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folks work on it—Steve’s Garage in Thetford Center.”
    “Huh,” Barrows grunted.
    “What?”
    “Coincidence is all,” the young deputy explained. “Steve’s and this place are owned by the same person.”
    Joe straightened, glancing his head against the car frame and instinctively ducking back down, although he hadn’t incurred any damage. “E. T. owns Steve’s? I didn’t know that.”
    “That and a dozen other outfits. You just don’t see his name on the door too often. Old E. T. likes his privacy. You know him?”
    “Yeah—I grew up around here. Arrested his son once.”
    Now it was Barrows’s turn to be surprised. “Andy?”
    “Yeah. Down in Brattleboro.”
    “You know he’s dead. Killed himself.”
    Joe stared at him. “My God. He was just a kid.”
    But Rob was studying the damaged wheel again. “E. T. was really broken up about it, and Dan went ballistic. You know Andy’s brother?”
    Joe nodded. “Used to be a hothead.”
    “Still is. Tore up a local bar when he heard Andy’d died. Spent the night in jail. That’s how I know.”
    He reached out and touched the car’s undercarriage with his fingertips. “I bet your name was mud in the Griffis household that night.”
    Joe frowned at the comment. “What’re you saying?”
    Barrows shrugged. “I’ve lived here my whole life. The Griffis clan makes things personal, which can definitely be good news, bad news. They’re great if they like you, but they got a lot of money and know a lot of the wrong people if they don’t.”
    Joe gestured at the car overhead. “And you think one of them did this because I busted Andy?”
    But Rob shook his head. “I’m saying they wouldn’t forget who you were if they blamed you for his death.”
    “What’s the scuttlebutt?” Joe demanded, growing angry.
    Barrows remained placid. “That’s what I’m saying. I haven’t heard a word. I didn’t even know about you and Andy.” He slapped the tire hanging by his head. “You asked me to take a closer look, remember? So, I’m not the one saying the Griffis bunch is after you. But if you’re thinking this was done on purpose, I’d sure have an idea where to start digging.”
    Norma Wagner peered up from her crossword as the motel’s front door set off the quiet chime behind her counter.
    “Good evening, sir. Are you checking in?”
    The man on the threshold looked as if she’d just asked the one question he hadn’t been anticipating. He glanced around the empty lobby nervously. “Yes.”
    Norma smiled, both at him and to herself. He was a decent enough looking guy—trimmed beard, not too fat, okay clothes—but homely. A work mouse, as she’d come to consider men like him—processed forms in an office building, went to the movies once a month, ate at the local Bickford’s on Friday, and had a wife he’d grown so used to, he barely knew she existed.
    And now, she thought to herself, this one was in the big city—or whatever Brattleboro might be considered. She watched him check the lobby a second time before hestitantly approaching her counter. Instinctively, after fifteen years in the motel business, she checked his left ring finger. The indentation of a wedding band was there, but the actual item was missing. Ah, and he was stepping out, as well.
    Norma blended her satisfied laugh into her official greeting. “Welcome to the Downtowner, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
    “No.” He spoke barely above a whisper.
    Of course not, she thought, eyeing the small overnight bag he kept clutched in his hand.
    “That won’t be a problem. We have plenty of room at the moment. How many nights will you be staying?”
    “Just one.”
    But what a night, she imagined vicariously, typing into her computer, at least in his wildest hopes. She wasn’t faulting him. She’d been married for twenty-five years to a man she saw as little as possible. She hoped this round little guy was going to have the night of his life.
    “And how will you be