“It’s still under investigation,” he said heavily.

Mother and I glanced at each other.

Mother was not to be bested on her own territory. “I am Aida Queensland, a neighbor,” she said pointedly. “I don’t believe I’ve met you?”

“I’m John Dryden from Atlanta,” he said, which was an answer that told us nothing.

I didn’t like people being rude to my mother.

“You would be Mr. Pope, then,” I said to the other man, who was darker and younger.

“Pope?” He stared at me curiously. “No. I’m Don O’Riley. From Atlanta.”

Though Mother was trying to give me a censorious face, she was really stifling a smile.

“Bess, why don’t you come with us out to the kitchen?” I said. “Show us what we should put out for you and your friends to eat.” They clearly weren’t friends, and whoever they were, they were upsetting Bess even more than she already was. “It’s so late, and I’m sure you haven’t had a thing.”

“No, I haven’t eaten,” she said, looking as though she liked being talked to directly. Before her two “friends” could stop her, she stood up and circled the coffee table to go to the kitchen with us.

The neighbor who’d been there had left, leaving behind spotless counters and a feeling of goodwill. Bess stood and stared as though she didn’t recognize her own appliances.

“Were they bothering you?” Mother asked.

“They have to, it’s their job,” Bess said, with the weary endurance of a law enforcement wife. “I shouldn’t say anything about this, but Jack knew the identity of a-person-here in town who’s been hidden… well, I better not say anymore. They wonder if it might be related to his being killed.”

“Ah,” said Mother with great significance, which was more than I could think of to say. She turned to fiddle with a dish of spaghetti she’d gotten from the refrigerator, and I saw her eyes close as if she was wondering how in the hell she’d gotten into this kitchen hearing this fascinating but bizarre revelation.