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seemed strangely out of whack with what I thought was going on. It was as though she was talking about something else entirely--something that had nothing to do with either her husband's death or with the brimming shot glass sitting on the table in front of her.
    It took a moment for me to put the pieces together. Embarrassed, I wondered if I hadn't inadvertently stumbled in on a private moment of loss and reconciliation that had been some thirty years in the making. It sounded as though Else was apologizing for marrying Gunter Gebhardt years before instead of Alan Torvoldsen.
    Caught in that unexpected crossfire of intimacy in the cramped, smoke-filled galley, I felt suddenly isolated and invisible. It seemed as though the other two people had completely forgotten my presence. I was about to clear my throat to remind them when, as if on cue, the water in the coffeepot came to a sudden noisy boil. The rattling pot provided a much-needed diversion, shattering the moment and disrupting whatever it was that had passed between them.
    When Alan turned to tend to the pot, Else picked up the glass and drained the generous shot in a single gulp. Her throat worked convulsively to swallow the burning liquid. Moments after she did so, her unnaturally pale face was suffused in a warm pink glow as the powerful alcohol blasted its way into her system.
    "I should warn you," Else said. "I don't hold my liquor very well. It might set me off."
    "That's all right," Alan said. "Crying's good for you."
    He had taken two chipped but still usable coffee mugs down from the cupboard. He filled them with boiling water, spooned instant coffee into them, stirred thoughtfully, then handed one across the tiny table to me before picking up his own, proving once and for all that he hadn't forgotten my presence.

    But his eyes settled on Else. "Especially at a time like this," he added. "When something terrible happens, everybody needs to cry."
    One Day at a Timelisted suddenly to one side. A quick tattoo of footsteps pounded across the deck. "Detective Beaumont," Officer Tamaguchi called from outside. "Are you in there?"
    "Yo," I answered. "What's up?"
    "We've got some kind of hit-and-run," he announced, when I opened the door, letting a burst of November chill into the stove-warmed galley. "It evidently happened earlier this morning--before the fire was reported. Sergeant Watkins seems to think the accident may be related to the fire. He wants you and Detective Danielson to get on it right away and check it out."
    Alan was already sipping his coffee. The man's lips must have been made of asbestos. The liquid in my cup was still far too hot to drink. Reluctantly, I put my untouched steaming mug down on the table.
    "I'll have to take a rain check," I said to Alan. "I've gotta go."
    "That's fine," Alan said, waving at me with his cigarette.
    I looked at Else. As far as I was concerned, Gunter Gebhardt's widow was no longer Mrs. Gebhardt. She was, instead, Else Didriksen--a schoolmate of mine, a former cheerleader who had once urged a long-legged, awkward kid called BoBo Beaumont on to basketball-court glory. That was back at a time when we had all thought our futures would be very different from the way they actually turned out to be.

    "Else," I said. "I'll need to get in touch with you later. How can I reach you?"
    Putting one hand deep into the pocket of her long wool coat, she pulled out a set of car keys and a wrinkled business card. She laid the keys on the table next to her empty glass, then handed me the card. On it was written the words, "Else Gebhardt, Consultant." That and a phone number was all.
    "What kind of consultant?" I asked, as I pocketed the card.
    "Seafood," she answered with a self-deprecating shrug. "What else would it be?"
    What else indeed? "Look, Else," I said. "When you're ready to go home, one of the officers will be happy to give you a lift."
    "I'm fine," Else said. "I can drive myself home."
    "No, you can't," Alan replied.
    "Why