“Where’s the fun in that?”

The couple laughed, then Lowe introduced her to Rose and Nunzio Alioto. “They make the best chowder on the wharf,” he praised. “And they catch the second-best crab. Magnusson may not run as many crabbers as we used to before Volstead, but we still catch the sweetest Dungeness.” He winked at Mrs. Alioto.

“Glad to see your fame hasn’t gone to your head,” she said. “But as long as Winter keeps us wet, you can talk all the bull you want. You two want lunch?”

Lowe rubbed his hands together. “Chowder and beer. Extra sourdough on the side.” He glanced at Hadley. “Sound okay?”

“Sounds terrific,” she said to Lowe, then to Mrs. Alioto, “Thank you.”

Under the curious gaze of the lunching dockworkers, Mrs. Alioto pointed them to a lone table at the back and soon followed with steaming bowls of clam chowder, two paper cups of beer—supplied by Lowe’s brother, Hadley guessed—and a plate piled with sourdough rolls. “Monk’s boys have been putting the word out that he’s looking to talk to you,” Mrs. Alioto said in a quiet voice. “Somebody’s liable to tell him they saw you here today.”

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Lowe said as he set his fedora on the table and swept a hand over his hair. “If anyone asks, feel free to mention that you overhead me saying I was planning to call on him this week.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She patted Lowe on the back. “Buon appetito.”

“What was that about?” Hadley asked once the woman had left.

He gave her a sheepish smile and repeated her words from yesterday. “A mistake.”

“Don’t tell me he’s planning to chop off your other pinky for stealing his wife.”

He chuckled. “No women involved, cross my heart. Now dig in.”

The creamy chowder was heavenly, the bread tangy and fresh. Lowe had been right to put the meal on his list of favorites—it might’ve been the most comforting food she’d had in years. And while they sat side by side on the weather-roughened bench and ate, Lowe pulled out a folded packet of paper, the top sheet of which was covered in typed columns.

“These are the names and addresses they could find. Over three hundred.”

“Dear lord. How are we going to whittle it down?”

He reached in his coat to retrieve a small black notebook. Tucked inside were his two canopic jar paintings. He placed the jackal-headed one on top. “Because I’ve cracked your mother’s code.”

“You have?”

“Don’t get too excited. Recognizing how she did it is only half the solution. Look here—each of her pictograms represents a letter. Since this was Mrs. Rosewood’s jar, I worked backward from that: this hash mark is a railroad track. Railroad equals ‘R.’ This circle that looks like a golf ball? It’s an orange—‘O.’” He pointed to the other pictograms, naming words whose first letters spelled out Rosewood. “She used three different pictograms for ‘O,’ which makes it more difficult.”

“But ‘Rosewood’ is only eight letters, and each jar has twenty symbols.”

“Placeholders. Those are the reversed pictograms, and the only ones repeated. See this one that looks like a stick with a lump on the side? The mirror-image version is on the other painting I have. I’m guessing some of the other placeholders are on your paintings.”

Hadley retrieved her share of the watercolors from her handbag and spread them out next to his. They studied the symbols together and identified all the reversed ones.

“Now we know the exact number of letters in each of the remaining three names. That helps. But it would help even more if we could compile a single list of the symbols along with any and all possible words associated with them. Because this symbol here looks like a moon, but is it ‘moon’ or ‘crescent’ or ‘boomerang?’”

Now she understood the difficulty in translating the names. While he redrew all the pictograms in his notebook, she helped brainstorm. Working with him was pleasant and natural, and she found herself laughing at his jokes and stealing glimpses of him. The faint impression his fedora had pressed into his blond hair, and the bump in his crooked nose. The way his eyes squinted into long blue triangles when he was thinking. The masculine grace in his corded hands as he unconsciously seesawed his pencil between two fingers while he thought.

It wasn’t until she marveled at the steely comfort of his shoulder butted against hers that she realized they were pressed against one another from shoulder to knee.

And to her surprise, she didn’t mind. Not one bit.

In fact, she idly wished other parts of them were pressed together.

 • • •

Lowe was having trouble concentrating on the pictograms. Every instinct he had was shouting at him to pull Hadley into his lap and kiss the bejesus out of her. He doodled spirals on the page’s border and analyzed the logistics of having sex with her, right there on the bench. Would require balance, but he’d already run through three different positions and a couple of variations. As he was debating the possibility of bringing the table into it, she made a small noise.

“Trotter.”

“What?”

She stared at his list of dead people. “Henrietta Trotter. That’s one of Hugo Trotter’s sisters. The funeral director who was rumored to have killed his siblings.”