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Timberlake?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m Investigator Greg Washburn, Charlotte-Mecklenberg police. We have an appointment.”
    I held out an eager hand. His hand may not have been so eager, but when it touched mine, electricity flowed—from my hand to my heart, to my head, to my feet. My entire body was paralyzed. It was a good thing I had worker’s compensation insurance.
    â€œMa’am, is there someplace we could talk?”
    I stared at a youthful Cary Grant. No, Greg was a little taller and broader through the shoulders, his tummy firmer. His hair was darker, curling under where it hit his collar. The chin cleft was there, but so was a dimple on his left cheek. His eyes, rimmed by long black lashes, were intensely blue.
    â€œContacts?” I asked. At least my mouth was working, if not my brain.
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œI mean, you must have many contacts in your line of work. Ah, yes, we can talk back there by the counter, if you like.”
    I willed two rubbery pedestals to move my body and myhead to the back of the shop. Somehow they made it. My brain arrived a few seconds later.
    â€œIdentification?” I asked.
    It was all there. Unfortunately it didn’t tell me everything I wanted to know.
    â€œSatisfied?”
    I nodded. Of course I turned off the TV. Even Tad Martin can’t compete with Investigator Greg Washburn.
    â€œSit?” Did he think I was talking to a dog?
    The blue eyes danced. There was only one chair. “Why don’t you sit, ma’am? I’d prefer to stand.”
    I didn’t need to be coaxed. I could will those rubbery pedestals to walk, but I couldn’t keep them from shaking. Except that, if I sat down, those blue eyes would be too far away. I would need opera glasses to get as close as I wanted.
    Investigator Washburn and I did not share the same agenda. “Ma’am, what can you tell me about your aunt?”
    â€œShe’s dead,” I said. So was my brain.
    He smiled, flashing teeth as straight and white as piano keys. “Yes, we’ve determined that. Can you describe what she was like when she was alive?”
    â€œOld.”
    He glanced at a pocket notepad. “She was eighty-six, right?”
    â€œRight. She would have been eighty-seven the day after Christmas.”
    â€œA little on the senior side to still be working. Did she have plans to retire?”
    I laughed and then became acutely aware that laughing can produce spittle. There are more effective ways to attract a man than drenching him.
    â€œLet me tell you about my aunt. Her grandmother was born on a farm down near Columbia. Great-Grandma Wiggins was fourteen when the Union army swept through, burning everything in their path. She was home alone at the time but managed to save the farm. Her weapons were two muskets, a pitchfork, and a mind as sharp as a scalpel. Just how she did it is a long story, but the point is Aunt Eulonia was every bit a Wiggins. Oh yeah, Great-Grandma Wiggins died at age onehundred seven. She still lived on that farm. By herself.”
    He jotted something on his pad. “Sounds like quite a lady. You know anyone who might have had it in for your aunt. Besides the Union Army?”
    I swallowed first before laughing pleasantly. “Well, that’s kind of a messy question. Can you be more specific?”
    A black eyebrow arched slightly over a dancing eye. “Is there anybody that you can think of who would have wanted your aunt dead?”
    I tried not to squirm. “Well, yes, and no.”
    The blue eyes stopped dancing. “Tell me about the yes first.”
    If it was in for a penny, in for a pound, why was I always throwing my entire checkbook in the ring?
    â€œEverybody—well, just about everyone who owns a shop on this street wanted her dead. Maybe not actually dead, but gone somehow.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt was an image thing. You’ve seen her shop. Aunt Eulonia had no