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Ruby's mother looked up at me as if she'd been a million miles away. “What, dear?”

“Her birth mother. What was her name?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Diamond smiled softly. “I really don't want to cause any pain to her by speaking her name. She's gone on, made a good living for herself, grooming dogs or some such of a thing. It's best just to keep our hearts on Ruby.”

Mr. Diamond walked up with the fourth glass of water. I stood up, then stooped down and crouched by Mrs. Diamond's side.

“Your angel could dance,” I said. “She is dancing. Dancing for joy where no one and nothing can ever hurt her again.” Then I reached up and wrapped my arms around the little woman. We stayed like that for a long moment, and then I released her as the next trio of mourners—Meatloaf, Frank, and a somber Mickey Rhodes—stepped forward to take my place.

Mrs. Diamond uttered a short gasp and I looked back to see that she'd knocked over the fresh glass of water.

“It's all right,” Mickey said, moving forward to embrace the shaken woman. “It's all right.”

“But you don't know, do you?” she said in a quavering voice, shaking her head.

“I know,” he said, his voice hushed and soothing. “I know.” But how could he? He wasn't a mother.

I turned to walk away, my eyes blinded with tears, and bumped right into the woeful little man from the church. His eyes were red and he used a bandanna to wipe them.

“I'm so sorry,” I muttered, trying to step out of his way without flattening him.

“Honk if you love Jesus,” he whispered. Then, “Oh Lord, pray for us sinners and our salvation. This is my penance. She is gone and I will have eternity without her.”

He left before I could say a word, pressing himself against the wall and sliding away from me, around the corner, into another room, almost running from the grieving mother and her mourners. It felt like the last straw for me. I would've opened my mouth and shouted out for Raydean had she not at that moment materialized beside me.

“I see you met Wannamaker Lewis,” she said, nodding toward the little man.

“Not exactly,” I answered. “It was more like he babbled and I tried to stay out of his way. Why? I thought you didn't know who he was.”

“Sierra, that was afore someone mentioned his name. Don't you know who Wannamaker Lewis is?” Seeing the blank look on my face, she continued. “The famous Honk-if-you-love-Jesus folk artist.”

It came back to me then. Eccentric Lewis, the unwilling millionaire, or so everyone supposed, as his work was now featured in trendy galleries around the country.

“Today's trend, tomorrow's garage sale,” I said.

“I don't think so, Sierra,” Raydean answered. “I invested a bit in his work myself. Of course,” she added hastily, “that was afore he became famous.” Raydean is very paranoid that someone will find out she came into a little chunk of money when her husband died.

“Let's blow this pop stand,” I said.

Raydean scanned the room and nodded. “What's good for the goose is good for the gander. Never stay in one place too long,” she said, heading for the door. “You'll gather moss. A psychologist told me that one time.”

Thirteen

I didn't go to work that night after Ruby's funeral. I called Vincent and told him to let Marla have the house to herself for a night; the Tiffany could do without me. I was expecting him to fight me on it, but he didn't. I guess he knew it wouldn't have done any good.

I shut all the blinds, pulled the curtains across the bay window in the living room, and started lighting candles. That's what I do when I'm depressed: I light candles, put on sad music, and dance. I wandered over to the CD player and started hunting up just the right music. Fluffy walked into the room and climbed up onto the futon, ever the observer.

“I don't get it, Fluff,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “Ruby's dead and nobody seems to know what happened. And, you know,” I said, pulling a jug of my father's homemade wine off the counter, “not one person knows why or who.” I poured a hefty portion of Chianti into a Flintstones jelly glass and opened the kitchen door to let the cooling night air circulate through the trailer. When I walked back into the living room, I found Fluffy was actually listening, her moist brown eyes reflecting pools of sadness. “It's up to us, girl,” I said, taking my first swig of wine. “We should be able to figure it out.”

Fluffy sighed. She knew I was right. She also knew it was going to mean a lot of activity and trouble. Fluffy has a delicate temperament. Stress makes her cranky. I sat there next to her, stroking her tiny body, drinking Chianti from Pop's cellar, and listening to music. In the back of my head, I was turning over the facts of Ruby's death. I hadn't just run into the trash bin in my attempt to reach Ruby. I was pretty sure I'd been hit or pushed. There ought to be some memory, some sound or scent that would help me identify the killer.

“I got an idea, Fluff,” I said. “I'll go back out to the racetrack tomorrow. Surely something will come to me. At least I can talk to people, see if anyone saw Ruby with anyone, or saw John Nailor.” Fluffy growled low in her throat. Probably thinking it was dangerous to sniff around a crime scene. I ignored her and drank the rest of my wine. It felt warm going down, spreading through my body and easing all the tension of the day.

I got up and poured another glass, realizing that I ought to stop at one and that I ought to eat something, but not doing either. The music was calling me. I walked softly into the middle of the living room. Sarah McLachlan was singing “I Will Remember You.” I reached up and unfastened the clip that held my hair in a neat bun, shaking my head gently to let my hair fall down around my shoulders. I closed my eyes and began to move.

I unfastened my robe, tossing it onto the futon and dancing in my panties and bra. The tears came again, running unchecked down my cheeks as I danced. At some point I thought of John, but it wasn't the vision of his kiss that held me. Instead I remembered his arm around the woman at the racetrack, the way he held my gaze, deliberately, before he bent down and kissed her.

I leaned over, my hair spilling over my head and almost sweeping the floor in a blond waterfall. The room was golden with candlelight, the only sounds being Sarah McLachlan's voice and that of my feet as they moved across the floor.

I played the song again and again, dancing through my visions and feelings, forcing my body to work out the pain. I was sweating, my breath coming in short gasps. Ruby's face floated before me, the piano softly carrying me from one image to the next. I whirled slowly around, my hair spinning a golden wheel, my arms extending the circle. I opened my eyes as the song again came to a close. John Nailor stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest, watching.

We didn't speak. Instead he covered the short distance between us with a few steps, gently folding me into his arms and standing silently as the sobs that had been held back for so long finally came.

At last I felt the surge of emotion ease and then stop. I lifted my head and took the handkerchief he offered. I was standing in my underwear, sweaty, my nose running and my eyes swollen from crying.

“I must look like hell,” I said, breaking free of his arms and crossing the room to get my robe from the futon.

“Not really,” he said calmly. His white oxford-cloth shirt had black mascara stains on the shoulder now.

“How long were you there?” I asked.

“Long enough.” He picked up my glass of wine from the bar that divided the kitchen from the living room and drank.

“So, don't you knock?” I pulled the sash on my robe tighter and began gathering my damp hair into a bun.

“Sierra, everybody needs to let it go sometime. It's nothing to be ashamed of.” He crossed the room to the futon and sat down, pulling me with him. For a second, I felt dizzy. I wanted him to touch me again, and yet I didn't want him to ever touch me again. I didn't want to feel the way I did when he kissed me, as if our bodies were melting together and I might lose myself.

I straightened up and looked into his eyes for a brief second. “All right,” I said. “This has to stop. I don't know what this thing is between the two of us, but I'm not going to do this.” He smiled and reached out to touch the side of my face. His fingers burned a trail down my cheek, softly caressing my neck.

“You're not, huh?” he whispered, his face moving dangerously toward mine.

“No,” I said, my voice squeaking an octave higher. “No!” I pushed back again. “You've got some questions to answer, Nailor. For one, what were you doing at the track?”

John shook his head. “I'm not going there with you, Sierra,” he said. “I can't.”

“If it had to do with your job,” I continued, “Wheeling would've known about it.” John said nothing. “Are you in trouble?”

He laughed, but I could tell he didn't find the question funny. “You could say that,” he said.

“Then let me help you.”

“I'll handle it on my own, Sierra. It's nothing I can't take care of. I just want to make sure you stay out of the way.”

“Who killed Ruby?” I asked suddenly.

“Sierra, I told you, I don't know anything about that. Just let Detective Wheeling do his job, all right?”

“Well, I can't do that,” I said. “He's not doing his job. That's the whole problem.”

“You don't know that,” he said. “The police aren't going to come running over here to let you know what they're doing.”

“I can see that,” I said sarcastically. “You could tell me if they were doing something, but you boys are all in the same club, no matter what. Even when—”

“Even when what?” he interrupted. “Even when I've got personal feelings involved, Sierra? Is that what you were going to say?” He reached out and grabbed both of my hands, pulling me closer. He bent his head and kissed me, letting go of one hand to reach up and cup my chin.

My heart was pounding and my body was screaming, “Go for it, forget all this other crap. You want him. Go for it!” His hand moved down my neck and across my robe, gently circling my breast. I felt myself moan softly.

“No! Damn it, Nailor! You're not going to do this to me!” I pushed him away. “Answer my question!”

I'd made him mad, but I didn't care. He opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang, startling both of us.

“Who could that be?” I said, reaching across him for the phone. “It's one o'clock in the morning, for Pete's sake! Hello?”

“Sugar,” Raydean said in a husky whisper, “you got company.”

“Raydean,” I sighed impatiently, “I know I've got company.”

“No, honey,” she said. “Additional company, outside.”

“What?” John was close enough to listen to the receiver, and he moved cautiously toward the window.

“Outside, about to the corner, three lots down. There's a car there, been there for a while, with somebody in it. I'm thinking it looks like po-lices.”

“Oh, man,” I said, fuming. “All right, honey, thanks. I'll take care of it.”

“Well, I just thought you oughta know, being as how you got inside company.”

“Raydean, how'd you know that?” I asked.

“Night patrol,” she said cagily. “I try to keep my eye on the universe.”

“Well, good job, Raydean,” I said, but she'd hung up.

John was peering out a corner of my window, straining to see the car down the street.

“Look, I'm pretty sure it's ours,” he said, “but I don't want them to see me.”

“Why? What's going on? Don't you think they saw you come in?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” he answered. “I parked somewhere else and walked in, and I didn't see that car when I got here. Do you have another door out of here, one that doesn't face the street?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “I think your only option's going to be the bathroom window. It's in the middle of the trailer and it's dark back there. You could walk out and around to get back to your car.”

John nodded. “Shit!” he said, stepping away from the window. “This is all I need.” He was up and moving down the hallway. By the time I reached him he was already clearing a dried flower arrangement off the top of the toilet tank and preparing to open the small window.

He slid it open, moving slowly to keep the sound to a minimum, then turned, saw me, and stepped down to stand beside me.

“We have unfinished business,” he said.

“I have unanswered questions. Starting with why don't you want them to see you?”

He laughed quietly. “You don't give up, do you?” He kissed me again. “That's for next time,” he said. A moment later I was staring at an empty window, the curtains ruffling softly with the breeze.

I went across the hallway to my bedroom and peaked through the curtains out into the street. The brown sedan was still parked by the side of the road. What are they doing watching me? I wondered. And what kind of trouble was John in that he couldn't risk being seen leaving my house?

Fourteen

Sunlight did not improve the appearance of the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway. Instead it played upon its every imperfection, and there were many. It is a dust bowl surrounded by gravel, burnt grass, and litter. A run-down, rust-infested playground for motorheads addicted to whatever speed they can attain with their patched-together vehicles.

I drove my newly repaired Camaro across the track entrance, shuddering as my tires bounced on the metal plates installed in the clay drive. I expected the track to be quieter than it had been when Ruby and I made our last appearance, but if anything it was noisier. I drove carefully across the track and into the pit, where cars were lined up in front of their trailers and once again men hung over the hoods, gobbled up by the cars' gaping mouths.