“I don’t come out for minnows or flies,” Ida informed me.

“How about a couple bottles of experimental cranberry orange liqueur?”

“You mean you’ve actually gotten them out of old Cartwright? I am impressed.”

I hesitated. “When you’re making those calls, why don’t you ask for cookies and punch and coffee, as well.” I hung up quickly, grinning at Ida’s groan.

That one call made me feel a lot better. I had no doubts about her efficiency. I turned to tomorrow’s page in Peggy’s book of lists and checked my progress. I’d asked for rakes and trash bags, but I’d forgotten about pruning shears, not to mention hammers and nails for fence repairs. I made a mental review of Gerda’s tool shed, but knowing the toughness and determination of the shrubs around the park, we’d need gas-powered chain saws, not the hand-operated pruners my aunt felt safer using. My best bet would be to find a handyman.

“You off the phone?” Gerda called from the living room. She sat on the bench of her loom but plied the pair of carders on the teased hanks of turquoise wool, blending three different shades into a beautiful mix. She pulled off the first bat and rolled it deftly in her hands into a log-shaped rolag. Clumsy and Mischief curled about her feet, while Furface watched from the privileged vantage point of Gerda’s recliner.

“Want some tea?” I asked.

She considered, then nodded. “I’m too tired for dinner.”

“Well, you’re going to get some, anyway. Omelet okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I pulled the carton of egg substitute from the refrigerator and set to work chopping mushrooms, onions, garlic and herbs. We still had the cinnamon oatmeal bread from breakfast, so I made thick slices, buttered them and shoved them into the oven to broil.

The aromas made me realize how hungry I was. I hadn’t had so much as a single bite of pie that day. Which seemed odd, considering I’d had a couple of facefulls.

Gerda followed her nose and appeared in the kitchen door. Absently she began to pull out plates and silverware. “Poor Dave Hatter. And poor Barbara. How awful it would be for her if Dave killed Brody. And the worst of it is, I don’t think anyone would blame him if he had.”

“Sarkisian would. And so would a jury. None of them lost their life savings because of that jerk.”

“No,” agreed Gerda. “It all seems so unjust. The only bright side is that I don’t think I’m chief suspect anymore.”

I served our meal, ate mine too fast, at least according to Gerda, delivered my plate to the sink, and reached for my coat.

“Where are you going?” she demanded as I started for the door.

“Just down to Simon’s. He’s my best bet for heavy-duty tools.”

“Can’t you phone him?”

“Don’t ever mention the word ‘phone’ to me again.”

Gerda nodded her understanding. Right now, those hideous instruments loomed over me like ten-ton boulders. I couldn’t imagine what had made me even consider getting a cellular one the other day. They were electronic leashes. You couldn’t escape people.

But I had another reason for getting out of the house right now. Gerda wanted to talk about the murder and the suspects, and I didn’t. I wanted a peaceful drive in my car, all alone. And, I realized as I entered the garage, I had a real chance of it. The turkey was actually out of Freya, getting a drink! If I could get the top up in time…

I couldn’t. It saw me coming and with a mad flapping of wings launched itself into the backseat again. It glared at me as I resignedly raised the top and climbed into the driver’s seat, then nestled down to sleep as the engine roared into life.

A steady drip beat a tattoo on my canvas roof as I pulled out of the garage, and by the time I’d backed around and headed down the drive toward the gate, the rain came down in torrents. That just might make my errand pointless, a silver lining to those charcoal clouds if I’d ever seen one. No one could blame me if the rain stopped us from tending to the park. Everyone would just have to do it some other weekend-preferably when I was out of town.

I turned down the lane toward Simon Lowell’s, then had to slow to a crawl. The rain came down so hard I couldn’t see, in spite of my wipers beating away at top speed. Even the turkey made a few discontented noises. If it gave that damned bird a distaste for my car, this could prove a winning downpour all around.

Except for the dinner. I braked-but gently, since I didn’t want to go into a skid. If this rain kept up-and I knew from long experience that it could-we’d need some huge pavilion tents for the dinner. We’d used them in the past, but not for at least eight years. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I knew, as a certainty, Cindy wouldn’t have bothered reserving any to be on the safe side. Cindy hadn’t bothered doing anything-except getting the wrong kind of bird for the raffle.

There must be some way to get tents, even at this late date. Maybe Simon would have some ideas. After all, he was, at least nominally, a real estate agent.

I turned onto his drive and bumped and sloshed my way through the deep mud-filled ruts. No glow showed through the trees, and my heart sank. I might have come out-and put poor Freya through this obstacle course-for nothing. But then maybe he didn’t illuminate his yard every night. Maybe that had been for Adam Fairfield’s and Sheriff Sarkisian’s sakes.

I rounded the last bend and with relief saw lights in his cabin windows, bright through the cracks in his curtains. Pale gray smoke gushed from his chimney as if he had just lit a blaze. I pulled up as close to his door as I could manage, regretted not having an umbrella, then scrambled out and dashed for the shelter of his meager front porch.

I hammered on the door as hard as I could. He must have heard my car approach-Freya’s hard to miss. Still, it was a full minute before I heard his footsteps crossing the single room. He peered out, and I, unmannerly in the extreme, pushed my way inside. “Sorry. It’s horrible out there.”

He had perforce stepped back to allow my rude entry, and he eyed me with considerable surprise. “What’s up?”

“I need advice. And possibly a favor.”

The glass door of the wood burning stove stood open, and a pile of small sticks and medium-sized branches lay on the stones beside it. I started toward the fire, holding out my hands. It actually wasn’t that cold, but I’d take any hope of getting a bit drier.

Simon shot after me, placing himself in an awkward position between me and the fire. Very awkward, I realized. Two letters, separated from their envelopes, lay on the floor, not completely hidden by his muddy boots.

“Burning letters?” I asked, then realized that could have been a very dumb thing to say. There had been a murder, after all. If Simon had killed Brody, and I saw him disposing of evidence…

His shoulders slumped. “God, I should have known I’d get caught.”

That didn’t sound too threatening, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I took a casual step backward.

He ran both hands through his dark hair, loosening it from the ponytail that hung down his back. “Look, you’re not going to believe me, but honestly, I only received these when I got home half an hour ago.”

Emboldened, I leaned forward to take a closer look. “That’s Clifford Brody’s return address,” I pointed out.

He grimaced. “Yeah. Damn, I’d make a rotten plotter, wouldn’t I? First time I try something stealthy, I get caught.” He flung himself down in the room’s only chair, then sprang up again and gestured me toward it. He crossed his ankles and sank with surprising grace onto the cabin’s cement floor.

“You’re burning letters from Brody?” I remained standing for a moment, but his posture seemed more resigned than threatening, so I settled onto the cushions.

“No point in denying it, since you caught me. It was only some stupid personal matter between us. But I suppose I can’t expect you to keep this from the sheriff, not when your aunt is also a suspect.” He reached over, picked up the sheets, refolded them, and stuffed them back into their envelopes.

He could have tossed them into the blaze-in fact, I expected him to. Then it would have been his word against mine, and even if the sheriff believed me-a possibility of which I could by no means be certain-without evidence it would never stand up in court. As Simon had just pointed out, my aunt was also a suspect. Instead, he rose and carried them to his desk where he pulled out a manila envelope. He dropped in the letters, sealed it, scrawled something across the front, then handed it to me.

“You might as well give them to the sheriff. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” He’d written “To Sarkisian, with love, Lowell”.

“But…” I began.

He shrugged. “No harm in your knowing, I suppose. Brody was trying to blackmail me into helping him buy up prime real estate at a cheap price, and without any agent commissions being paid, in exchange for not divulging a secret about me. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep that secret-er-secret.”

“Go right ahead.” Blackmail? Since he’d told me so much, yet sealed up the letters, I wondered if they contained that secret. Probably. I felt the temptation to steam open the envelope but knew I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want anyone prying into my secrets-not that I’d managed to collect any worth blackmailing me for. Obviously other people led more interesting lives than I did.

He threw the handful of branches onto the fire and closed its door, then adjusted the air flow before turning back to me. “So,” he declared with that forced brightness people adopt to cover an embarrassing pause, “you said you needed advice? Want to buy some property?”

“On a night like this? No, I need to know where I can get those big pavilion tents for the park dinner.”