Mrs. Beecher chuckled and led me farther inside. “That girl and her imagination, I tell ya. She started telling stories when she was around five and never let up.” She strolled all the way into her kitchen. I peeked into every nook and cranny I could along the way, trying to assess exactly what I was dealing with.

As luck would have it, Cookie called, her timing impeccable. “I’m sorry,” I said, pushing the icon to accept the call, “will you give me a minute? I have to take this.”

“You go right ahead, dear.”

I turned and walked a few feet away toward an open door just off the kitchen, and I found it interesting that the closer I got to that door, the more apprehensive Mrs. Beecher became.

“Hey, Cook,” I said, all cheer and goodwill. But before she could respond in kind, I said, “Yeah, I’m here talking to Mrs. Beecher now. This case is a dead end. I can’t find any evidence whatsoever of what Harper Lowell was talking about.” My words calmed the woman a bit, so I took another few steps that way.

“Okay,” Cookie said, catching on, “are you in immediate danger?”

“I don’t think so, but one never knows with cases like this.”

“What can I do?”

“Sure, I can meet Uncle Bob for coffee. Can you call him and have him meet me at that address you gave me?”

“I can definitely do that. Do I need to get emergency over there?”

“Oh, no. That’s okay. Just tell him to take his time. I’m almost finished here.”

“Okay, calling Ubie now. Be careful.”

“What? You like to look at na**d men on the Internet?”

“I mean it.”

Darn. Didn’t even get a rise out of her. What good was harassment if she didn’t rise to the occasion? I hung up and took one more step closer to that door. I couldn’t see past the thick blackness, but it was cooler than the rest of the house, possibly a basement of some kind. Nothing good ever seemed to come of basements, so I started to turn back, when I heard a loud thud. A sharp pain exploded in my head; then the world tumbled around me in a series of somersaults and painful bounces.

I landed in a heap of hair and body parts at the bottom of a very solid set of stairs. One would think pine gave more than that. But crap on a cracker, that hurt.

I curled into a fetal position, cradling my head and gritting my teeth against the pain shooting through every molecule in my body. Above me, I heard a door close and then Mrs. Beecher’s feeble steps descending the stairs. She moved at a pace that would have given a baby turtle a run for his money. A cast-iron skillet hung from her hands, and I was fairly certain that was what started my tumultuous journey into the unknown. Who knew cast iron was so hard?

I still needed evidence of her involvement in Harper’s case. Right now, all I had was an assault with a skillet by an elderly woman who could claim dementia and most definitely get away with it in court. With every ounce of strength I had, I forced my muscles to relax, my body to go limp like wet noodles. Uncle Bob was on his way. Maybe I could wrap this case up before he got here.

My eyes had watered and the air felt cool against the wetness on my cheeks, but that was the only positive I could wring out of the situation. Well, that and the fact that I could probably outrun Mrs. Beecher if push came to shove. She was about halfway down the steps at that point, so I decided to save my mental strength and ponder what it would be like to live in a world where butterflies ruled and humans were their slaves.

It didn’t help. All I could think about was the pain shooting through Barbara, my brain. Normally, I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to Barbara—she didn’t get out much—but today was her day to shine. I was certain parts of her were oozing out of Fred, my skull.

As I lay there channeling spaghetti, Mrs. Beecher headed toward a stack of shelves and started rummaging through old boxes, probably looking for a rusty old hacksaw to dismember me before she buried my parts in this very basement. I couldn’t help but notice it had a dirt floor. Convenient.

Then I heard something else. I looked up as Harper tiptoed down the stairs. I glared at her, but she rushed down the minute she saw me.

“Charley,” she whispered, glancing around in horror, “what happened?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked through gritted teeth, trying not to move my lips. Not sure why. I wanted nothing more than to hold my head and writhe in agony.

Harper spotted Mrs. Beecher. She put a hand on my shoulder as recognition dawned on her face. “I remembered something, so I came over here.”

“You really need to leave. She may not look like much, but that woman has a wicked left hook.” I glared at her over my shoulder. “Freaking cheater. How the f**k did she wield a cast-iron skillet? She’s the size of a tennis ball.” But I’d lost Harper. She was staring at Mrs. Beecher’s back, a combination of astonishment and anguish in her eyes. I had anguish in my eyes, too, but for a completely different reason.

“Harper,” I whispered, trying to coax her back to me. Thankfully, Mrs. Beecher seemed to be unable to hear anything under a dull roar. “Sweetheart, what do you remember?”

Harper’s huge brown eyes glanced down at me but didn’t quite focus. “Her grandson,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Dewey was a little older than me. He lived with us. With Mrs. Beecher in her apartment.”

The pain ebbed slightly, the throbbing becoming almost tolerable. “What happened, hon? She stayed with you at your grandparents’ house while your parents went on their honeymoon. Did her grandson hurt you?”