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“Figure it out yourself,” I said.

He pointed the gun at Elvis. “Which key?” he repeated.

The cat glared and hissed as I found the proper key and Daniel Swift unlocked Gram’s apartment.

It smelled like her, like lavender-scented talc, and I took a deep breath, finding a bit of comfort in the scent.

Swift forced Elvis and me out onto the second-floor verandah overlooking the backyard.

“Scream and I’ll put a bullet directly through that mangy animal’s head,” he said.

It was cold on the balcony even with the shelter of the house behind me. I shivered in my sweater and leggings.

“If you’re planning on pushing me over the railing, the fall won’t kill me,” I said. “I might break something, but I’d still be able to tell the world what you did. Why did you kill Lily, by the way?”

What did they always do in the movies? Keep the bad guy talking until the good guys arrived. “It was because of your grandson, wasn’t it? Caleb.” It was work keeping the fear out of my voice, and I couldn’t stop shivering. Swift was wearing a gray wool coat with a scarf at the neck, a snap-brim fedora and lined leather driving gloves. He wasn’t cold at all.

His mouth twisted. “You know nothing about my grandson.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I know you must love him very much to do everything you’ve done. You bought a controlling interest in that investment company and then invested in the North Landing project, all to get to Lily.”

“She was beneath him,” Swift said, an ugly expression on his face. “And she was the last person to see him alive. She had to know something.” His voice got rougher. “I’m going to take that building apart board by board. There has to be something, some clue. Why else would she refuse to sell?”

He thought Lily had killed Caleb, I realized.

He took a step toward me. I stood my ground.

“Move,” he said.

I shook my head.

“You think I won’t shoot you?”

“I’m not going to help you throw me over that railing,” I said.

“You’re not going over the railing.” He was so close I could smell the damp wool of his coat. Elvis growled low in his throat, a sound I’d never heard him make before.

“You’re going to have an unfortunate fall down some icy stairs.”

“I fell down more stairs than that when I was eight,” I said. “It won’t kill me, and I promise I’ll scream so loudly they’ll hear me at the police station.” Keep him taking, I told myself , and the good guys will get here.

“Do you really think I didn’t plan this out? Alas, you’re going to hit your head on the top stair post.”

He aimed the gun at Elvis again. “Move.”

The deck and the steps were slippery. Usually I kept them clear and sanded, but it had been such a busy week I’d let it slide. I gave a tiny hysterical giggle at the play on words. And then one foot went out from under me. I scrambled to get my balance, one hand flailing as I clutched Elvis with the other. Swift grabbed my free arm, forcing it up behind my back. I struggled, but he was bigger and stronger and I couldn’t get my footing.

He began to drag me toward the wooden newel post at the top of the stairs that led down to the backyard. He dropped his other arm. The gun was at his side. There was no reason not to scream. But he’d anticipated that. As I took a breath, he slipped the gun into his pocket and clamped his other gloved hand down hard over my mouth.

The only chance I could see was to go limp, let Elvis get free and then throw myself down the stairs. I was banking on getting to the bottom before he could pull out the gun again and shoot me. Then my left foot found a place where there was a little sand left from the last time I’d put some down. Instead of going limp, I kicked up and out, as hard as I could, aiming for his knee and making a very satisfying connection. At the same time a black paw slashed up and raked the back of Swift’s hand.

He let go of me, swearing. Then, to my surprise, his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the deck like a bag of water. Because the blade of my big yellow snow shovel had just made contact with the back of his head.

The other end of the shovel was in Rose’s hands.

She was breathing hard, but there was a smirk of satisfaction on her face. “Are you all right, dear?” she said.

Chapter 23

The police arrived what seemed like moments later. Daniel Swift was conscious by then. I think if he’d tried to move, Rose would have brained him again. One paramedic tended to the bump on the back of his head while another checked my shoulder.

Rose sat at my grandmother’s dining room table and gave her statement to Michelle. When she’d said that she and Charlotte had had plans, what she hadn’t said was that their plans were to follow Daniel Swift. They’d trailed him to a brick building down the street. Formerly factory housing for the chocolate factory workers, it now held several professional offices. Charlotte had stayed with the car in the lot, and Rose had gone inside to see where Swift had been going.

“That was dangerous,” Michelle said sternly.

Rose shook her head. “Nobody notices an old woman. We’re about as close to invisible as it gets.”

In a cosmic stroke of good luck or good timing, Rose had seen Swift pull on a gray fedora, turn up the collar of his coat and start down the street. When she realized he was heading to my house, she’d tried to call me and discovered she’d left her phone in Charlotte’s car.

Her expression grew serious. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “I should have paid more attention.” She reached across the table for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “If anything had happened to you . . .”

“Nothing happened to me,” I said. “Because of you. Where did you learn to swing a shovel like that?”

“I played baseball when I was a girl. Baseball , not softball,” she stressed. She smiled and patted her hair. Not a single one was out of place after all her exertion. “If Daniel Swift’s head had been a baseball, that would have been a home run.”

Behind her I saw Charlotte shake her head.

We ended up downstairs in my apartment. When I came back from changing into dry clothes, Mr. P. had shown up and was in the kitchen making coffee and tea. Rose and Charlotte were at the table along with Jess. Charlotte had called her. Elvis was on Jess’s lap.

“Where do you keep your cookies?” Mr. P. asked.

“I don’t exactly have any cookies,” I said a little sheepishly.

“Crackers?” he asked hopefully. “Or muffins?”

I felt my cheeks getting red.

“Give it up, Mr. P.,” Jess said from her seat at the table. “The only edible things you’re going to find in that kitchen are sardines and cat kibble, and I don’t fancy having either one of them with my coffee.”

“Merow!” Elvis exclaimed.

“No one’s going to eat your sardines,” I said.

He looked pointedly around the room just to make sure we all knew they were paws off.

“Liz is on the way,” Charlotte said. “She’s stopping at McNamara’s.”

Rose got up, came around the table and put her arms around me. “As soon as that bandage is off your hand”—she gestured to the gauze the paramedic had put on the scrape on the side of my left hand—“we’ll start your cooking lessons again.”

“Have I told you I love you?” I asked.

She stood on tiptoes and kissed my cheek. “Only about half a dozen times in the last hour.”

“Is that all?” I said.

She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

I peeked into the kitchen to see how Mr. P. was doing. He seemed to be figuring things out. Charlotte came up behind me and put an arm around my shoulders.