“How does your father know that?” Ruth asked. Without thinking, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered.

“Dad spoke to Rafer this morning, caught him as he was going to school. Told him Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock were going to fly in a special FBI Bell helicopter up to Philadelphia on a case. He didn’t know what it was, but he said they would be back for dinner tonight.”

Dix grunted. He’d have to speak to both his boys. He wondered if either of them could even spell “discretion.” He’d give them the loose lips talk.

“Why did they take off for Philadelphia all of a sudden?”

“That’s an FBI matter, Tony,” Ruth said. “I’d like to have lunch with your dad. Will you and your wife be there as well? She could tell me all about Erin Bushnell and their sisterhood.”

Tony Holcombe’s eyes darkened, suspecting sarcasm, but not hearing any he finally nodded and set his mug on Dix’s desk. “I must get to the bank now.” He pulled on his black leather gloves.

“How’s the banking business, Tony?”

Tony Holcombe shrugged as he opened the office door. “Things are going quite well, but you know Dad—he’ll never admit it, says everything’s been going to hell in a handbasket since I’ve been running things.”

They heard him greet some of the deputies on his way out.

“He seems quite likable,” Ruth said. “I’d sure hate to be in his shoes.”

Dix said, “Tony’s always had to walk in Chappy’s long shadow. If I’d been born in Tony’s shoes, I’d have left the state a long time ago, made my own way as far from Chappy as I could get. Now, I want to head over and meet with Ginger Stanford, Gloria’s daughter, see what she has to say about Erin Bushnell. So far, Erin is a beloved, talented sister to my sister-in-law Cynthia, and believe me, that’s both scary and unbelievable.”

Ginger Stanford owned a four-story red brick Georgian sandwiched between Angelo’s Pizza and Classic Threads. On their short walk there, everyone seemed to want to speak to the sheriff and to inspect Ruth, as if an FBI agent had an extra arm or two heads and needed a closer look. Dix was patient but tight-lipped, doing a much better job than his sons of keeping quiet about their business.

Ginger’s secretary was an ancient old man who was hunkered down behind a huge mahogany desk. A wooden name plaque set in the center of the desk read HENRY O.

“Sheriff,” the old man croaked, nodded to Ruth, and looked back at his computer screen. “I got me a real puzzle here,” he said. “Five words and each word contains three different words. You know, like ‘splice.’ ”

“I don’t think ‘plice’ is a word, Henry. We’re here to see Ginger. Buzz her, please.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. Drat. Ms. Ginger’s writing up old Mr. Curmudgeon’s will.”

“I’ve never actually heard of anyone named Curmudgeon,” Ruth said.

Henry O rose slowly. He was wearing a starched white shirt and natty black pants belted up near his chest. “That’s just what I call him, miss. It’s Amos McQueen, older even than me. I can’t believe he’s still breathing. Shoulda croaked in 1971 when his hay baler rolled over on him, but he walked away from it. Durnedest thing.” Henry tottered toward a closed door and knocked. Ruth saw he was wearing new Ferragamos on his small, narrow feet.

“Come.”

Henry opened the door, stuck his head in. “Ms. Ginger, the cops are here, acting all friendly so’s I’ll cooperate.”

They heard a woman’s laugh. “Show them in, Henry, show them in. I’ll cooperate, too.”

Ruth stopped cold at the sight of Ginger Stanford. She was a stunning woman, there no other word for her, her cheekbones high and sharp, her natural blond hair coiled at the back of her head. When she rose, Ruth thought she must be near six feet tall, with long legs that looked like they ended at her earlobes. She gave Dix a lovely big smile as she walked around her desk, her hand extended. Ruth didn’t miss the look in Ginger’s eyes. She really liked the sheriff.

They exchanged pleasantries. When Dix introduced her to Ruth, Ruth was aware of her quick, assessing glance, a look every woman recognizes when she’s seen as a possible poacher.

Ruth said, “I’m an FBI agent, Ms. Stanford.”

“Yes, so I heard. I don’t see any sign of a head wound.”

Ruth automatically touched her fingertips to the small Band-Aid hidden beneath her hair. “Nearly gone now,” she said.