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  "Oh, no, you're--"

  "Em, I've thought about divorcing him at least once a month for ten years. And this last, when I found out he'd sold my little Darlin', well that was the last straw. I am glad he's dead. I'm just sorry I waited--" She clamped her lips shut and closed her eyes.

  Emaline stared. That sounded almost as if... No, impossible. Not meek little Martha, who'd put up with a man all her friends thought impossible for so long. Oh, sure, she'd complained about him, but every woman--and man--Emaline knew well complained now and then about a spouse. Martha's complaints had been no more bitter than, oh, Jerri's for instance.

  But Jerri also bragged on Jack, who was a good father, helpful around the house, and fun to be with. Now that she thought about it, Emaline had never heard Martha say a single kind word about Walt.

  Westminster chimes announced someone at the front door. The Medical Examiner. Emaline showed him Walt's body. "Mrs. Kaczynski is in the kitchen." She indicated the way. "Do you need her now?"

  "In a few minutes. I'll just come on back there when I'm ready. Will you stay with her?"

  "As long as necessary." Perfectly content to leave the man to his duties, she headed back to the kitchen.

  * * * *

  The usual Friday night with the girls turned into something of a wake. Emaline, Jerri and Amy gathered at Martha's. They shared pizza and wine, followed by a chocolate ganache dessert that, according to Amy, had a b'zillion calories a bite. Martha spent most of the evening talking about what a stinker Walt had been. Emaline was careful to not agree, and she noticed the others verbally tiptoeing as well.

  Walt may have been a stinker, but the only person with a right to say so was his wife...widow.

  "I doubt the autopsy will be done before Monday," Jerri told her when they were together in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. "Then it will take a few days to get the lab results, if they use the police lab. I see no reason why you can't go to your conference. After waiting that long, Martha can postpone the funeral until you're back." She put the pizza box on the floor and used her feet to fold it smaller. "She'll want you here, but you don't need to hang around between now and then."

  This wasn't the first time Emaline had been grateful for her friends' expertise. Jerri, who was a nurse at OHSU, could usually answer medical questions. Amy, A corporate lawyer, had good connections in the legal community. She'd be able to advise Martha if the police suspected--

  What am I thinking? No one suspects Martha of anything.

  "I'll be glad to get out of town, to tell the truth. I'm up to here with Walt's sins." Picking up the squashed cardboard and the empty wine bottle, Emaline took them to the back porch where the recycling bin was. "I sure hope she doesn't go on like this when Marcie gets here. She always seemed like such a daddy's girl."

  "Probably because Walt never said no to her. He let Martha be the bad cop."

  Once all the gray slate counters were wiped down and the clean dishes put away, they rejoined Amy and Martha in the living room. "I'll stay here tonight," Amy said. "Martha finally heard back from Marcie. She won't get here until late tomorrow."

  Martha's daughter was a manager trainee in one of the big Las Vegas hotels. Emaline hoped she'd learned to pretend the warmth that she'd never exhibited. Martha needed it right now. "I'll come over on Sunday if you need, me, Martha. Just call." She secretly hoped Marcie would keep her mother occupied. And was immediately ashamed. We've been friends forever. Why am I being so awful?

  * * * *

  As she checked her tablet to make sure she had all the recent papers she hadn't had time to read loaded, she found herself wondering how many more changes Allardyce and her henchmen intended. Already there was a feeling of tension in the air, something that had never been present at Bio-Logic as long as she'd worked there.

  One more chore. She hesitated before dialing Martha's number, wishing there were some way to avoid the call. Ever since Marci's arrival, Martha had gone from excoriating Walt to acting as if her world would be empty without him. Even more amazing, she hadn't mentioned Darlin' once.

  If Walt Kaczynski had been my husband, I might have been tempted to poison him.

  On the heels of that thought came a surge of guilt. She hadn't poisoned her grandfather, but she'd come very close to doing so. Sometimes she still wondered if she'd managed to scoop all the cyanide out of the cherry pie.

  The autopsy had found no trace of poison in Grandad's system.

  Martha's voice startled her, so lost was she in memories.

  "Hi, it's Em. Since I'm going to be in Seattle the rest of the week, I wanted to touch base with you. How are you doing?"

  "Oh, well, nothing I can't handle. I just wish we'd hear about the autopsy results so we can plan his funeral."

  After a few short exchanges, she ended the call, using the excuse of having a train to catch. Still unsure what to pack, she headed upstairs. April in Seattle was just as uncertain, weatherwise, as in Portland, but colder and wetter.

  * * * *

  Although the symposium officially began on Tuesday, the only sessions were day-long seminars on topics of little interest to Emaline. She checked into her hotel, stopped by the conference center to pick up her packet and considered her duty done. The necklace Harry had sent her for Valentine's Day had come from Bostain & Farsome, Ltd., a legal firm near Pioneer Square. Knowing it could be a forlorn hope, she planned to visit their offices, see if she could find out why he'd taken such a roundabout way to send her a gift.

  Not that it would tell her why he'd been here or where he was now. She refused to believe he was dead, but missing was almost as bad. Every bad thing that could be keeping him out of touch, from being in a coma to total amnesia resulting from a blow to the head, had haunted her dreams--and too many of her waking hours--since February.

  She knew he hadn't gone missing deliberately. Not Harry. He was too responsible. Too much the career cop.

  The law offices were in an older building, on the fifth--the top--floor in Pioneer Square, the part of Seattle where settlement began. From what she could see, they took up the entire floor. The receptionist was a type that always intimidated her: about her age, with gray hair styled like a helmet and a voice that would have done a drill sergeant proud.

  "I'm looking for information about a package that was mailed from here back in February," she said, when ordered to state her business. "It was from a friend of mine, and I don't understand why he would have had you send it. Unless something has happened to him..." She let her voice quaver just a little on the last few words.

  "In February?" The receptionist sniffed. "And you're just now inquiring?" The subtext was that she must not be much of a friend if she'd waited two months.

  Emaline put on her moderately-famous-Ph.D hat. "I've spoken to him several times since then. But not for the last two weeks. Now, if you could direct me to one of the legal staff, someone who might know enough to help me?"

  The battle wasn't won, not by a long shot. "Without an appointment, I don't see how..."

  Planting both hands on the woman's wide, glass-topped desk, Emaline leaned just low enough to look her levelly in the eye. "Surely in a firm this size, there is one lawyer who isn't engaged at this moment. Answering my question should not take more than a quarter hour. I'll be happy to pay whatever exorbitant fee you charge for a short consultation."

  "That's an hour, even if you only meet with one of the associates for fifteen minutes, but I'll see what I can do. What was your friend's name?"

  Perhaps she'd absorbed more of Detective Armbruster's caution than she'd realized. "You don't need to know."

  After making a couple of short calls, the receptionist said, sounding almost disappointed, "Ms. Pine will see you. She'll be free in about ten minutes."

  "Thank you." Emaline gave her a bright smile and took one of the wide-armed upholstered chairs in the elegant waiting area. She took out her tablet and went back to the mystery she'd been reading on the train, but the words made no sens
e. Would she find out anything about where Harry had been and why? Or was this just a wild goose chase?

  Chapter Four

  Introductions over, Emaline explained why she was there.

  Ms. Pine's eyebrow had risen higher and higher as she listened. "You know who sent you the package, and why. So what difference does it make that ours was the return address?"

  After allowing herself a second to grind her teeth, Emaline said, "Because I don't know where he is. Nobody does."

  "Had it occurred to you that perhaps the gentleman doesn't want anyone to know where he is. You did say your...relationship was merely...friendly."

  That did it. Standing, Emaline leaned over and put both hands flat on the shining walnut desk. "Ms. Pine, Harry Jordan is a cop. He is on special assignment. I have reason to believe that assignment has put him in mortal danger. While a search for him has been underway for nearly a month, I very much doubt anyone has checked to see what the connection between his whereabouts and your office might be. Detective Arm-- Uhm, my contact in his office dismissed my thought that the return address was relevant. I assume that no one from the Portland Police Bureau has contacted you?"

  "I can't say. If they have, there is most likely an element of client privilege." She picked up a pencil and tapped its eraser on the blotter. "However, I believe I understand your concern. Let me see what I can find out. Where can I reach you?"

  Emaline sat down, took a deep breath, and recited her cell number. "I'll be attending an evening session tonight and sessions all day from tomorrow through Friday. My cell will be off during sessions, but I'll check for messages during breaks."

  "You realize this may yield nothing helpful?" Ms. Pine's tone and body language had gone from coolly disinterested to sympathetic. "He may have simply walked in and made arrangements for the package to be shipped because we were convenient. This neighborhood is somewhat mixed."

  "A good description. I saw a purse snatching on my way here. If you're inferring that Harry might have been undercover in this neighborhood, I'd already come to that conclusion. If he is in the Seattle area at all, it's a definite possibility." Again she stood, but this time when she reached across the desk, it was to offer her hand. "Thank you, Ms. Pine. I hope you find something useful for me."

  "So do I."

  On her way out, she stopped and gave billing information to the dragon lady at the front desk.

  * * * *

  That evening's presentation was on metabolism and biomarkers of a number of common compounds. The abstract didn't make it sound terribly interesting, but since several of the compounds named were poisons, Emaline had decided to take it in. She'd somehow become BioLogic's resident poison expert.

  After fifteen minutes, she'd about decided to take a nap. The speaker was one of those who read the data on the slides he was projecting. Given the darkened room and baritone drone reciting displayed information she could read many times faster, she found herself nodding more than once. A few phrases stayed with her, as if they had penetrated her semi-doze more deeply than most.

  "...severe mercury poisoning acquired by handling elemental mercury..."

  "...and as you can see from this, it is sometimes difficult to determine cause of death in a heavy smoker..."

  "...not commonly known that apple pips contain amagdylin which metabolizes into cyanide..."

  I knew that.

  She came out of her doze and realized that the last comment much have been the punch line of a fairly good joke, because laughter had rippled through the room.

  At least the speaker had used apple pips as an example instead of cherry stones. Her knowledge of their poisonous potential was still a source of secret guilt.

  There were no messages awaiting her when she got back to her room. As a result, she slept poorly. Or perhaps it was the dreams, filled with dead bodies, both human and canine.

  One of them was Harry's.

  After that she didn't sleep at all. If it hadn't been three in the morning, she would have gone out and bought a pack of cigarettes. But by the time six rolled around, she'd convinced herself that black coffee would be enough.

  * * * *

  A little jittery from the three cups of excellent, but strong, coffee she'd consumed with her yogurt and fruit, Emaline decided to walk instead of taking a cab to the Convention Center on Thursday. It probably wasn't much over a mile, and it was downhill most of the way. She deliberately made herself take in the scenery. A number of new buildings had been put up since her last visit to the Emerald City. As she strode along, only half her mind was occupied. Perhaps that's why a certain phrase kept popping up.

  "...sometimes difficult to determine cause of death in a heavy smoker..."

  Why on earth should that keep running through her mind? Was it because she had, for a few insane moments, actually considered taking up smoking again?

  "I don't think that's it. But why?"

  She spoke the last two words loudly enough that a passing man gave her a curious look and stepped clear to the curb rather than simply dodging her.

  Forcing herself to think back over that portion of a presentation she'd admittedly paid far too little attention to, she pulled up a few more sentences. Nicotine poisoning caused sweating, stomach cramps, vomiting, and if severe enough, convulsions and even coma, which often lead to death. She knew that the government had set a date after which nicotine sulfate could no longer be used in gardens, despite the fact that it was one of the most effective organic pesticides.

  "What earthly good to take it off sale, when all you have to do to get the equivalent is soak a few packs' worth of cigarettes in water?" she said, but was careful to do so barely above a murmur.

  Ten steps later, she stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumped into her from behind, and two oncoming pedestrians barely managed to swerve around her. "No! Impossible. Martha would never--"

  Walt had rejoiced when Perky died. He had objected to the purchase of the Corgi pup Martha named Darlin'. And he'd taken that beloved little dog and sold it, with not a word to her.

  Martha was upset, but she wasn't grieving.

  "Lady, you're blocking the sidewalk."

  "Oh! Sorry." She resumed walking. Instead of taking the next turn toward the convention center, she went straight down Pine toward the waterfront. She needed to think, to banish this nasty little suspicion. Martha was one of her best friends, had been since they were sophomores in high school. Yes, in the last ten or fifteen years, she'd changed a lot, and was no longer the little-bit-crazy kid she'd been. But neither was Emaline.

  She stepped to the side, out of the flow of work-bound foot traffic and huddled against a building. The mist that turned every surface shiny had matured into a light rain, but she was dressed for it. Shielding her phone with her purse, she dialed. Amy picked up on the second ring.

  "Could Martha have... Oh, God, I'm crazy. Never mind."

  "Wait. Em? I thought you were in Seattle."

  "I am. And I'm missing the first presentation. I've got to go."

  "Hey, you called me, not the other way 'round. What do you think Martha might have done?"

  "I don't. I mean, I wondered, but no, it's impossible. She's not the type."

  "Em, in case you haven't noticed, Martha's changed in the past few years. She's no fun anymore and she seems to angry all the time. I've been worried about her for some time, but I didn't say anything. I guess I was waiting for someone else to bring it up." A phone rang in the background. "Oops, that's the call I've been waiting for. Hold on."

  Emaline listened to Brahms for a full minute before Amy returned.

  "Okay, back to Martha. What's she done?"

  "I don't know for sure. I probably shouldn't even be thinking it, but--"

  "Em! Spit it out."

  "She may have killed Walt."

  Dead silence. It lasted long enough that Emaline started wondering if the call had gotten dropped.

  "You may be right." Amy's tone was flat. "Look, I
really have to take this call. Is there something you want me to do?"

  "No. I know what to do. I just needed a second opinion."

  "Call me tonight."

  "I will. Thanks." She turned off her phone and tucked it back into her pocket. As she did so, something caught her eye in the narrow passage leading to a deeply recessed door. She stepped closer to look, knowing she shouldn't. This was not the best part of town, and the stink of old beer and urine made her want to hold her breath.

  Her conscience told her the least she could do was make sure the dark heap she could see was trash and not a person. She took one step closer, but the combination of rain and deep shadow kept her from discerning a form within the bundle of dark fabric.

  She pulled out her phone to use as a flashlight. Shone it on the bundle.

  And saw bloody fingers spread on the wet ground.

  * * * *

  "All right, Dr. Banister. You can go now. I'll be in touch later."

  She didn't doubt that. In fact, she was nothing short of amazed that the investigating officer had listened to her plea that she be allowed to leave. If she hurried she'd have time for a bathroom stop before she had to be at the stage entrance. Nothing like a body in the alley to put giving a paper to several hundred of my professional peers into perspective. The butterflies that had been threatening to swarm in her middle had disappeared.

  That was why she'd gone into the business world instead of the academic cloister. She'd probably been the worst graduate teaching assistant Stanford ever had. Every single day she'd faced a room full of students, she'd experienced five minutes of sheer terror. Even after it faded, she'd never been comfortable, and it had shown in her relationships with the students.

  Stop it. Thinking about it will just make it worse.

  She hoped that poor man would live. He'd been horribly beaten, and for a moment she'd thought him already dead. His pulse had been faint, his body temperature frighteningly low. Detective Nguyen had assured her that he'd get the best of care, but he hadn't sounded optimistic, when he said, "We want him alive, so he can tell us who did this to him."