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me."
    "I'm surprised he was up before noon." I checked the street for
his truck. "Where is he?"
    Millie shrugged. "Dropped me off and left. Do you know that nasty
detective still won't let me into my house? Has an officer guarding the
place."
    "She said she'd call us when you were allowed back in. You need
to be patient."
    "I didn't sleep a wink last night for worrying about this," Millie
said.
    I raised my eyebrows, but she went on before I could comment.
    "Then I get here, and things are worse instead of better."
    "What's going on?"
    "They found something," said the woman next to Millie. "While
they were dragging the lake for golf balls this morning. Some kind
of weapon is what I heard."

    The gun, I thought, tossed into the water after the killer left the
body in Aunt Millie's garage.
    Detective Troxell turned around, holding something carefully between gloved fingertips. Something long. Not a gun.
    Aunt Millie sucked in air and grabbed my arm.
    I looked at her. "What is it?"
    "My machete," she whispered.
    "Your what?" I could see the neighbor straining to listen. I backed
away from the woman, pulling Millie with me, my eyes glued on the
cops as Troxell handed the weapon to another officer and marched
in our direction.
    "How can you tell it's yours?" I asked quickly.
    "Mine had a red handle like that"
    "What do you mean had?"
    "Well, I bought it to get rid of that pampas grass taking over my
yard, but then the thing went missing."
    "When was this?"
    "I just thought I couldn't find it," Millie whined.
    "When's the last time you saw it?"
    "Two days ago or, I don't know, maybe longer. Whatever day
Wayne started painting the living room."
    "Did he see the machete at your house?"
    "Sure did. He used it to hack down those plants for me. Man's got
one heckuva swing."

     

I prepared for Troxell to quiz us about the machete, but a barrelchested man in a black windbreaker waylaid her. The man's buddies
waited on the path, where golf carts were stacked up like cars at the
Sam Houston Tollway booths during rush hour. I couldn't hear their
conversation, but the red-faced man waved his arms as if the wrath
of God was about to come down on the cops for delaying his game.
    "Who is that guy?" I said.
    "Barton Fletcher, the mean-tempered jerk I mentioned last night,"
Millie said. "Looks like the kind who'd commit murder, doesn't he?"
    I rolled my eyes. "More like the type who'd sue if he heard you
say that"
    Fletcher rattled on, but from what I'd seen of Troxell in action,
she wouldn't put up with his behavior very long.
    "Get ready to answer questions about the machete," I told Aunt
Millie.
    "I have nothing to hide," she said.
    "I know you don't, but what about your friend McCall?"
    Millie couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd told her I worked
nights at a strip club. "What are you insinuating?"
    "Nothing." I didn't want her to realize that Troxell and I had discussed McCall.
    "Wayne didn't hurt that man," Millie said.
    "I'm not saying he did, but if that is your machete, you might
want to start thinking about what you'll tell the police. Who else had
access to your house and garage besides you and McCall?"
    Millie chewed her lower lip in silence.
    "How long ago did you hire him?" I asked.
    She answered immediately. "A month. Six weeks maybe"
    Fletcher still had the detective's ear. He pointed, first toward the
street, then to several areas on the course, as if he was giving di rections while Troxell scribbled in her notebook. I turned back to
Millie.

    "Does McCall live near here?"
    She grinned. "I knew you'd like him. I thought of you that day in
the store, even before the purse incident. Noticed Wayne in the frozenfood section picking out TV dinners and thought, now there's a man
who needs someone nice like Poppy to come home to."
    "Aunt Millie, quit that. Yesterday Featherstone, now McCall. You
know the last thing I need is a man to complicate my life."
    She gazed at me like someone expressing