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teahouse in Minneapolis. Eventually, I want to create and sell our own blends.”
    â€œWhen we have some time just for the two of us, I want to hear more about it.” Evangeline placed the pink rose in front of a small white marble headstone, one that read,
    G RACE A DLER.
    1989–1996.
    O NLY IN DARKNESS CAN YOU SEE THE STARS.
    â€œThat’s Kira’s sister, right?” asked Guthrie, pushing his hands into his back pockets. “I didn’t realize she was only seven when she died.”
    â€œIt was a car accident.” Evangeline caressed the gravestone before straightening up. “Not three weeks after Delia passed. An awful time for the family.”
    â€œDelia was Kira and Grace’s mother.”
    Evangeline nodded.
    â€œI don’t see her gravestone.”
    â€œNo. Kevin—” She glanced up at Guthrie. “He wanted to scatter her ashes on the north shore of Lake Superior. It was a favorite place of theirs.”
    Seemed like the least they could do was put up a memorial marker, thought Guthrie. As he considered the significance of the omission, a rusted gray Buick rumbled over the gravel into the drive and parked next to a white van. An middle-aged woman with dark hair and red lipstick got out of the passenger-side door. From the driver’s side, a balding, heavyset man in a tweed sport coat with professorial-looking patches on the elbows emerged. Neither looked particularly happy, though when they caught sight of Evangeline, their expressions brightened. The man took a moment to tap out his pipe. Stuffing it into his coat pocket, he dug through the backseat and, once the door was shut, held up two white sacks.
    â€œThat’s my oldest son, Douglas, and his wife, Laurie,” said Evangeline, waving and smiling. Slipping her arm through Guthrie’s, she asked, “You any good at peeling potatoes?”
    â€œOne of my best events.”
    â€œGood man. Let’s get to work.”

 
    7
    By one A.M. , Guthrie still hadn’t slept. He’d eaten too much, that was a given, but it was more than that. Kira might be sleeping peacefully across the hall, but, ironically, it was her nightmare that was keeping him awake. Maybe he was being too sensitive, looking for clues to prove something that had never happened. Was it really possible that someone in Kira’s family had murdered her mother?
    Kira’s father, Kevin, was a friendly, straightforward kind of guy. He’d spent time in the military—had served in the first Gulf War. There was a picture of him in his army uniform on the piano. As a young man, he’d been movie-star handsome—wavy brown hair, strong square chin, broad shoulders, and a confident, cocky grin. He looked much the same today, though his hair was shaggier and shot through with gray. He swore like a man who’d served in the army, and yet there was a sweetness about him, an empathetic appreciation of the others at the dinner table.
    Guthrie’s mother had once pointed out to him that people rarely asked questions of other people. Mostly, they waited around for a chance to talk about themselves. She told him that when he found someone who asked questions and actually listened to the answers, that he’d found a rare soul indeed. Kevin Adler was like that.
    Hannah was an arch personality, liked to tease, to sit back and make acerbic comments. Doug had clearly staked out the position of family intellectual and curmudgeon. He was animated, opinionated, and surreptitiously downed hefty sips from a thin silver flask he kept secreted in the inside pocket of his sport coat. He also partook liberally of the Irish whiskey and Chardonnay Kevin had brought with him—his contribution to the meal. While Doug never seemed drunk, he clearly kept himself on the edge of inebriation throughout the day. Occasionally, he would slip in a comment that was so breathtakingly bitter, it brought all conversation to a halt.
    As