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was well kept, from the stone house surrounded by flower gardens
and shrubs to the equipment shed, the garage with the tractor and the pickup truck
in it, and the workshop (locked) with its workbench and array of tools. The barn,
of course, was a tangled mess of blackened wood and wet ash. But before the fire
it had been as neat and well maintained as any barn could be—except for a small hole
in one wall that Mr. Goran was going to patch to keep out small animals. I’d seen
the inside of the barn. Mr. Goran had been proud to give me a tour. Now two walls
were badly charred but still standing, although signs had been posted warning of
danger.
    But apart from the devastated barn, the farm was picture-perfect. Mr. Goran had worked
his whole life to scrape together the money to buy the place. Why would he destroy
it—especially in the way it had been done? He was terrified of fire. I’d seen that
for myself. He’d even refused to allow his wife to have the gas stove she coveted.
Even if he had needed the money, which was what Aunt Ginny had hinted, would he have
gone about it that way, through arson? I couldn’t imagine it. Not in a million years.

SIX
    Aunt Ginny came in after midnight. I knew because she flung her shoes across the
front hall, hitting the table near the stairs and knocking over the little lamp on
top of it. It crashed to the floor, jolting me awake. I thought someone had broken
into the house, and, heart pounding, I crept to the top of the stairs with my baseball
bat.
    “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Aunt Ginny demanded when she saw me.
    “I thought someone smashed a window and was breaking in.”
    “And you were planning to do what, exactly? Didn’t I teach you better than that?”
    I deduced that she was in a foul mood. “What if I’d called 9-1-1 instead?” I asked.
“And what if one of your new colleagues rushed out here only to find out that you were the cause of the call?”
    She muttered something unintelligible.
    “Bad day, Aunt Ginny?”
    “I didn’t sign on to be a pet detective.”
    “Another lost dog?”
    “Not lost. Abused.”
    “Isn’t that a job for animal welfare?”
    “Yes. And they investigated. Then they called us, and, of course, I got the case.
The dog, which doesn’t have any tags, was badly beaten. I’m supposed to find out
who did it.”
    “Badly beaten? Is it okay?”
    “It’s going to be a long recovery.”
    “Poor thing. Who would do something like that?”
    “You sound just like the chief. I like dogs as much as the next person.” When I gave
her a skeptical look, she said, “Just because I don’t choose to live with one doesn’t
mean I don’t respect them as fellow citizens of this world.” That sounded rehearsed
to me. “But I don’t want to end up as a pet detective. That’s not what I worked for
so hard all these years. I need a shower.”
    “Aunt Ginny, about the washing machine—.” The laundry situation was getting desperate.
    “I said I’d handle it, and I will,” said Aunt Ginny. “But right now I’m going to
bed.”

    Aunt Ginny was snoring the next morning when I peeked into her room. Then I crept
downstairs. I left her a note and went outside to wait for Aram.
    He arrived exactly at seven in his father’s pickup, its bed filled with baskets of
vegetables. We drove to the market down by the beach and unloaded at our stall, and
I taped a sign to it: Goran Farm . Then I started writing out price signs.
    “How’s your father?” I asked as I set out brilliant-green cucumbers, ears of freshly
picked corn, green beans, field tomatoes, peppers and onions.
    “There’s been no change. I get the impression the doctors aren’t expecting much.”
    “There were two men at the farm yesterday. One of them said he was interested in
buying the place.”
    “Mr. Curtis?”
    I nodded.
    “I got his card. But it’s my father’s farm. Any decision regarding it is up to him.”
    I didn’t want to think how upset Mr. Goran