Manfred wondered if he looked as dismayed as he felt. “But none of that is true,” he protested feebly.

“It all might be true,” the lawyer said. “There’s plenty of doubt there. Unless the case against Lewis gets strengthened somehow . . . for example, if Bertha the maid says she saw him putting something into his mother’s water bottle, or if he has a girlfriend who taped him confessing to killing his mother . . . there might not be enough real evidence to charge him with the crime.”

Olivia nodded. “I’m afraid that’s the case,” she said. “Of course, Lewis is so unpredictable that he might confess. Though I don’t think so. I think he’s all about Lewis, all about getting everything that’s his due and then some.”

“So really, I’m no better off? Even now that it really seems probable that Lewis killed his mother?”

Magdalena sighed heavily. “I don’t think so. Plus, now you’ve made me angry with you, with good reason, though your friend Olivia is taking the blame. And we have to decide how to get the police to check the globe.”

Olivia said, “Can I just apologize to you very sincerely for using a trick that seemed brilliant to me at the moment?”

“You can apologize, but I hardly think that’s enough.”

Manfred groped around for a response. “What else can we do, Magdalena?” He felt he had to include Olivia in the atonement, since she’d shouldered the blame.

Magdalena sighed again and looked off into the distance. “You can give my mother a reading. A personal reading.”

Olivia looked away, too, to hide her smile, but Manfred saw it. He kept his own face solemn. “Your mom’s a follower? I’m flattered.”

“She is. It’s the flaw in her character. Otherwise, she’s a sane and rational woman. Active in her community and in her church. But she’s a fan of the Great Manfredo. Every time you put on your website that you’re going to do some personal readings in whatever city, she figures out the cost of going and having the reading, and every time she can’t quite bring herself to part with the money. But if you would go to her home and give her a reading, I will forgive your deception in forging my letterhead. I’m choosing to blame you instead of Miss Charity, here, because it was done on your behalf. If you ever do such a thing again, I will sue your ass.”

“Where does your mother live?” Manfred accepted those terms happily. He was relieved. He didn’t care if Magdalena saw that. In fact, he was glad she did.

“Mother lives in Killeen. Her name is Agnes. You’ll have to set up a time with her. I’m telling her this is her belated Mother’s Day present.”

“I’d be delighted.” Manfred wondered how long the drive to Killeen was, but he would start out right now if he had to. He was just relieved she didn’t live somewhere even farther away.

He had a definite presentiment that he would meet Magdalena’s mother, so at least he would live a little while longer. He wandered to the front window, where the curtains were drawn, to see what was happening now. The Rev was outside the chapel. He was pulling a long hose back to the fence enclosing the pet cemetery. He was fully clothed, though he was not wearing his usual black jacket. The boy—man?—was nowhere in sight, thank God.

“Now that that’s settled,” Magdalena said, her voice sharp to demand his attention, “have you and Miss Charity had an idea about how to tell the police where to look?”

“Anonymous phone call?”

“From where?”

“I could drive to a town between here and Dallas and find a pay phone.” Olivia sounded doubtful.

“Yes, but there aren’t any isolated ones anymore. At least, not any that you could assume would function. There are some at rest stops, but those are usually under camera surveillance.”

“True,” Olivia said. “Okay, cell phones are out. We could buy a phone, but I suppose they keep serial numbers somewhere?” Of course Olivia had a burner phone in her apartment, but she wasn’t about to admit that to a lawyer. “What about an anonymous letter?”

Manfred grimaced in distaste. His grandmother had gotten some. That was a very bad memory. The viciousness of them, the cowardice of people who wouldn’t reveal their names, had nauseated him.

Of course, if he sent one, it wouldn’t contain an accusation. It would be a statement. “The jewelry of Mrs. Goldthorpe is in the globe in her husband’s study in her house.” Something simple and declarative like that, with lots of nouns. But still . . . that was a last resort.

Magdalena said very reluctantly, “I have a client. The police say he sells illegal drugs. I say they haven’t proved it. But he told me there’s an app on his phone that can turn it into a burner. It’s legal. He might show me how that works.”

Manfred let out a gust of breath. “So, you’ll call them soon?”

“He has an appointment this afternoon,” she said. “If he keeps it, I just may ask him to show it to me.”

Manfred had never appreciated how much more difficult sneaking around had gotten. Surveillance cameras, cell phone records that showed where you were when you made a call, advances in lab testing . . . but he wondered how much of the available technology (which must be expensive, both the investment in equipment and in technicians who understood how to use it) the average law enforcement department could actually finance and employ. Would this poor county have access to forensic labs that could tell you what ream of paper a sheet of computer paper had come from, and where it was sold? Would they view hours of surveillance footage to determine who’d bought that paper? Manfred was skeptical. He’d watched plenty of television shows where police departments not only could unearth this very specific information but could do it instantly. He didn’t believe that could be the truth. So maybe this would be the right way to go: having his lawyer make a sneaky phone call. Simple enough.