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something.”
    “Cripes, Shaye, quiet. This is a family place.”
    She scooped a hunk of vegetarian lasagna into her mouth, dabbed her lips, and hissed, “Pussy.”
    “Geesh, you’re foul.”
    A beatific smile crossed her face. “I know. It’s one of my many charms.”
    “Seriously, Shaye, it’s a matter of knowing the skull’s history. I can see why the Smithsonian would want to study it.”
    “Shit.”
    “C’mon, Shaye, look—”
    She shook her head. “Not that. The door. Don’t turn your head.”
    The inevitable furred my spine with chills. I glanced sideways and there, walking into the restaurant, was Harry Pisarro himself.
    “Does that creep follow you everywhere, or what?” she said.
    My back was to the door. I kept it that way. I lifted forkfuls of lobster and mussels to my mouth, sipped a delicious cabernet and poked at my spring greens salad. I tasted nothing but ash.
    Pisarro and his two goons were here because of me. I knew it, and I hated it. Somehow I was unable to completely extract the leech of a mobster from my life.
    I laid some bills on the table, tossed my napkin down, and left the restaurant.
    “Why, my dear Tally . . .” Pisarro began.
    I brushed past him without a look, and the sound of his familiar baritone laughter followed me down the street.
    When I arrived home, I showered, something I always did after an encounter with sleazeball mobster Pisarro. Having counseled him after his daughter’s homicide and dealt with him on several other cases, some of which he caused, he now felt I was his personal property, a view I sure didn’t share. One thing good about leaving MGAP was I didn’t see Pisarro so often. A real blessing.
    Hank would be here in another day. I couldn’t wait. I turbaned my hair, let Penny in, and responded to the blinking light on my phone.
    I scoonched on the couch and pulled the afghan across my legs. I flipped channels on the muted TV while I listened to my voicemail—my broker’s suggestions, all of which sounded silly; a request to donate money to my alma mater, Cornell; and Gert’s invite to Hank and me for dinner on the weekend to meet her newest flame, a guy named Incredulous, or Cred for short. A rapper. With dreds. Gert loved dreds.
    “Good heavens, Gertie,” I muttered.
    Penny’s ears pricked.
    I didn’t recognize the final voice. “Zoe here,” she said, “at Delphine’s. I wanted to call you, Ms. Whyte. I spoke with Delphine. She’s good. She’s pretty intense about her buying trip, and so she’s not being really good about answering her phone. She’s staying with friends, but she asked me to give you her cell number. I hope that’s okay.”
    Relief flowed to my fingertips as I jotted the number on a Post-it.
    “If you have any questions,” Zoe added, “just give me a shout. Bye.”
    I took a breath. Progress. But I wouldn’t feel truly great until I spoke with Delphine. I dialed her cell, got her voicemail, and left a message.
    I unmuted the volume so I could watch a repeat of
Life on Mars
, one of my favorite Brit mysteries. I pulled out a scarfI was knitting, and off I went. As the gorgeous alpaca silk flowed through my hands and onto my needles, I relaxed.
    Addy sure made a compelling case for my return to MGAP. So did Gert. I missed her. Missed the gang. Missed the
belonging
.
    I dozed, and dreamed of Indians and skulls and . . .
    A sound on the TV jerked me awake. It was late. Time for bed, the real one. Delphine still troubled me. The reconstructed skull had looked so like her, right down to her Romanesque nose. At least, I thought the reconstruction’s nose matched Delphine’s.
    Damn. I’d go back, talk to Didi again, and photograph the reconstruction. I didn’t care how much Didi objected. I simply couldn’t believe the resemblance to Delphine was a coincidence. Not for one minute.

C HAPTER F OUR
    I awakened later than planned. I called, checked Didi’s schedule. She’d be at The Grief Shop all day, and so I felt