One stood out: Leo.

Unless Robin knew Leonardo DiCaprio, I had a strong suspicion that this Leo was Francie’s husband and not a famous movie star. Because Leo’s number was still stored on my own caller ID, it took me all of thirty seconds to confirm that Robin’s Leo was, in fact, Leo the widower. When had Robin added Leo to her list of contacts? On the day of the filming? In other words, on the day of his wife’s murder? Or could Robin have known Leo before the show?

Leo. Hmm. As I knew from carefully studying thousands of TV shows, murderers were often spouses or lovers, so unless Francie had had a lover, Leo should have been the prime suspect from the beginning. Did the police agree? Did they watch as much TV as I did? And what about motives? What about love and money? Maybe Leo had wanted to get rid of Francie because he had a lover or because he stood to inherit oodles of cash when Francie died. As to access to digitalis, for all I knew, he had foxglove growing right in his weed-choked garden. Under other circumstances, I could have gained access to his yard by trying to sell him a rain barrel, but as it was, I couldn’t very well call him up and say, “So sorry your wife died a grisly death, but would you like to conserve water by recycling rain?”

Still, I could follow him to see whether he did anything suspicious. Such as? I didn’t know exactly. But there was nothing wrong with my keeping an open mind. And how hard could it be to tail someone? I was too wiped out from Adrianna’s shower to set out on a spying expedition today, but I resolved to pursue the investigation the next morning.

I checked my messages. There was a brief one from Josh to ask how the shower had gone. He said that tonight he was again working late and working an early shift on Sunday, but could he come by in the late afternoon? I returned his call and left him a voice mail saying that unless he showed up tomorrow, I was going to kidnap him from Simmer and, like some sex-starved cave woman, drag him back here. I was on my way out, I said, to buy a loincloth, a club, and a bone for my hair, so he’d better watch out.

Early on Sunday morning, I drove to the warehouse in Waltham where my parents stored equipment and supplies. They did most of the landscape design and planning work from home, but the rest of the company ran out of the second location, which was only a twenty-minute drive from my place. The deep red building gave the impression that a tornado had dropped a barn in the middle of Waltham, and the stacks of hay and the smell of garden manure only fueled that fantasy. I can’t say that I was a fan of the manure aroma, but I did love the smell of hay and soil and the sawdust aroma from Emilio’s lumber. I parked my Saturn in the small parking lot, let myself into the building through a large red door, and got the keys to the oldest of the five vehicles used for deliveries, a beat-up gray Chevy van with seats in the front and all sorts of shovels, rakes, and hoes in racks on the walls of the rear. The other two vans were new, as were the two pickup trucks. As I drove toward Leo’s house, the stick shift gave me a hard time, and I regretted my choice of the beat-up gray van, which I’d picked because it was the smallest of the vehicles and would presumably be the easiest for me to maneuver. As it was, although I’d driven the gray van a few times before, everything about it felt unfamiliar, and I hated having to rely on the side-view mirrors. Whoever had driven it last had left half-empty coffee cups in the holders. With each passing mile, the trip seemed more and more like the stupidest idea ever. I was hardly Veronica Mars. But by the time I’d decided that the whole undertaking was a mistake, I’d passed the Natural High market and was almost at my destination.

I parked the van a few houses down from Leo’s place and sank into my seat. Vans used for real surveillance had equipment such as listening devices rather than gardening implements, but I had eyes and ears, I reminded myself. Besides, the old van really did belong to a landscaping company, and if anyone questioned my presence, the Carter Landscapes logo on the side of the van and the garden equipment would show that I was who I said I was. Few landscapers would be working on a Sunday morning, of course, but I could always claim that a resident had been stricken with a crisis of environmental conscience and desperately needed information on rain barrels.

I felt like an idiot sitting there parked on the street, periodically looking at a clipboard I’d found on the passenger seat and wrinkling my brow in false concentration as I read and reread my parents’ pamphlet on their company. An hour after my stakeout began, Leo finally drove his car out of his driveway and zoomed to the end of the street. No one else was visible in Leo’s car, so unless someone was flattened on the floor, Leo was alone. Following him proved to be nothing like what I’d seen in movies and on TV, probably because the streets were almost empty and because he wasn’t going very far: I just stayed a block behind him and trailed him to a large chain supermarket.

Disappointed that I hadn’t caught Leo pulling over to burn evidence or stopping to engage in a scandalous love affair, I debated about whether to get out of the van and follow Leo right into the supermarket. Feeling disappointed, I decided that the risk of being seen was just too high, so I stayed in the van and waited for him to emerge from the market. I consoled myself with the thought that I couldn’t be missing much: the probability was slight that he was having a clandestine amorous encounter among the cabbages, the steaks, or the cartons of milk.

After thirty minutes, I reconsidered: Leo still hadn’t appeared. Then my hopes rose when I caught sight of a police cruiser in a side-view mirror. I watched excitedly as it slowly passed by. Maybe Leo was about to be arrested! Eager to witness the capture of a murderer, I stuck my head out the window, but the cruiser moved past the entrance to the store and continued along.

A few minutes later, Leo exited the supermarket and pushed a full shopping cart to his car, where he transferred his shopping bags to the trunk and got into the car. The only vaguely suspect action he took was to fail to leave his cart in one of the designated areas, but irresponsibility with regard to shopping carts obviously didn’t prove him guilty of true crimes. As he backed out of his parking spot, I started up the van’s engine and shifted into reverse. Before I’d even put my foot on the gas, however, I was stopped by the presence of a police cruiser right behind me. The lights were flashing. Seconds later, that first cruiser was joined by a second one.

A uniformed officer slowly approached and through the open window of the van said, “License and registration, please.”

I smiled brightly at the officer, who looked old enough to be my great-grandfather. I prayed that my winning grin would send him away. “Is there a problem?” I asked as I fumbled through my purse. What was I thinking? Of course there was a problem! Why else was this cop talking to me? I handed him my license, shuffled through papers and maps in the glove compartment, found the registration, and passed it to him. I couldn’t be in that much trouble since this officer looked so ancient and scrawny that I had a hard time picturing him chasing down violent, gun-toting criminals. I could probably knock this man over with one push of my pinky finger.

Without even examining the registration, he wrinkled his wrinkles and said, “This vehicle had been reported stolen.”

Crap.

I hate the kind of robotic pretense at politeness that’s more offensive than honest rudeness, and that’s what I got. It took twenty minutes to straighten out the mess, but the officer did eventually call my parents, who convinced him that I hadn’t stolen a beat-up van that no one would even dream of stealing. Giving up on Leo for the day, I left to exchange the supposedly stolen van for my Saturn. On the way, I called my mother and fed her an improbable tale about scouting out neighborhoods where people might be interested in rain barrels.

“You’re not even working this week, Chloe,” my mother said with exasperation. “You have the week off to help with the wedding. And the next time you take one of our vans, you’d better let us know!”

“Promise.” I said. And meant it! I wanted never again to face the kind of public humiliation I’d just experienced.

“While I have you on the phone, I had a call from Robin. She thinks she left her cell phone at our house.”

“She did. I have it.”

“Chloe! Why haven’t you let her know? She is a producer for a television station, and I’m sure she needs it back. What is going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’ll call her as soon as I get home.”

I hung up feeling grumpy and frustrated. While learning nothing about Leo, I’d pissed off my mother. When I reached my condo, I dug up Robin’s home number and left her an apologetic message saying that I had her cell phone and would be happy to return it anytime. Then I cleaned the apartment and spiffed myself up for Josh’s arrival. The first half of the day had stunk, but maybe the evening with my boyfriend would compensate.