"I thought he was off with Mrs. Worthington," Cynthia said as Dean started up the stairs to fill in his stepfather on their afternoon plans. Instead of Fred O'Connor, it was Paul Dawkins coming down the stairs. The look Dean gave him left no doubt they knew where he'd been.

"Just using the old gent's computer," he mumbled. "I'm expecting a very important e-mail."

"Does Fred know you're in his room?"

"Sort of," which said he didn't. "He let me use it this morning," he added as he moved by Dean.

Cynthia joined the pair. "I think you'd better limit your use to when Fred's here to give you permission."

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"Yeah," Dean added. "He's nervous. He might think you're a sneak thief and shoot you with that big gun he carries."

Paul Dawkins wiped his face with his hand and looked at Dean as if to ask if he were serious. Dean didn't smile. Dawkins mumbled and apology and left the building.

"A big gun?" Cynthia smiled.

"Figuratively speaking. Looks like Fred should get a lock on his door. His place is as busy as a country doctor's waiting room in flu season. Both Paul and Joseph Dawkins and Brandon Westlake have been lining up to use Fred's equipment. Westlake is chasing down auction items the same as Fred, but I wonder what's so important to the Dawkins boys."

"That's not any of our business, unless they trespass where they're not supposed to. If computers are so popular, perhaps we should consider buying one for the use of our guests. It's not fair that Fred has to share his all the time."

Sure, Dean thought, I'll put it on the list, right after food, clothing and shelter, all of which were tough enough to fund given Bird Song's present budget. But he just murmured an agreement as they returned to their room.

"Are you going to continue to play detective and grill the poor woman, or is this a fun trip?" Cynthia said.

"I'm turning over a new leaf. Mr. Nice Guy. I'm leaving my black hose at home. Much as I'd like to, I won't ask her if her mother's maiden name was Plotke, nor will I tell her daddy's bones may be taking a motor home trip up the west coast-or that his pinkie is in your jewel case."

"That's not 'Mr. Nice Guy.' You're just afraid she'd toss you off the mountain for being so nosy-as well she should!"

Cynthia was standing at her bureau for a last minute comb of her hair. On impulse she opened the small crystal box where they'd placed the bone. It was empty. Cynthia's little shriek of dismay caused Dean to turn. He knew at once the object of her concern.




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