portrait of a woman, effective, though it was really nothing more than an arrangement in gray and black, hung on the first landing of the stairway. She was hatchet-faced, but broad through the shoulders, and as with the photograph he’d seen that morning, he had the feeling that he’d seen her before.

He was peering at it when a woman’s voice said, “Can I help you?”

He jumped and turned. A motherly woman, white haired and sixtyish, had snuck up behind him from the back room, and was looking pleased with herself for having done it; or at least, amused that she’d startled him. He said, “Uh, jeez, is Leslie around? Or Jane?”

“No. They’re in Minnetonka on an appraisal. They won’t be back until after lunch, and they’ll be in tomorrow…If there’s anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, I had some questions about some furniture…” He looked back again at the painting. “That woman looks familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“That’s Leslie’s mom,” the shop lady said. “Painted by quite a talented local artist, James Malone. Although I think he has since moved to New York City.”

A LITTLE CLICK in the back of Lucas’s mind.

Of course it was Leslie’s mom. He could see Leslie’s face in the woman’s face, although the woman was much thinner than the Leslie that Lucas had met, who was running to fat.

But he hadn’t always been fat, Lucas knew. Lucas knew that because Leslie wasn’t fat in the picture in Amity Anderson’s office. Amity Anderson and the Widdlers: and Leslie was easily big enough to carry a $50,000 table out of a house.

In fact, Leslie was a horse. You didn’t see it, because of the bow ties and the fussy clothes and the fake antiquer-artsy accent he put on, but Leslie was a goddamn Minnesota farm boy, probably grew up humping heifers around the barn, or whatever you did with heifers.

The woman said, “So, uh…”

“I’ll just come back tomorrow,” Lucas said. “If I have time. No big deal, I was passing by.”

“They should be in right at nine, because I’m off tomorrow,” the woman said.

“I’ll talk to them then,” Lucas said. On the way out the door, he stopped, as with an afterthought: “Do you know, did they take the van?”

The woman was puzzled: “They don’t have a van.”

“Oh.” Now Lucas put a look of puzzlement on his face. “Maybe I’m just remembering wrong, but I saw them at an auction and they were driving a van. A white van. I thought.”

“Just a rental. They rent when they need one, it’s a lot cheaper than actually owning,” the woman said. “That’s what I do, when I’m auctioning.”

Lucas nodded: “Hey. Thanks for the help.”

OUTSIDE IN the parking lot, he sat in the truck for a moment, then got on the phone to John Smith:

“If you happen to see them, don’t tell the Widdlers I was going out to their place,” Lucas said.

After a moment of silence, Smith said, “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Probably nothing, but I need to look them up,” Lucas said. “How did they get involved in assessing the Bucher place?”

“I called them,” Smith said. “I asked around, they were recommended. I called them and they took it on.”

“But you didn’t call them because somebody suggested them specifically?” Lucas asked. “Somebody at Bucher’s?”

“Nope. I called a guy at the Minneapolis museum who knows about antiques, and he gave me two names. I looked them up in the Yellow Pages and picked the Widdlers because they were closer.”

“All right,” Lucas said. “So: if you talk to them, don’t mention me.”

NEXT, he got Carol at the office:

“Get somebody—not Sandy—and have him go out to all the local car-rental agencies and see if there’s a record of a Leslie or Jane Widdler—W-I-D-D-L-E-R—renting a white van. Or any van.

“Then, Sandy is doing research on a woman named Amity Anderson. I want her to keep doing that, but put it on the back burner for today. Right now, I need to know everything about Leslie and Jane Widdler. They’re married, they own an antique store in Edina. I think they went to college at Carleton. I want a bunch of stuff figured out by the time I get back there.”

“When are you getting back?”

“Half hour,” Lucas said.

“Not much time,” Carol said.

“Sandy’s gotta hurry,” Lucas said. “I’m in a really big fuckin’ hurry. And get that rental check going. Going right now.”

Carol got in the last word: “Lucy Coombs called again.”

20

“HE WAS A BIG GUY, dark complexion, blue eyes. Asking about a