“Tom,” she said uneasily.

“My lady speaks?”

“Don’t…” she hesitated. She was not exactly sure of how to put it. “Don’t let anyone think you know more than you do.”

“Little Catherine!” He grinned at her impishly.

“I’m not kidding, Tom. Look at what happened to my parents. Look what happened to Leona…though the sheriff doesn’t seem to think it’s related.” She frowned, still not satisfied that the sheriff was right; though from his mysterious hints she knew there was something about Leona’s activities that Galton felt had led directly to her death.

“I know more than James Galton, that’s for sure,” Tom said, with a whisker-licking effect. “Guess who’s selling dope in Lowfield?”

Catherine raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

“Jimmy Galton, Junior!” Tom laughed.

“Oh no,” Catherine murmured in real distress. If Tom knew that, who else did? All the kids in Lowfield, of course. Poor Sheriff Galton. Did he know? In his job, how could he avoid knowing? She wondered if Leona had known James Junior’s occupation, too. And whether the wads of cash found in Leona’s house were hush money paid by one of the Galtons to ensure she kept quiet. Money that was now coming to her, Catherine remembered, sickened.

“I wish you hadn’t told me that, Tom,” she said bitterly.

“I’ll comfort you, little Catherine.”

“The hell you will. I’m going home.”

“Oh, stay and have another beer.” And he gave her his charming grin. “We can pool our resources.” His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “Right now I don’t feel like I have any resources to pool. Thanks for the beer.”

Tom made a gentlemanly attempt to rise.

“No, don’t get up, you look like you’ll fall down if you do. I know where the door is. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Tom said cheerfully. “I’ve got to write Leona’s obit.”

On that happy note, Catherine shut the screen door behind her.