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LUCILLE NODDED BLANKLY AT us, then seemed to focus. “I didn’t find Ryan in the Quicken. He didn’t buy all that jam last Labor Day weekend.”

Mahoney said, “Yes, ma’am, you told us that.”

“Wasn’t him,” she said, puzzled. “Another name, you know. All that jam, but I …” Without warning, she began to weep. “Whatever his name was, he’s dead. I only knew him for a day, and they said he was dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lucille,” I said.

Looking forlorn, she nodded and wiped at her tears. “I have three daughters. Seven grandkids.”

“That’s a blessing,” Mahoney said.

“It is,” she said.

We wished her well, said goodbye, and went down the stairs to find Big Ed looking worried. “How is she?”

“Calm now, thinking about her grandkids,” Ned said.

“Thank God for that,” he said, sounding worn out. “She’s been getting worse. Was she able to give you the information you were looking for?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said, and then stopped as fragments of our conversation with his wife fell into place. “Well, maybe. Can you do us a favor?”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Could you look in your Quicken records from last Labor Day weekend, see if you can find the name of someone who bought a lot of jam?”

“All of Lucille’s huckleberry jam,” Big Ed said, opening a drawer. “She wrote his name down on your wife’s card.”

He handed me Bree’s business card. I flipped it over and saw a name in Lucille’s careful print: Ian Duncanson.

It didn’t ring any bells. I showed it to Mahoney, who shrugged.

I pocketed Bree’s card and we thanked Big Ed and left. Outside, a bitter wind had kicked up, so we hustled to the car and Ned fired up the heater.

“Who do you think Ian Duncanson is?” Mahoney said.

“Lucille said she recognized Malcomb from the picture Bree and Sampson showed her,” I said. “And she did say he bought all of her jam. So maybe Ian Duncanson is an alias that Ryan Malcomb used or maybe Ryan Malcomb did not buy all that jam but his long missing twin brother did.”

Ned’s eyebrows shot up. Before he could reply, his phone rang.

He grabbed it, looked at the screen, said, “No caller ID.” He answered anyway. “Mahoney.”

After a few moments, he said, “You’re going to have to repeat that. I’m in the middle of nowhere and you’re cutting in and out.”

He listened, then nodded at me. “Write this down.”

I got out my notebook.

Mahoney said, “Northeast of a place called Huckleberry Hollow, mile marker eleven on the road to Salmon.”

I scribbled it down. Ned thanked the caller and hung up.

“That was Sixt car rental,” he said. “They found the Jeep and notified the local sheriff to sit on it until we got there. And what’s with all the huckleberries?”