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neighboring town for some interviewing. Her brother had been very young when she died, I reflected. He would have been a freshman to my junior. I'd never known him at Roselle, yet he'd been there. Another thing I vaguely remembered was all of us praying for our fellow student at the death of his sister. St. Roselle had 1200 students at the time; I hadn't known any freshmen. Jeremy Yardley would now be twenty-four or twenty-five years old. I wondered if he still lived in the area.
    I turned to Bill. “I have lots of interviews I can line up,” I said. “How much time do you want to allow me? Or should I try to do these on days off?”
    Bill rubbed his chin. “Go ahead and set them up for tomorrow. You can come in a little early, finish the deadline stories, get your stuff on the school board done, and then take a break.” He looked out the window across from us, thoughtful. “I'm curious, I have to say. You know, I remember when the story broke I wasn't very suspicious—no one was, except Rick. 'Course I was new, and low on the totem pole back then. But now that I read this, I wonder why no one made it an issue. Maybe because she was a nun, and nobody kills nuns, right?”
    “Not if they want to go to heaven,” Sally said sternly from behind her grand oak desk. She didn't look up. Sally was already convinced it was murder.
    When I got home late that afternoon, driving my Scorpio with the For Sale sign, I called to Jack, who was, fortuitously, getting back from a run. “Help me with the groceries,” I called. Jack walked over, gave me a cold January embrace and a warm kiss, and grabbed some grocery bags. “You know,” I said conversationally, walking behind him, “I haven't had any callers about the car. And how would I get to work if we sold it?” A few snowflakes were falling, and I winked as one got in my eye.
    “Remember, I said I'd take the bus,” Jack said over his shoulder. “It's no problem. The school is close.” Jack taught English at Webley High School.
    “Right,” I said. I'd have to try that another time. “We have company coming,” I said. “I know it's Monday, but I asked Gerhard to bring over the mystery people. I said I'd cook something good, which means you're cooking. Is that okay? I got the ingredients for your famous Italian thing.”
    Jack perked up. “Sure. Did you get lean meat?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the good mozzarella? Not that stuff in the bag that—”
    “Yes, Jack. That's the one part of cooking I'm good at. Shopping.” We were trudging up the stairs to the second floor of The Old School, and I was appreciating the view of Jack from behind, which never stopped being enjoyable.
    We put down our groceries, took off our winter gear, and came together for an after work kiss. Since our little spat on Saturday, Jack and I had been very thoughtful toward each other, and it had the effect of increasing our physical attraction.
    I pulled away. “We should get this started. Meaning you should,” I said. “I invited my parents, and Fritz, of course.”
    “So that's eight,” Jack said, pulling me back. Jack's kisses were always very warm and knee-weakening. “No problem,” he murmured against my lips. “Let's go in the bedroom.”
    “But Jack—”
    “We have to change for dinner, anyway,” he said. Jack was logical.
    “We'll have to change quickly,” I said, peeking at my watch. I put my hands in his hair and began to pull his mouth back to mine.
    “Hey—whatever happened with your interview?” he asked against my lips.
    “What interview?” I asked, pulling away slightly. Jack's eyes widened, and I watched the pupils dilate in those blue-gray orbs: the gray of gathering storm clouds.
    Jack looked suspicious. “You know what interview. The only one you had scheduled for today.” He touched the tip of my nose. “How did it go?”
    “Oh—fine. It's pretty much what we suspected. She thinks Joanna was murdered. No real reason exactly, just a very strong hunch she