With the passage of a couple of hours, supper had become just possible. I called the Youngbloods’ apartment to ask Shelby and Angel if they wanted to share our meal, but Angel said she’d rather lie down than eat, and Shelby didn’t want to leave her.

Martin and I had pork chops, fried green tomatoes (a rare indulgence), Waldorf salad, and I’d made some biscuits. But we were just picking at the food. Martin had been quiet throughout the meal, which was unusual. Normally, we talked to each other at the table, before we went about our separate pursuits in the evening. (Sometimes they were mutual pursuits, but that usually came later. About bedtime.)

Our house felt very quiet after the onslaught of county and city police. We hadn’t had that many people around since the last year’s Christmas party.

“Roe, I’m worried about this,” Martin said finally. His pale brown eyes focused on me; Martin looks into the eyes of the people he’s talking to. That can be intimidating, or exciting.

“I know. I am, too, of course.”

“Not just Jack Burns being killed, but him being dumped here.”

“Of course,” I said again, not understanding what Martin was getting at.

“As Sheriff Lanier pointed out, people know that you and he didn’t get along.”

“But I was absolutely, provably on the ground when he landed. So I couldn’t have done it,” I said dismissively. “Besides which, I can’t fly a plane.”

“There’s something wrong about it.” Martin was having some problem formulating his thoughts, unusual for him. He’s used to expressing himself quickly and decisively in front of a lot of people.

I didn’t want to say “Of course,” again, but that was what I was thinking.

“How long has it been since you talked to him?” Martin asked.