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   I waited, and when Tyler didn't respond, I continued. "You're not going to make fun of me for being goofy?"

   Again he didn't say anything, and again, I knew why: he was thinking I was the most lame-brained woman on the planet and just waiting for the optimum time to break the news.

   "You're not going to tell me I'm foolish? That I'm an amateur? That I—"

   "How would you like to help me out?" I was so stunned by Tyler's question, I couldn't find my voice. That's why he had to ask again. "Annie, there's something you can do to help. Will you?"

   I'd been pacing my office, the better to deal with the nervous energy that always built when I was dealing with a blockhead like Tyler. But now I dropped into my desk chair. "Anything."

   Like he wasn't happy about asking, he drew in a breath. "I've been to the W
ashington Star,
" he said. "You know, that newspaper where Brad used to work. I talked to Ray Judson, the editor. He's a self-righteous little son of a—" Tyler coughed away the rest of his words. "Well, never mind. Let's just say that I didn't get much out of him that was helpful. It won't do me any good to go back. When people know you're a cop, they clam up. Even when they don't have anything to feel guilty about. But if someone else went over to the
Star
, maybe that someone could talk to the other folks there. And if that someone wasn't someone official, maybe they wouldn't feel so inclined to keep their mouths shut. I've got to do something to wrap up this investigation. My boss is breathing down my neck and looking for answers, and the people out in Middleburg are joining the chorus. I sure could use some help on this one. You know what I mean?"

   I did, and I could barely believe it. I shook my head, convinced I was dreaming. Or hallucinating. "You're asking me to go in your place? You think I can facilitate the investigation?"

   Tyler might be desperate, and his desperation might have caused him to act out of character, but he wasn't about to admit that he needed me. "It's not like I'm asking you to be an official part of the team," he said. "You understand that, don't you? You're just going to go and play dumb. You know, say you're there to find out more about Brad. Make up some reason. Like you're there because . . . because . . ."

   "Because he asked me to marry him."

   Tyler sucked in a breath. "That's certainly not a lie I could get away with!"

   I smiled and realized it was one of the few times I'd spoken to Tyler and had that reaction. "What do you need to know?" I asked him. It should come as no big surprise that I wasn't about to trust any phase of the investigation to chance. While Tyler talked, I took copious notes.

       at the offices of the W
ashington Star
that day. As it turned out, he had a meeting that afternoon, something about chemical pesticides. He would have loved to come with me and hone his sleuthing skills, he told me, but he'd have to pass.

   With Eve preoccupied with the girls (I hoped things were going well!) and Kegan hard at work, I was on my own and feeling a little more nervous than usual now that I was official (OK, semiofficial) and helping out the cops. On Tyler's advice, I showed up at the newspaper without an appointment. That way, he told me, I wouldn't give the folks there time to think about what they should—or shouldn't—tell me.

   When a kid named Tammy who sat behind the reception desk asked why I was there, I was ready for her.

   Before I left Alexandria, I'd stopped at an antique store and bought a lace-edged hankie. I touched it to my eyes (briefly, of course, since I hadn't had time to take it home and wash it). "I thought I could talk to someone about . . ." I sniffled, and even I was surprised at how convincing it sounded. "Well, you know, about Brad, of course. Brad Peterson?"

   For a couple seconds, Tammy didn't look sure. Then the light dawned. "Oh, you mean the dead guy. I just started here last fall. I never knew him. But ever since he was killed, everybody around here has been talking about him." She was a short, skinny kid with bad skin and a nose that was too big. When she wrinkled it to give me a closer look, she looked like a gnome. "You're not sorry he's dead, are you?"

   I didn't have to pretend to be surprised by a question as blunt as that. I guess my wide-eyed look of outrage said it all, because the next thing I knew, Tammy was scrambling to cover her blunder.

   "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to sound the way it sounded. It's just that—"

   "What?" I figured a little righteous indignation would get me a long way, and I was right. By that time, Tammy was so flustered, she would have given me the password to her bank account.

   Her cheeks got as red as Kegan's always did when he was embarrassed. "I mean . . . that is . . . well, I guess you must be sad that the guy died because you look sad and all, but—"

   I was barely taller than her, but when I pulled back my shoulders, she caved completely. Just like I hoped she would.

   Tammy's lower lip trembled. "From what I've heard . . . I mean . . . like I said, I didn't know him but . . ." She gulped down her mortification. "I haven't heard one person around here say anything nice about him. Are you sure it's the same Brad Peterson?"

   I assured her it was, and while I was at it and she was still feeling guilty about hurting my feelings, I asked to talk to the person who'd said the most bad things about Brad. Tammy had to think about this for a bit. She finally took me through a doorway and stopped at the first office on the right. I glanced at the name plate that hung alongside the door that identified the occupant of the office as Julie Arbogast, and stepped inside. By this time, I wasn't at all surprised to see that Julie was a pretty blonde.

   "Miss Arbogast, thank you for taking the time to talk to me." She hadn't, of course. She hadn't even known I was coming, but since Julie was sitting at her desk playing Spider Solitaire on her computer, I figured she wouldn't mind. Before she could decide she did, I plunked down in her guest chair. "I'm here about Brad Peterson," I said.

   Julie sat back. "Why? I've already talked to the cops. I told them everything I know about Brad. That isn't much."

   "Of course not. But I'm not here in an official capacity." This time when I pulled out the hankie, I dabbed it to my nose. It smelled like mothballs. "I thought . . . that is, I know Brad worked here at one time. I thought you could tell me more about him."

   She cocked her head. "Why do you want to know?"

   Leave it to a reporter to ask all the right questions. I did my best to make it look like I was trying hard to control my emotions. "Brad and I, we were engaged."

   "You've got to be kidding me!" Julie jumped out of her chair. Her office wasn't big, and she sidestepped to her window, then back behind her desk. She had pale, porcelain skin that got dusky at the first mention of Brad's name, and when she leaned over her desk for a better look at me, her eyes flared.

   "You don't look like Brad's type," she said, and I didn't have to ask what type that was. I knew. Tall. Blonde. Gorgeous.

   No, I was short, brown-haired, and round.

   Rather than think about it, I stayed on task. "I thought maybe you could—"

   "What?" Julie's snort was unladylike. "Tell you how much we all miss him?"

   "Well, I don't know." I adjusted my position in the hard chair. "I just thought—"

   "Oh, honey, there's nothing I can do to help. Not if you really loved the guy. Damn! You don't look nearly that stupid. You mean that bastard had you fooled, too?"

   I had anticipated something like this, and I was ready for it. Rather than act like Gillian, the wounded lover (and I meant this emotionally, of course, not literally, since poor Gillian really was wounded and I hoped she rested in peace), I nodded my understanding and stifled a little sob. "So it is true. Everything I heard about Brad. I was hoping you'd tell me I was wrong." I brought out the hankie again for effect. "He lied to you, too?"

   "That man lied to everybody he ever met." Now that she knew we were on the same page, Julie dropped back into her chair. "He asked me to marry him, too. A couple years ago. God, even now I can't believe it. I was all set to say yes. Then I found out what he was doing around here."

   "You mean the stuff about making up sources and quotes for his stories. I'd hoped that wasn't true."

   She nodded. "That, and the bit about him already being engaged to Ginny in accounting. The rat bastard!" She made a sour face. "Hey, you're not like that cop who came here, are you? The good-looking one with those incredible blue eyes? You don't think I had anything to do with Brad's dying, do you?"

   I realized before I spoke that I was becoming an accomplished liar. "Yeah, Detective Cooper showed up to question me, too. But I'm not here to point fingers or look for suspects. Just for answers."

   "Yeah, well . . ." Julie frowned. "If that cop thinks I'm a suspect, then he'd have to think every other woman Brad ever met is a suspect, too. Like I said, there was Ginny down in accounting, but last I heard, she was living in Mexico somewhere. Think she came back to off Brad?"

   I didn't have an answer, though I was hoping to find one.

   "Then there's Linda, the woman who used to run our library. He came on to her, too, even though she was happily married. She quit because of him. Couldn't take the constant harassment. Last I heard, she was working down at the National Archives."

   "Is there anyone left here who could tell me more about Brad?"

   Julie thought for a couple minutes before she shook her head. "He chased all the women away. All but me. I refused to give in, refused to get scared and back down. I even threatened to sue the creep, but management wouldn't stand behind me. But it wasn't just the women, you know. The guys around here, they hated Brad, too. He jumped on their sources. He scooped their stories. He acted like the second coming of Geraldo. Then when we found out that he'd really been lying about everything the whole time . . . well, even Jack Kramer, our editorial cartoonist and the nicest, calmest guy you've ever met . . . I saw him take a swing at Brad once. Even Brad's family hated him. You must know that if you were engaged to the guy. You know about his Aunt Mamie, right?"

   I continued my lying ways. "I've heard Brad's side of the story, of course. But . . ."

   "Oh, there are plenty of buts. And if you've heard Brad tell the story, I guarantee you haven't heard the truth. Old lady, right? And she made the mistake of putting Brad in charge of her finances. He robbed her blind. Poor old thing. I hear she's living somewhere out in Fairfax. She lost a bundle, thanks to her lovin' nephew."

   "Mamie in Fairfax. Yes, of course." I nodded as if this wasn't news. "What was her last name again? Crosby or Cunningham. Something like that, right?"

   "I think it was Dumbrowski." Julie thought a bit before she nodded. "Oh yeah, if there was anybody who wanted Brad dead, I'll bet she was at the top of the list."

   All of this should have come as good news. I had arrived at the
Star
looking for suspects, and thanks to Julie, I had suspects galore. Everyone in the newsroom, for one thing. A couple more women Brad had once put the moves on—or tried to put the moves on. Even an old lady with a grudge and a more-than-good motive.

   It looked as if everybody he ever met hated Brad Peterson.

   And that didn't even count the people he'd written articles about. Or all those people he'd made up quotes from who'd never said the things Brad said they'd said.

   My mood plummeted. My shoulders slumped beneath the weight of the realization that it was no wonder Tyler had asked for my help. It wasn't that he was especially impressed with my detecting skills. Tyler just knew that there was no way any one police department in the whole world could ever deal with all the people who had it in for Brad Peterson.

   Of course, all those same people couldn't have hated Gillian Gleeson, too.

   Could they?

   I thought about the mysterious package and the fact that Brad and Gillian's deaths must have been connected. I wondered, not for the first time, what could have been in the package. What was small enough to mail along with a couple cruise tickets and a note? Newspapers, maybe? Newspaper articles?

   "How long has Brad been gone from the
Star
?" I asked Julie.

   She shrugged. "Three years, maybe. I can't say for sure. All I know is I went out and bought a bottle of champagne the day he got the ax."

   "And he hasn't been here since?"

   "No way!" Julie's phone rang, and I knew the interview was over. I thanked her and walked out.

   I was almost past the reception desk when Tammy stopped me.

   "It's not like I was eavesdropping or anything . . ." She looked over to the doorway and Julie's office beyond. "But the door wasn't closed and I wasn't doing anything and it's pretty easy to hear stuff and I am in journalism school. I know I always have to pay attention and be on the lookout for a good lead." She hauled in a breath. "I heard what Julie said, but she doesn't know. Brad Peterson was here. Just a couple weeks ago. I heard a couple women at the copy desk talking about it. He made sure Ray Judson wasn't anywhere around. And then he did some research."

   "Research about . . . ?"

   Tammy thought hard. "I remember them talking about it, but . . . oh, that's it!" Her eyes lit. "They said he was asking for copies of every article they could find about some sort of protests out in Colorado. But not new stuff, stuff that happened years ago. Weird, huh?"

   Oh yeah, it was weird, all right.

   Which was exactly why I was so interested.

   And why I sniffled just a little more, told Tammy that if it was important to my dear, departed Brad, it was important to me, and asked for a copy of every article Brad had taken with him.