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I stuck my hand in the deep pocket and rummaged around until my fingers found the smooth leather cover. Grasping the book, I pulled it out. Bloody fingerprints etched the cover.
    Dropping the dress back into the trash, I stared at the book in my hand. My common sense told me that I should turn it over to Bill, but a little voice inside my head asked a question.
    What’s in this book?
    I forced myself to open it.
    It was a date book with appointments scrawled in large, loopy letters.
    I flipped through the pages and saw the phone numbers and addresses of his agent, editor, and Karen Burns, his assistant. Examining the dates, I noticed Stephen had been on a book tour for the last few weeks. He’d had signings at Cornerstone Books in Salem, Massachusetts; Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania, last month; Booked for Murder in Madison, Wisconsin, and Once Upon a Crimein Minneapolis, last week; and The Bookworm in Bellevue, Iowa, just prior to coming to Summerset.
    He hadn’t said anything about a book tour. He said he was conducting research for the next Stephen Larsen book and that his next stop was Texas.
    I read his entries for the month of September. He had signings listed for I Love a Mystery in Mission, Kansas; Main Street Books in St. Charles, Missouri; Big Sleep Books in St. Louis, and Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, California. I flipped forward to October, but only found an entry for an appearance at The Women’s Expo in Kingsport, Tennessee. Nothing about a stop in Texas. Turning back, I looked at the date listing The Bookworm. Next to it was a phone number with a 515 area code. I knew that was for central not eastern Iowa, where The Bookworm was located.
    Turning the page, I noticed that last Friday, just two days ago, Stephen had written Vargas and a phone number next to the date. He’d circled it twice.
    Vargas? Vargas? We had a Vargas family living in Summerset, and the phone number was a local one. A coincidence? No, it had to be the same family. I’d seen Mr. Vargas on the street with his wife and daughter, and knew that he worked at the winery, along with many other Latinos in the area. Stephen said he’d heard there was someone at the fund-raiser whom he wanted to meet. His entry indicated that the meeting must have been with Vargas.
    It didn’t make sense. Stephen had been in eastern Iowa. How would he have known of the Vargas family? And why did he want to talk with them? As far as I knew, they were a quiet family, staying mostly to themselves. I knew their little girl, Evita. She came to the library a couple of days a week, after school, but the only time I ever ran into her mother, Deloris, was when she picked up Evita.
    A smile played at the corner of my mouth. Evita was a real sweetheart. About ten years old, with black ringlets floating around her shoulders, she was bright, inquisitive,an avid reader, and for some reason, attached herself to me whenever she came to the library. The reason could’ve been the candy jar we kept at the counter to encourage children to return books. Every time they returned their books, they received a piece. But Evita? I always slipped her two pieces. For whatever reason, her brown eyes sparkled as she followed me around, asking questions and munching her candy. Already she was reading way above her age level.
    Her mother didn’t share Evita’s friendliness. She seemed very shy and never engaged in conversation when she picked up Evita. She did adore her daughter, though. Her face lit up at the sight of her bopping around the library. The greeting was always the same. Evita would fly into her mother’s arms, rattling off words in rapid Spanish, Deloris would laugh and enfold her in a big hug, and then with a nod and a small smile at me, the two would leave the library hand in hand.
    They appeared to be a happy family, and I couldn’t imagine why Stephen would be interested in them.
    I glanced at Lady still lying on the floor watching me. “Well, girl.