Page 49 of Death on Gallows Path

“Which would fit Ruby’s report that there were additional tracks behind Damon’s truck,” I pointed out.

“Before Tully drove over them,” she said. “But no tracks beyond his truck. And Damon’s body was beyond the truck. So our mystery man would have to stop at Damon’s truck, open the door — driver or passenger — and take out the gun. Presumably with Damon seeing this, but not reacting.”

“Unless he has a close friend we haven’t heard about, I can’t see him doing that. Can’t imagine it with Bryon or the guy lurking down the street Thursday night.”

“Agreed. He and Bryon sure weren’t friendly over tic-tac-toe with the dogs Thursday night,” Clara said darkly.

“You’re saying that would be a motive for murder?”

“No. Not really. But a jealous husband — Bryon or this new guy — now that’s promising.”

“How do we know either one was jealous?” I asked.

“Zoley said as much about Bryon. Though there’s still the gun problem. So how do you get past that?”

“Ah.” I tried not to sound too triumphant.

Clara’s next words proved I’d failed. “You’ve been waiting for that, haven’t you?”

I skipped that question and answered her previous one. “Consider if it’s a woman he’s meeting, who pulls up behind his truck. Say, he’s already out of the truck and a woman says she needs a tissue or something, he wouldn’t think anything of her going in the truck, even the console.”

She was nodding. “He wouldn’t think she presented any threat. Could be that he was being led around by the, ahem, hope of a romantic encounter. Something to think about.”

“And we will think about it. But for right now . . . Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Clara wouldn’t tell me more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Baked spaghetti.”

In time with that announcement, Clara held out the covered carrier she’d pulled from the back of her van. Zoley, who’d opened the front door of the house, automatically took the carrier from her, while Clara walked in the house, with me at her heels.

The relative restraint of the exterior of the Georgers’ house — at least compared to the Swindells’ — gave way inside to an explosion of gilt. Versailles was contagious.

Or that assessment was skewed by my reaction to Zoley’s outfit.

Her legs were tightly covered in animal print. Cheetah? Tiger? Leopard? My minimal knowledge of animal prints failed me. I thought of them as generally in the brown tones, while this print was black, silver, and white.

She wore a gauzy white top that flowed over a barely modest camisole.

As she tried to retake the lead from the foyer to deeper into the house, she passed me.

I looked directly at her right cheek.

There was makeup there, but then there was makeup everywhere on her face, though not well-blended from her neck to her chest, an area made visible by her top.

Still, I could say the makeup on her cheek was definitely less noticeable than at Thursday’s class.

“What are you—?” she tried to ask Clara, still ahead of her.

Clara’s earnest flow allowed no interruption. “Reheat this in the oven at moderate temperature. No need to use a different dish, this one’s oven safe. You can use the microwave, but the top layer of cheese doesn’t melt as well.”

“You’re those women from the dog place.” Nothing got past her. “I’m Zoley. Like Zoey with—”

“With an L in the middle,” Pammy’s voice broke in. Then she repeated the tagline altogether. “Like Zoey with an L in the middle.”

By now, I’d followed Clara to the back of the house and into a great room with two-story windows and the ceiling to match, which didn’t square with any legitimate Craftsman style I’d heard of. Zoley brought up the rear, carrying the casserole dish.