Bobo looked delighted to see the cherry pie. Fiji smiled at him, curbing her stupid urge to pat him on the head. Over dessert, the conversation veered away from Rachel Goldthorpe’s death and the trouble it had caused Manfred to broader concerns. They talked about Midnight things: the latest curiosity a customer had brought into the pawnshop, the continuing search for a permanent manager for Gas N Go, and the way an overabundance of zucchini in Madonna’s garden was affecting the cuisine of Home Cookin. Manfred seemed to feel better since he’d vented, Bobo seemed thoughtful, and Fiji herself was content in her kitchen (still sunny at seven thirty) with her company. It had been hot work cooking, but the window air conditioner kept the room at a tolerable temperature.

Fiji watched as Bobo ate all of his pie, and Manfred ate about half of his. She urged them both to take another piece home, and both the men said they would, Bobo with more enthusiasm than Manfred. She was grateful. Leaving her alone with the remains of the pie would not have been a friendly act.

Bobo offered to do the dishes, but Fiji said, “Nope, tonight’s my treat. Next time, you can help.”

He protested a little, but she stood firm. Bobo and Manfred thanked her profusely for the food, and then the two men left, walking across Witch Light Road side by side. Bobo was returning to his apartment above Midnight Pawn, Manfred to the house situated to the right of the pawnshop. The sun was a red streak to the west, and the sky was gathering violet shadows.

“Maybe it will rain tomorrow!” she said to Mr. Snuggly, who’d come onto the front porch with her. He licked a paw, but he suddenly raised his head and glided off into the bushes. She went back inside to clean up. While Fiji washed the dishes, she thought about Manfred’s story.

And just as Manfred had, Fiji wondered about what part Olivia had played in it.

Of course, there was a lot Manfred had left out. Any fool could see that. He’d been conspicuously silent about what Olivia had actually been doing at Vespers. As Fiji scrubbed, she speculated. When you added up Olivia’s mysterious absences and her closemouthed policy about her job, combined with her obviously abundant cash, it was logical to wonder if Olivia was a prostitute. Though no one in Midnight had ever said that out loud, it was easy to see they’d all considered that a possibility. But there were good reasons to doubt that hypothesis.

For one thing, Fiji knew Olivia . . . at least a little. Olivia was more than capable of taking care of herself with extreme force. Though Fiji admitted to herself that she, Fiji, was not that knowledgeable or experienced in sexual matters, Olivia didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d gladly cater to anyone else’s demands. Even if her gig was as some kind of bondage dominatrix, Fiji couldn’t picture Olivia putting on spike heels and spanking someone unless she chose to do so.

Plus, more logically, why would a prostitute live in Midnight? Why not live closer to her clientele? Also, how many prostitutes could afford to fly all over the country for “dates”? Not too many, Fiji guessed, though she would be the first to admit she was almost totally ignorant about the actual business of renting one’s body.

And then, there was Lemuel’s relationship with Olivia. Lemuel . . . how could she put it into words to herself? Men were mysterious, especially Lemuel, who had been alive for decades and decades. However, even though Lemuel seemed to be absolutely tolerant of people who had different sexual preferences from his own, Fiji felt certain that Lemuel would not consider sharing his lover with other men.

Could Olivia have been actually doing what she’d told Manfred she was doing? Staying in Dallas for the weekend to go shopping and take in some movies or a show?

Fiji realized she was shaking her head a little. Maybe yes, maybe no; but she was very inclined to settle on “No.”

By the time she’d worked her way through all these thoughts, the dishes were stacked in the drainer to dry, and the counters were clean. It was full night outside, and the locusts were singing.

“It’s almost bedtime,” said a small, sharp voice, somewhere around the region of her ankles. She’d heard the new cat flap rattle a moment before, so he hadn’t startled her, though he enjoyed it when he did.

Fiji looked down. “Yep,” she said to the golden tabby. “Where’ve you been, Mr. Snuggly?”

“The Rev had a visitor who smelled interesting,” the cat said. “And though I was very close to catching a mouse, I went to investigate.”

“Thanks for your vigilance,” Fiji said dryly. “Did you enjoy having company today?”

“The roast beef was good. I want some more. Manfred is very leery of me. Bobo always scratches behind my ears and on my belly,” Mr. Snuggly observed. “He likes to visit me,” the cat added rather smugly.

Fiji pondered that for a second. “So, who was the mysterious visitor?” she asked, squatting to stroke Mr. Snuggly’s marmalade fur. She could take a hint.

“He is very tall,” said Mr. Snuggly. “And he is like the Rev.”

“What do you mean? In what respect?”

The cat looked up at his witch. “You know the Rev is not just an old Mexican minister, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And you know what he is?”

“Not . . . exactly.” Though she had her suspicions.

Mr. Snuggly sighed, as theatrically as a marmalade cat can sigh. “My goodness,” he said, and put a paw on his food bowl, giving it a tiny significant shove. “Your great-aunt was much smarter than you are.”