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fact, Tom was in here on Thanksgiving.”
    â€œYou were open Thanksgiving?”
    â€œOh, yeah. Hafta keep the dining room open for the lazy broads who don’t want to cook—or have forgotten how. Of course we’re open.”
    â€œYo, Frank!” Someone signaled for his services at the other end of the bar.
    Fenimore put down a generous tip and started to leave. When the first blast of cold air hit him, he remembered his coat and turned back. As he reentered the bar, he was met with raucous laughter. It stopped when they saw him.
    â€œHey, mister!” The loudest member of the group sidled up to him. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was solidly built. When he was face to face with Fenimore, he said, “You a friend of the Pancoasts?”
    Fenimore nodded.
    The man shared a wink with his friends and turned back to him. “Maybe you can help us settle something.” He thrust his face nearer.
    Fenimore waited. He wasn’t interested in a barroom brawl. Not that he couldn’t handle it, but he had more important things to do.
    â€œWe have a wager going here. Some of us think the Pancoast girl died natural. Others don’t. What’s your opinion?”
    â€œWhat makes you think I have one?”

    His eyes narrowed. “The Pancoast place was swarming with police tonight. Now, that ain’t natural.” He was so close Fenimore could smell the beer and peanuts on his breath. “You was up there, weren’t you?”
    It was as if the fella were accusing him of Pamela’s death. But Fenimore understood. The man was proud of the Pancoast family, as were most of the villagers. If there was something fishy going on, he would rather blame an outsider than a member of the family—or the town.
    He hesitated. But, he told himself, you can never hide the truth for long. And certainly not in a village of three hundred odd. It would probably be in all the newspapers tomorrow. He looked the man straight in the eye and said, “She may have been poisoned.”
    The man’s belligerence evaporated. He wilted like a sail that’s been suddenly lowered.
    His friends had heard Fenimore too. “I told ya, Louie,” one of them yelled. “You owe me a fiver.”
    Fenimore took his coat from the bar stool and left them to settle their wager.
    Â 
    A freezing rain had begun to fall. The street was slick and deserted. Fenimore regretted not bringing his car. As he moved up the street, he remembered how it looked in summer, overflowing with vacationers—browsing in the shops, balancing ice cream cones, and oozing with suntan lotion. He quickened his steps.
    The Pancoast house was dark except for one light on the second floor. Probably the bathroom. The shade was drawn.
He was glad the aunts had taken his advice and retired early. As Fenimore watched, a distinct shadow moved across the yellow window shade. It passed quickly, but not before he noticed that the silhouette was not Judith’s—with her fuzzy head of curls. And not Emily’s—with her neat bun at the back of the neck. The silhouette was smooth—like an egg. Or a bald man. Fenimore hesitated before getting into his car. Should he wake the aunts and ask who was using their bathroom? There must be some simple explanation. Edgar or Tom? (Both father and son were balding.) One of them had probably dropped back after Fenimore had left and decided to spend the night. When he glanced at the window again, the light was out. All was dark and serene. Even the rain had stopped. Fenimore turned on the ignition and began the long trip back to Philadelphia.

CHAPTER 9
    â€œI t’s a disgrace!”
    Fenimore recognized the note of righteous indignation in his nurse’s voice and was instantly on guard. “What’s a disgrace?”
    â€œThose poor, defenseless, little old ladies. There aren’t enough police to take care of them. They stand out there waiting for the buses to