintly. “Well, I’m sure the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension looked into his past pretty thoroughly, but I don’t know how you could access their records.”
    “Do you have a connection in the BCA who might look for me?”
    “Nope. Now you see, if you were a real police investigator, you could just call the BCA and ask to take a look at their files on the case.”
    “If I were really a police investigator, then Crewel World would be owned by someone who wouldn’t let you return unused needlepoint wool.”
    Jill said with every appearance of deadpan sincerity, “There’s a downside to everything, I guess.”
    The next day, Betsy phoned Alice Skoglund. “Hello, Betsy,” she said in her deep voice. “What may I do for you?”
    “I want to ask you a question about Paul Schmitt.”
    A bit warily she asked, “What about Mr. Schmitt?”
    “He was a long-time member of your church, wasn’t he?”
    “Well ... yes, why?”
    “I was wondering if you knew someone who was a good friend of his.”
    Alice didn’t reply at once. Then she said, “I don’t think I know of any.”
    “Think hard, Alice. This is important.”
    Alice had the curious trait of falling into what seemed like a noisy, deep-breathing coma when thinking, and suddenly the sounds of that were carried through the receiver at Betsy’s ear. After a minute it stopped, and Alice said, “Well, he used to go hunting with Vern Miller and his sons, Jory and Alex. Paul and Jory are about the same age, and they were in the same Sunday-school class for several years. Paul and Alex were friends until Paul married Angela, but as far as I know, Vern and Jory stayed friends with Paul right up until Paul’s death. Jory works for his father in that garage he runs over on Third. They’ll probably be able to tell you who was Paul’s best friend—if he had one.”
    Betsy had been to that garage, a scabrous place converted from a livery stable. It didn’t sell gasoline, just did repairs on older vehicles, the kind without computer chips or built-in VCRs. Though she had heard he was very talented, Betsy would not allow Vern, who was built on the approximate lines of a shell for a large naval gun, and was about as intelligent, to touch her old Mercury Tracer. And of course her new Buick was outside his expertise.
    So he watched her walk into his little office with a frown of puzzlement.
    “Help you?” he offered in his deep, gruff voice. He was an old man, his face deeply creased, his white hair both overgrown and thinning. But his sloping shoulders were heavy, and his filthy overalls and black fingernails indicated he was still a working man.
    “Is Jory here?” she asked. “I’d like to talk to both of you for a few minutes, if you can spare them, about Paul Schmitt.”
    Without rising he threw his head back and roared, “Jory!” His office was built into a comer of the workshop with old boards and chicken wire, he could have called his son with far less effort than