Page 64 of Death on Gallows Path

“Starting close to home,” Linda said wisely.

“Exactly. Understandably, Pammy wasn’t talkative. And with Zoley so concerned about her . . .”

None of the women contradicted the flattering sketch of Zoley Georger, yet I felt a resistance to it emanating from those around the table. Unanimously, I thought.

“See them together nearly all the time,” Linda said. “So much that I kept looking around for Zoley when I saw Pammy in the drug store last week. Surprised to see one and not the other.”

“We hope there might be other friends of the Swindells we could talk to,” Clara said. “Get background without bothering Pammy at such a terrible time.”

Looks zinged among the women, but all they produced were head-shakes and a few phrases about not being aware of any friends beyond the Georgers.

“Not so sure you could call the men close friends,” Linda added.

Violet said, “Damon Swindell was known for being a businessman.”

Something in the way she said it reminded me of the line in A Christmas Carol, where the best thing Scrooge can say about his dead partner was that Jacob Marley was a good man of business.

Damning with faint praise — in Marley’s case, literally damning, what with the heavy chains and all.

Clara was undistracted by such detours. “Or if you know other people who’d be familiar with them, if not actually friends. We only have our experience of Damon through two dog training classes and—”

“From talking to their dog walker, Willow Yost,” said Violet.

Clara smiled, as if delighted that the fact of us talking to Willow was known.

“Oh, yes, she’s a lovely girl.”

Several concurring murmurs came from around the table. One of them I caught was “And so good to Oscar.”

“Oscar? Who has a little black dog named Quasar? He knows Willow Yost?” I asked the murmurer, Willa.

But I knew the answer. Thanks to a sudden memory of the young woman talking to Oscar and petting Quasar outside the hardware store after Thursday night’s training. Even in memory the light wasn’t good enough to identify her, but that characteristic movement to sweep back her hair was.

Willa said, “He does have a dog. The name . . .? I know she told me, but I don’t remember.”

“She?”

Violet picked up the answering. “Oscar’s wife, Jean, adopted the dog last summer. She passed away not long after. Quite a shock. She was ill and they knew it was terminal, but expected to have more time. She got the puppy to be a companion for Oscar. She expected the dog to be trained before . . . before.”

Around the table, heads shook with sympathy.

“And Willow . . .?”

“Oh, yes. She was great about the puppy, with walks and started training right after Jean’s death, letting Oscar get his bearings a little and giving him confidence.”

“How does Willow know Oscar?” I asked.

“Long-time neighbors. Willow’s mother brought her up alone. Jean and Oscar stepped up as grandparents. Willow was particularly close to Jean. When she passed, Willow and Oscar leaned on each other.”

* * * *

We walked out with the group, pulling on jackets against a brisk chill that looked back to March, rather than forward to May.

We didn’t get far. Clara tugged me toward rocking chairs on the porch.

“Not that this isn’t pleasant,” I started after a few minutes of rocking, while more people left the Tavern, “but unless you think we’re out of ideas of what to look into, seems like we should get going.”

“No way are we out of ideas. All those parts of the elephant still to explore.”