“No, please, Mrs. Carlson—”

“And you’d better believe I’m going to be telling the gardening club about this.”

Nate’s breathing had a slightly strangled quality to it. “You can’t—no, no, wait—”

But Mrs. Carlson—who did, to be fair, look like a bit of a battleaxe—tromped out of the cubicle, with Mr. Carlson (who had a snazzy suede jacket that looked a million years old) close on her heels.

Nate let out a short, deep noise of frustration, and something slammed into the desk. A moment later, he emerged from the cubicle, his face red.

“Maya—” he barked.

“Hi, Nate,” I said.

He jumped as though I’d goosed him, but he recovered quickly. After giving me a once-over, he said, “Have we met?”

“Not officially. I saw you at the surfing competition.” Standing, I offered my hand. “Dash.”

“I know who you are.”

“Good. That makes things easier. I was wondering if you’d have a few minutes to talk.”

He made an effort, I’ll give him that: his face reassembled itself into something approaching politeness, and he even tried out a wooden smile. “Of course. Give me a minute, and I’ll be happy to show you around.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to buy a car. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even be driving at all. More of a bike man, I think. Fewer casualties that way. Plus, the tickets.”

“Uh, right.”

“I want to talk to you about Gerry Webb’s murder.”

The flush mottling Nate’s face drained away.

In a quieter voice, I said, “Let’s sit down. I have some photos I’d like to show you.”

Nate shook his head—weakly at first, and then more forcefully. “I don’t have to—” He stopped and started again. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“That’s a bad decision, Nate. A terrible decision. Because if I leave, I’m going to talk to the sheriff, and I really don’t think you want me to talk to the sheriff.”

He wavered, and I thought I had him. Then he said, “Get out.” He pushed past me, snapped something at Maya, and pushed through a fire door; I glimpsed a more utilitarian space beyond, which I guessed was the service garage, and the door swung shut.

Maya was staring at me, so I made my way over to her.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “but Mr. Hampton asked me to make sure you leave.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t want to cause you any problems. I just wanted to ask—”

I was about to launch into a few questions about Nate—shots in the dark, mostly, hoping I’d get lucky. But then the door opened, and the salesman in the sports coat and the striped shirt maneuvered the young couple inside. He had his hands on their shoulders, and he was talking so loudly that, even from across the room, my ears were ringing. His volume rose even more, though, as he delivered what sounded like the punchline to a joke: “And the man says, ‘You have to keep your worms warm.’” Without missing a beat, he looked over at Maya and me and shouted, “Maya, let’s get Robby and Nina something to drink.”

The young couple exchanged pained glances, although that might have had more to do with the fact that the salesman had a death grip on their shoulders.

“Excuse me,” Maya said.

It all came together in an instant: who Nate Hampton was, and what he wanted—the DEAL OF THE MONTH plaques, his face in every advertisement, the instant groveling when Mrs. Carlson had gotten angry. I wasn’t a psychiatrist or a psychologist or a therapist. If you asked Keme, I wasn’t even allowed to use the microwave without adult supervision (although that was one time, and I only forgot the spoon because I was so excited about the hot fudge). But you spend enough time writing about people, thinking about people, trying to get inside their heads, and you learn a thing or two. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have a mom who checks herself into psych wards for fun.

I nodded and asked, “Do you mind if I use your phone? My battery is almost dead.”

“Oh sure. You press this button to dial out.” And then, with an apologetic smile, Maya hurried to get Robby and Nina something to drink. I was guessing they’d like a big helping of cyanide.

I gave the phone’s complicated array of buttons a quick study. And then I picked up the receiver and pressed a button. The Muzak overhead cut off, and my voice echoed over the sound system.

“Hi, everyone. My name is Dash, and I’m excited to wish you a happy Halloween from Hampton Automotive. We’ve got some tricks and some treats for you today. Our first treat is going to be a dramatic reading about Mr. Nate Hampton and the Hastings Rock Sewage Improvement Fund—he loves tricks, and I’m going to share one of his best ones with you.”

That was as far as I got before Nate Hampton—who cared about approval and validation and awards and being liked (and who also probably had a healthy interest in not going to prison)—burst into the showroom. The color was high in his cheeks, and his eyes were glassy as he stared around the room. Maya was staring back. Robby and Nina were staring back. The salesman seemed to have forgotten whatever he was saying (probably another joke), and it looked like Nina might try to make a break for it.

I cocked my head at Nate in question.

“Sorry about that, folks,” Nate called with a quite frankly unbelievable attempt at good cheer. “Dash loves playing jokes on us. Excuse me for a minute.”

I gave my tiny audience a rueful smile and hung up the phone.

“What are you doing?” Nate asked in a furious whisper as he came toward me. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Why don’t we talk about that?”

Nate shot another look at the salesman and the hostages—er, customers. “Hurry up,” he said and stalked off.

Instead of heading for his cubicle, though, he led me through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Behind us, excited conversation broke out, but the door swung shut, cutting it off. A short hallway connected with a pair of restrooms, a cramped kitchenette, and what appeared to be storerooms. Above a toaster oven, a poster showed a smiling Nate Hampton and THE ABC’S OF HAMPTON AUTOMOTIVE: ALWAYS BE CLOSING. I caught a whiff of Totino’s pizza and despair.

Spinning to face me, Nate asked, “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about Gerry Webb’s murder.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“But you can see why I’d find that hard to believe, right? I saw Gerry’s files. I know he was blackmailing you.”

Nate flinched. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes as he mumbled, “It was a misunderstanding. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t care about the embezzlement. Well, I do, but I’m not here to talk about that. How much were you paying Gerry?”

“Huh?”

“The blackmail. How much was he taking you for?”

“I wasn’t paying him.” And then, as though I were a little slow, he said, “He wanted help with the zoning and the permits for his development.”

That explained one thing: how Gerry had gotten permission to build on sacred land.

“That’s all?” I asked.