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Ricky shrugged as he glanced at his board with the satisfaction of a man surveying the fruits of a productive morning.

I couldn't deny that the display was impressive in its own way. He'd taken a perfectly ordinary sheet of paper and turned it into a sprawling diagram of suspicion, complete with arrows connecting people whose hairstyles apparently shared some hidden significance. There was even a small column labeled POSSIBLE HAIR-RELATED MOTIVES, although the only entry beneath it was vanity.

“Tell me something,” I said. “If you believe Owen is the most suspicious, why is Joann on the board at all?”

“Because I'm keeping an open mind.”

“You've ranked Owen first.”

“An open mind can still have preferences.”

Tammy sighed and reached for the appointment book. “I swear, if you ever get called for jury duty, I'm moving to another state.”

“You'd miss me.”

“I'd send postcards.”

“Pictures of you enjoying yourself without me?”

“Exactly.”

I laughed, and some of the tension I'd been carrying since Harvey's death eased. It wasn't that the murder had become less troubling, or that the investigation had suddenly become a joke. It was simply that life in Hartwell Cove kept moving around the awful thing that had happened. People still needed haircuts. Tammy still had appointments to manage. Ricky still had an inexhaustible supply of opinions, and apparently murder had given him a fresh subject on which to exercise them.

For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy the familiar rhythm of their banter. I'd spent too much of the past several days thinking about Harvey, the festival, and the questions that refused to settle into a sensible order. I was also spending more time than was good for me thinking about Josiah, but that was a separate problem, and I was trying very hard not to make it worse by examining it too closely.

Ricky finished his customer's hair and turned the chair toward the mirror. She inspected the result, smiled, and thanked him. He removed the cape, brushed the stray clippings from her shoulders, and escorted her toward the reception desk. When she'd paid and left, he returned to his board with renewed enthusiasm.

“I've made an adjustment,” he announced.

“Please tell me you aren't adding a column,” Tammy said.

“I'm refining the methodology.”

“You don't have a methodology.”

“That's what the refinement is for.”

He picked up the marker and drew a line beneath Owen's name. “The problem with most people is that they underestimate the importance of presentation. A person who takes time to arrange his hair is someone who thinks about how other people see him. Someone who thinks about how other people see him might have something to hide.”

“Or he might simply like his hair,” I pointed out.

“That's what he wants you to think.”

“Ricky.”

“Max.”

I gave him my best attempt at a stern look. It didn't work. His grin widened, and I found myself smiling despite my efforts to maintain a shred of authority in a conversation where I had none.

“Look,” I said, “I know you're joking, but you need to be careful about turning guesses into accusations. Harvey's death is serious, and people around town are already talking. You don't want your board to become another rumor that gets repeated until somebody mistakes it for fact.”

For once, Ricky's expression softened. He glanced at the names on the paper, then at Tammy, who had gone quiet beside me. “I know,” he said. “I'm not telling people Owen did it. I'm saying his hair looks suspicious.”

“Which is not meaningfully different from telling people Owen is suspicious,” Tammy replied.

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“You'll take that board down.”