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couldn’t remember the names of those last two.
    It was telling, their behavior. Whatever had happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, everyone he’d met so far knew about it. He was looking forward to trying the World’s Greatest Ice Cream.
    The same older woman he’d seen upon his arrival was scooping up what looked to be peach ice cream for a family of tourists who’d probably seen that sign on the road and come west.
    The kids were jumping and yelling. The boy wanted Cove Chocolate and the girl wanted Basque Vanilla.
    â€œYou’ve only got the six flavors?” the woman asked.
    â€œYes, just six. We vary them according to the season. We don’t mass-produce anything.”
    The boy whined that now he wanted blueberry ice cream. The chocolate looked too dark.
    The older woman behind the counter smiled down at him and said, “You can’t have it. Either pick another flavor or shut up.”
    The mother gasped and stared. “You can’t act like that toward our son. Why, he’s—”
    The older woman smiled back, straightened her lacy white cap, and said, “He’s what, ma’am?”
    â€œHe’s a brat,” the husband said. He turned to his son. “What do you want, Mickey? You see the six flavors. Pick one now or don’t have any.”
    â€œI want Basque Vanilla,” the girl said. “He can have worms.”
    â€œNow, Julie,” the mother said, then licked the ice cream cone the woman handed her. “Oh, goodness, it’s wonderful. Fresh peaches, Rick. Fresh peaches. It’s great.”
    The woman behind the counter smiled. The boy took a chocolate triple-dip cone.
    James watched the family finally leave.
    â€œYes, can I help you?”
    â€œI’d like a peach cone, please, ma’am.”
    â€œYou’re new to town,” she said as she pulled the scoop through the big tub of ice cream. “You traveling through?”
    â€œNo,” James said, taking the cone. “I’ll be here for a while. I’m trying to find Marge and Harve Jensen.”
    â€œNever heard of them.”
    James took a lick. He felt as though sweet peaches were sliding down his throat. The woman was a good liar. “The lady was right. This is delicious.”
    â€œThank you. This Marge and Harve—”
    James repeated the story he’d told to Thelma and Martha and the old men. When he finished, he stuck out his hand and said, “My name’s James Quinlan. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles.”
    â€œI’m Sherry Vorhees. My husband’s the local preacher, Reverend Harold Vorhees. I have a four-hour shift here most days.”
    â€œA pleasure, ma’am. Can I treat you to an ice cream?”
    â€œOh, no, I have my iced tea,” she said and sipped out of a large plastic tumbler. It was very pale iced tea.
    â€œYou know, I’d like some iced tea, if you don’t mind,” Quinlan said.
    Sherry Vorhees winked at him. “Sorry, sir, but you don’t want my kind of iced tea, and we don’t have any of the other kind.”
    â€œJust ice cream, then. You’ve never heard of this Marge and Harve? You don’t remember them coming through here some three years ago? In a Winnebago?”
    Sherry thought he was handsome, just like that Englishman who’d played in two James Bond films, but this man was American and he was bigger, a lot taller. She really liked that dimple in his chin. She’d always wondered how men shaved in those tiny little holes. And now this lovely man wanted to know about these two old folk. He was standing right in front of her licking his peach ice cream cone.
    â€œA lot of folk come to The Cove for the World’s Greatest Ice Cream,” she said, still smiling at him. “Too many to remember individuals. And three years ago—Why, at my age I can barely remember what I cooked Hal for dinner last Tuesday.”
    â€œWell,