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saw Maxwell Cole’s rust-colored Volvo parked in front of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Max, Suzanne, and Michael Brodie were huddled on the front porch, deep in conversation. They broke it off as soon as we pulled up behind the Volvo. Peters didn’t recognize the car, but he swore under his breath when he recognized Maxwell’s walruslike visage.
     
    Max hurried down the steps toward us as though some trace of the conversation might linger in the ethers of the front porch. He checked his speed and sauntered up to the gate.
     
    “Fancy meeting you here,” I said before he had a chance. “What did they do, yank your column back onto the police beat?”
     
    He reddened slightly. “I’m working on the column right now, as a matter of fact.”
     
    Suzanne Barstogi came down from the porch and stood near the dangling gate. I ignored her and spoke directly to Maxwell for Suzanne’s benefit. “I hope you warned these nice folks that you don’t always quote people verbatim.” The good pastor came down to stand protectively, or maybe defensively, behind Suzanne.
     
    “Knock it off,” Maxwell muttered.
     
    “They know you’re the one who plastered Angela all over the front page this morning? I’ll bet they think you’re a really nice man. You tell ’em what kind of movies you like to watch?”
     
    “I said knock it off!”
     
    “You know,” I said, focusing on the bulbous nose supporting his sagging glasses, “I’d like nothing better than to knock it off.” Maxwell got my subtle message.
     
    He grabbed open the gate with such force that he wrested it from its last frail hinge. For a long moment he stood there holding the gate in his hand. I think he considered throwing it at me. Instead, he slammed it down and pushed his way past me to clamber into the Volvo. He drove off, leaving a trail of rubber on the asphalt.
     
    “I’ll give you that one,” Peters grinned.
     
    We turned our attention to Pastor Michael and Suzanne. I’ve already mentioned that I put in some time as a Fuller Brush salesman. In fact, that’s how I worked my way through the University of Washington. I learned a lot about life from a sales manager there. He had a list of trite sayings he would spew with little or no provocation. One that I particularly remember is, “Men change but seldom do they.” Those words flashed through my mind as Pastor Michael cordially extended his hand. “I suppose you have some more questions.”
     
    My partner shot me a wondering glance. “We certainly do,” Peters said.
     
    Brodie gave Suzanne a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you run along inside with the others.” His smile was benevolent. “They can talk to you later if they need to.”
     
    Suzanne backed away from him as though she, too, was wary of his change in demeanor. Unconcerned, Brodie picked up the fallen gate and appeared to study the possibility of reattaching it to the fence. There was a long scrape across the back of his hand. Peters saw it the same time I did.
     
    “Will you be conducting the funeral?” I asked, looking for an opening.
     
    “The services,” he corrected gently. “In Faith Tabernacle we don’t have funerals. Even though the circumstances in this case appear tragic, it is always an occasion for thanksgiving when one of the True Believers is called home to be with our Maker.”
     
    “I see,” I said unnecessarily. I was trying to reconcile this seemingly soft-spoken, considerate man with the explosively tempered one I had seen the day before. It was inconceivable that the two could be one and the same. Yesterday he had been out of control. Today he was the picture of unctuous self-confidence.
     
    “The Thanksgiving Service will be Sunday at two up on top of Queen Anne. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” he added.
     
    Inconsequential small, talk quickly exhausted Peters’ patience. “How long have you known Suzanne Barstogi?” he interjected.
     
    There was a slight but