In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”

“Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”

“I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”

“Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”

Paul turned slowly toward her. “His kid?”

“Yeah. Buddy’s my father. Didn’t you know?”

“I had no idea. How come you call him Buddy?”

“I started when I was a teenager because I knew it got his goat. Then when we started working together, it seemed an easier way to maintain a professional relationship and reassure the clients. It’s better for me to yell ‘Hey, Buddy,’ than ‘Hey, Daddy.’ Would you trust a contractor who hired his own daughter to restore your woodwork?”

“I would if the contractor were Buddy. But I understand clients might feel uncomfortable, especially if they had a complaint about your work.”

“Never happens. I’m too good.”

“Do you work with your father—Buddy—exclusively?”

“I try to give him first dibs, is all.” She began to break eggs into a glass bowl with one-handed expertise. “He has to bid for me just like everybody else. I’ve just gotten back from three months in Buffalo restoring the proscenium arch of an old movie theater that’s being converted into a community theater. Before that I spent a couple of months in Colorado Springs redoing woodwork for a prairie mansion that’s being restored. This is actually the first job I’ve had this close to home since I moved back to Rossiter.”

All the time she talked, she was constructing the omelet. He was impressed. He knew the way good cooks maneuvered in the kitchen.

“There are some fresh bagels in the bread box. Split us a couple, would you, and stick them in the toaster.”

Paul did as she asked, then returned to his place at the counter.

He enjoyed watching her. She worked efficiently, and before long was ready to pour the omelet mixture into a hot frying pan.

“Okay. While I’m doing this, you can set the table,” she said. “Place mats and silverware are in the top drawer of the Welsh dresser. I’ll bring the rest. Honey all right for your bagel?”

Ten minutes later he sat down to an omelet, green salad and hot buttered bagels. He was growing mellow from his second glass of wine.

His small sojourn on his porch had begun the job of relaxing him. Sitting opposite Ann in this pleasant place completed the job. Even the ache in his shoulder had subsided. He felt Dante’s heavy head against his ankle and looked down to see hungry eyes.

She noticed and said, “Don’t you dare. Dante doesn’t eat at the table. He’d be impossible if he ever started.”

“The omelet is as good as I’ve ever eaten. Thanks for taking me in tonight. I promise you dinner in return.” He wasn’t flattering her. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his first bite. After a moment he said, “Tell me about the artist who did that caricature.”

“Uncle David tossed off those little sketches. He sold them at charity functions.”

“And gave the money away?”

“He certainly didn’t need it himself.”

“Did he do other things—portraits, landscapes, still lifes?”

“A few portraits. He never sold anything, never had an art gallery to represent him or did a show that I’m aware of. His studio was in the old summer kitchen behind your house.”

Paul caught his breath. “I haven’t even tried to get into it. I assumed it was derelict. Buddy said it would probably have to come down to make way for the new garage.”

“You didn’t go in when you were looking at the house before you bought it?”

“It was padlocked, and Mrs. Hoddle didn’t have the key. I’ve tried to see in the windows a couple of times, but they’re filthy. The door may be old, but it’s solid, and the padlock is one of those that can’t be broken open even with a pistol shot.”

“Don’t need a pistol. Just need a good strong pair of bolt cutters. I can get you in there tomorrow morning if you like.”

“Do you think there might be other drawings left after all these years?”

“Possibly. More likely the rats and mice have shredded them for nests.”

“Wouldn’t Trey have included any sketches he found in the estate sale?”

“Somebody else handled the details of the sale. Besides, Trey always thought his father’s artist thing was a pose. He hated it. Trey and Sue-sue came by two days after Miss Addy’s funeral and took what they wanted. Then the estate people moved in, set up the sale and ran it. They probably didn’t even attempt to get into that summer kitchen. Must have thought it was empty the way you did. Besides, work by an unknown artist wouldn’t be worth much, and most of the stuff at that sale was going for premium prices. I could barely afford the button box.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Addy’s button box. Come on, I’ll show you. It’s in the workroom.”

He followed her to a shadowy corner of the workroom where a small table stood. Fitted neatly within a rim on top was a tole box less than two feet long, a foot or so wide and perhaps five inches deep. It was formed and painted to look like an old leather-bound book.

“She had the table built specially to hold it. She used to tat and sew while her students played their pieces. I was always dying to look into it, but I never did until after I bought it and brought it home.”

“The title on the cover reads Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Interesting choice for a woman who never married.”

“She didn’t have it painted, silly. She bought it that way.”

“So what treasure does it conceal? Or was it empty?”

“No, it was just the way she left it.” Ann raised the lid. Inside lay a jumble of different colors of embroidery thread, a pair of elaborately carved silver sewing scissors, several hand-painted thimbles and forty or fifty small packets, some in yellowing envelopes, others in small plastic bags.

“Buttons,” Ann said. “When women buy a new dress or blouse, usually the manufacturer includes a couple of extra buttons in case one falls off. The average woman takes the dress home, removes the little envelope with the buttons, stuffs it in a drawer, forgets where she put it and can’t ever find it again when she needs it.”

“Miss Addy was organized.”

“She sure was. She must have inherited some of these buttons.” Ann picked up one of the envelopes and opened it so that Paul could look inside. “See—these are real ivory. They’re not made any longer.” She put back that envelope and chose another. “And these are hand-painted cloisonné. Very old and very fine.” She chose a third envelope. “These are hematite—that’s a kind of jet Victorian ladies liked to use on their dresses. Some of them are museum quality. I really lucked out. I wouldn’t sell this for a million dollars.”

“So there actually might be something worth having in the old studio?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, although I doubt it.”

“I would like to get in there.”

“Not a problem. How about another bagel?”

“No, thank you. I’m stuffed. Much better than any restaurant we could have gone to.”

“I like to cook.” She gestured at herself. “Like to eat, too. Honestly, I have no idea how those skinny models do it.”

“They’ve inherited high metabolism and they starve. I know from firsthand experience.”

“With stewardesses?”

“Not stewardesses any longer. Flight attendants. My fiancée was a flight attendant.” He’d barely spoken of Tracy to anyone, not even Giselle, since they’d broken up. Somehow the pain he’d been expecting at the mention of her desertion hadn’t come. He felt relief, instead.

“I didn’t know you were engaged.”

“I’m not. She left me and married another guy.”