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medication?”
    Again she shook her head. “Darwin neverused drugs of any kind. He was opposed to them.”
    â€œThe medical examiner found morphine in his bloodstream. You’ve no idea where it could have come from?”
    â€œI told you. He didn’t use drugs, not even aspirin. Is that what killed him, the morphine?”
    It was my turn to shake my head while I considered how to tell her. “He died of a broken neck,” I said softly. “Somebody tied a rope around his neck and hung him.”
    Joanna’s eyes widened. “Dear God!” She pushed her chair back so hard it clattered against the wall. Dodging her way through empty chairs and tables, she stopped only when she reached the far corner of the room. She leaned against the two walls, sobbing incoherently.
    I followed, standing helplessly behind her, not knowing if I should leave her alone or reach out to comfort her. Finally, I placed one hand on her shoulder. She shuddered as if my hand had burned her and shrugged it away.
    She turned on me then like a wounded animal, eyes blazing. “It’ll always be like that, won’t it! We’re accepted as long as we’re smart enough to know our place, but cross that line, and niggers are only good for hanging!”
    â€œJoanna, I…”
    She pushed her way past me, returned to our table, and grabbed up her shawl. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come, it subsided. Her face went slack. “Take me home,” she said wearily. “There are people I need to call.”
    I dropped money on the table for the coffee and trailed her outside. When I caught up, Joanna was standing by the Porsche, fingering the door handle. “Since when do cops drive Porsches,” she asked when I walked up to open her car door.
    â€œWhen they inherit them,” I replied. I helped her into the car and closed the door behind her.
    Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glanced in her direction before I started the engine. She sat with her head resting against the carseat, her long, slender neck stretched taut, eyes closed, her face impassive. That unconscious pose elicited once more the striking similarity between Joanna Ridley and that ancient Egyptian queen, but this was no time to tell her how beautiful she was. Joanna Ridley was in no condition to hear it.
    â€œI didn’t finish asking all my questions,” I said, starting the car and putting it in gear.
    â€œAsk them tomorrow. I’m worn out.”
    â€œSomebody will come stay with you? You shouldn’t be alone.”
    She nodded. “I’ll call someone.”
    We drove through the city. It was early, not more than eight o’clock or so, but it seemed much later. I felt incredibly tired. Joanna Ridley wasn’t the only one who was worn out. She just had a hell of a lot better reason.
    I drove back to her place and pulled up in front of her house. “Would you like me to come in with you?” I asked. “I could stay until someone comes over.”
    â€œDon’t bother,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
    I started to get out to open the door for her, but she opened it herself, struggled out of the low-slung seat, and was inside the house before I knew what had hit me. I sat there like a jerk and watched her go.
    It wasn’t until I turned the car around that I noticed the light in the carport was out. I couldn’t remember her switching it off when we left the house, but she must have. As a precaution, I waited in the car with my hand on the door handle long enough to see her pick up a phone, dial, and begin talking.
    She’ll be all right, I said to myself as I put the car in gear and drove up the street. What Joanna Ridley needed right then was family and friends, people who cared about her and would give her the strength and courage to pick up the pieces and go on with her life. What she didn’t need was an aging policewatchdog with a penchant