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Into Andy’s silence, Ruthanne said, “I never believed Quinn was involved in the actual burglaries. But I do think he had secrets and that there was something not right in the way he disappeared that summer.” She added, “I think he still has secrets.”

A Man of Secrets. How corny was that? And yet, Ruthanne was probably more right than she knew. Than either of them knew.

“We all have secrets,” Andy said automatically, though it seemed like most of his were open topics of conversation in Safehaven.

“Which is why you might want to let him know the chief put through a request to the FBI for a background check.”

Andy stared at her. “Acriminalbackground check?”

“That’s usually why we contact the FBI.”

“Millard really thinks Quinn had something to do with the attack on Uncle C.?”

Ruthanne shrugged. “It seems so.”

“Do you?”

Ruthanne snorted. “No way. I didn’t buy it sixteen years ago, and I sure don’t buy it now. Whatever Quinn’s been up to these last sixteen years, it isn’t knocking off village shops and conking senior citizens over the head.”

“And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because Idon’tthink Quinn is involved. I think the chief’s acting out of, well, I’m not sure what. Misplaced loyalty, maybe. Anyway, I think Quinn deserves a head’s-up.” She added wryly, “Not that he’s not fully capable of taking care of himself. Hell, I think he was fully capable of taking care of himself when he was a toddler breaking out of his crib at naptime.”

* * * * *

Miriam Labelle was the fourth and final stop of Andy’s deliveries.

Despite the inclement weather and poor driving conditions, he’d spent a surprisingly pleasant afternoon dropping off orders. Nancy Martin insisted he stay for a cup of cocoa and a “catch-up,” Pattie and Peter Grainger served him coffee, Christmas cookies, and another generous portion of local gossip. David Allen offered him a “little nip to warm his innards,” and still more gossip.

In the wake of that comfortably familiar tide of curiosity and kindness, it was almost impossible not to feel better. The trauma of the past few days (and nights) receded. The fresh cold air was like a brisk slap, and Andy began to wonder if maybe he—and Quinn—weren’t jumping at shadows, both real and metaphorical.

The threat posed by Marcus was real enough. No question. Andy spent a good portion of his drive checking his rearview mirror to make sure Marcus wasn’t following him around the countryside, and to his relief, Marcus was nowhere to be seen.

In fact, very few cars were out that snowy Sunday. The newly snow-plowed roads were mostly empty of traffic.

Anyway, wasn’t it a lot more likely teenaged dopers or a very hard-up local burglar were responsible for the attack on Uncle C. and subsequent attempts to get into Time in a Bottle?

Because what was the alternative?

Seriously.

From a practical standpoint—or even an impractical standpoint—what were the possible scenarios? Someone had accidentally sold Uncle C. a priceless something and was willing to do anything to get it back? An international—or national (let’s not be xenophobic)—gang of art thieves were seeking a priceless something that had somehow fallen into Uncle C.’s hands? It was all a case of mistaken identity? Someone believed Uncle C. had acquired something hehadn’tactually acquired? Uncle C. turned out to be a retired bank robber, and his former accomplices were now out of prison and seeking the missing loot? Micky Mouse wanted his snow globes back?

Andy enjoyed art caper and jewel heist films as much as the next museum curator, and he could think of a dozen kooky potential plots to explain the events of recent days, but in the—literally—cold light of day, none of them seemed very plausible.

Things like that just didn’t happen to normal people.

Abusive exes and youthful offenders were what happened to normal people.

It was in that state of mind that Andy reached Miriam Labelle’s farmhouse on the outskirts of town.

He parked in the side yard between the old carriage house and the lovingly restored 1918 main structure, and crunchedthrough the snow, carrying the box of nesting bowls up two steps onto the long, covered front porch.

A tall, orange plastic bucket, filled with snow and ice, sat next to the railing. Andy gave the bucket and its contents a passing glance, then looked again. He nearly dropped the box of crockery.

Snow, yes, but those glittering shards were not ice. They were glass. The bucket was full of broken snow globes.

Chapter Eleven