Winning Amelia. Ingrid Weaver

      CHAPTER FOUR

      HANK HAD LEARNED that Tuesday evening was usually the best time to find people at home. It took into account anyone who might have gone away for a long weekend or might have needed an extra day to recover from a busy one. It was usually too early in the week for people to host dinner parties or pay social calls. There were variables like soccer games, or shift work, and with kids home from school for the summer, there were unforeseen, random events like emergency visits to the hospital to get a broken bone set or a split lip stitched, but on average, Tuesdays were good.

      He left his car near the corner of the street where the Goodfellows lived and began with the house at the end of the block. Despite the pleasant breeze that had come up as the sun lowered, the front window was shut tight. The flowers in the bed beneath it had gone brown and the lawn was in bad need of a haircut. Even from the sidewalk he could see a raft of advertising flyers sticking out of the mailbox beside the front door.

      Tuesday or not, the owners likely were away, and judging by the condition of the flowers and the lawn, they’d probably been away for more than a week. Still, Hank believed in being thorough. That’s why he was canvassing the neighbors even though Amelia said she already had. He knocked on the door, waited a full three minutes, then moved to the next house. This set of homeowners was in, but they told him they had been at their cottage all weekend, as their sunburns and mosquito bites attested.

      He had no better results as he worked his way along one side of the street. It wasn’t until he reached a tidy bungalow in the middle of the other side that his luck changed. No one answered his knock at the front door, but the front window was open and lace curtains stirred in the breeze. A minivan with a Ducks Unlimited bumper sticker was parked in the driveway. Hank stepped around a bed of petunias and followed the smell of burning charcoal to the back of the house. A white picket fence enclosed the rear yard. He stopped at the gate.

      A stocky, middle-aged man stood in front of a round-bottomed barbecue where a row of hamburger patties sizzled on the grill. He had a beer bottle in one hand and a spatula in the other. Close to the house there was a picnic table on a patio made up of square paving stones. A teenage boy with earphone wires trailing past his neck drummed the edge of the table with his index fingers. Seated across from him, a woman with startlingly blond hair waved flies away from a stack of plates and a bowl of what appeared to be potato salad. She was the first to spot Hank. She raised her eyebrows. “Hello?”

      Hank put on his most affable smile. “Sorry to disturb you folks.”

      The man turned toward him. His round face was bisected by a sharp-beaked nose. “Whatever it is, we don’t want any.”

      “I’m not selling anything.” He pulled the folder with his ID from his jeans and flipped it open. “My name’s Hank Jones, and I’m hoping you could answer a few questions for me. It won’t take long.”

      The boy stopped drumming and regarded Hank warily. He had a younger version of the man’s round face and prominent nose. “Are you a cop?”

      “Policeman, Jacob,” the woman said softly. “Mind your manners.”

      The boy shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

      The man hooked the spatula on the barbecue. He started to lift his hand, as if to take a swig of his beer, but awkwardly halted the motion. “What’s this about, officer?”

      Something else Hank had learned, like finding people at home on Tuesdays, was that allowing people to believe he was connected to the law wasn’t a good idea. For one thing, it was illegal. For another, it didn’t necessarily lead to better results. A lot of individuals tended to watch their words more carefully than they normally would if they thought they were talking to the police. Above all, it was a lot simpler to tell the truth, because lies could get hard to keep track of. “I’m not a policeman, sir,” he said. “I’m a private investigator.”

      “A private investigator,” the woman repeated. She surreptitiously fluffed her hair. “How interesting. I’ve never met a private eye before, Mr. Jones.”

      He returned his ID to his pocket. “It’s not anywhere near as exciting as on TV, ma’am. I’m just helping out the Goodfellows. Do you know them?”

      “Not real well,” the man said, apparently speaking for his wife. “I know them to see them. They’re in the white house with the black shutters down the block.”

      “Yes, that’s right. Were any of you here on Sunday morning?”

      “Sure, we all were.”

      “Hey, is this about that painting?” the boy asked, pulling out his earphones.

      Hank rested his forearms on top of the gate, striving for a relaxed pose despite his prickle of excitement. “Painting?”

      “Some red-haired chick asked me about it Sunday night.”

      “Jacob...” the woman admonished.

      “Lady. Whatever. She caught up to me in the driveway. She was from that house where they had the yard sale and wanted to know if I saw who bought some big painting.”

      “Wait a minute,” the man said. “What were you doing in the driveway Sunday night? You’re grounded, remember?”

      “Uh...I was fixing my bike. The handlebars were loose.”

      “That’s not what it sounded like. You said she ‘caught up’ to you. You went out, after we specifically told you to stay here, didn’t you?”

      “We didn’t say he had to stay inside the house, Les.”

      “You’re too soft, Ruth. I told you we shouldn’t have trusted him.”

      “You could have gone to your Elks dinner alone. I wouldn’t have minded.”

      “Maybe I should have. Next time I will.”

      “Um, guys?” The boy—Jacob—seemed more aware of their audience than his parents were. He jerked his head toward Hank. “Could we focus here?”

      Les pointed his free hand at his son. “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

      “Sor-ry,” Jacob drawled, rolling his eyes.

      “Jacob!”

      He ducked his head. “Sorry.”

      The conversational pattern seemed well established. Hank decided he’d better jump in before it deteriorated further. “You guessed right, son. I did want to ask you about the painting. It was sold by mistake at the Goodfellows’ yard sale.”

      “Yeah, that’s what the chi—uh, lady said. She wants it back.”

      The woman called Ruth tilted her head, appearing thoughtful. Instead of fluffing her hair this time, she twirled a lock around one finger. “Is it valuable?”

      “To be honest, the frame is worth more than the canvas, ma’am,” Hank said. “The painting only has sentimental value.”

      “Is that so?” The man lifted his beer and took a long swallow, his