All Night Long

trickled through him. “What are you planning to do?”
    “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to find any bodies or burn down any houses.
    Actually, I had a minor brainstorm while I was getting dressed this morning. I was just about to tell you about it whe he phone rang.”
    “What was this brainstorm?” he asked, still wary.
    “It involves that key I found in Pamela’s secret hiding place the night of the fire.” She looked at the plate of French toast, eyes widening with appreciation. “Boy, howdy as Jason would say. Room service shows up at last.”

Thirty-Five
    The locksmith’s name was Herb Porter. He was in his seventies, and he had been in the business for nearly fifty years. He knew locks and keys, and he knew his own work.
    “That’s one of mine, all right,” he announced, examining the key Irene had given him.
    “First-rate line. Expensive, too. I’m the only locksmith on the lake who handles it.
    See that little P followed by umber? That’s my code.”

    Irene tried to calm her pounding pulse. She had been prepared for her plan to try to locate the locksmith who had made Pamela’s key to hit a dead end. Now that there was a glimmer of hope, adrenaline was spiking through her in heavy jolts.
    “Do you remember the person who ordered it?” she asked, forcing herself to speak in a calm,
    casual tone.
    “Sure. Senator Webb’s daughter.”
    Irene clutched the edge of the counter. “She gave you her name?”
    “Not at the time. Called herself Marjorie something-or-other and paid cash. I took her for summe eople or a weekender. But later, after she killed herself, I recognized her from the picture in the paper.” He shook his head. “Real shame about that. She sure was pretty. Dressed nice, too. Looked like she could have been a model or something, you know?”
    “Yes, 1 know.” Irene smiled at him, exerting every ounce of self-control that she possessed not to leap onto the glass counter, grab him by the lapels and shake more answers out of him.
    Take it easy
, she told herself.
Don’t rush him. He might stop talking.
    If Pamela had ordered the key from a locksmith located in one of the big towns or cities in the San Francisco Bay area, there would have been very little chance of identifying the shop. But it had occurred to her that there was a very real possibility that the key had been made locally. She had reasoned that if that was the case, it would probably be possible to find the locksmith who had made it. With luck, she might even discover what the key unlocked.
    Shortly after nine o’clock, she had set out to drive around the north end of the lake toward Kirbyville, stopping at the two small locksmith shops she passed along the way. She had skipped Dunsley altogether on the theory that if Pamela had something to hide, she would not have taken her business to the town’s only full-service locksmith. Dean Crump, the owner of the shop, would have recognized a member o he Webb family immediately.
    She had gotten lucky at Porter Lock & Key, located on a quiet, tree-shaded street in Kirbyville.
    “When did Miss Webb come in here?” she asked, fighting not to reveal her exploding excitement.
    “Let’s see.” Herb’s gaze went to the old-fashioned girlie calendar on the wall. He ruminated for oment on the buxom redhead dressed in a halter top and short shorts and then nodded to himself.
    “Few days ago. She was in a real hurry. Said it was important. I scheduled the job for the next day.
    See? Circled the date in red.”
    Irene followed his gaze to the calendar. Her pulse slammed into high gear. The date marked with a red pen was the day before Pamela had died.
    “She paid you to rekey her house?” She frowned. “There must be some misunderstanding. Pamel idn’t install new locks. I used an old key to let myself into the Webb house just a few days ago.”
    Herb squinted thoughtfully. “You’re talkin’ about the place over on the other side of the lake, right? The one that burned down the other night?”
    “Yes.”
    “That wasn’t the house she hired me to rekey.”
    Irene held her breath. “It wasn’t?”
    “Nope. She hired me to redo a place on the other side of town. Located right on the lake. Told me i as a rental. That’s why I figured her for weekend or summer people.”
    Confusion replaced the initial surge of disappointment. Why on earth had Pamela rented a house o he lake when she already had one?
    “I don’t suppose you’d give me the