Rebecca answered carefully.
"The evidence gives us serious reason to examine that possibility."
Eleanor nodded.
Then she whispered, "Over an HOA account?"
The words seemed to disturb her more than anything else.
She had spent her career working with numbers.
Budget records.
Payroll statements.
Invoices.
And financial reports that most people found boring.
She had volunteered to become treasurer because she believed careful accounting helped protect a community.
Now someone appeared willing to endanger her over the very records she'd been trying to reconcile.
For a moment, she looked bewildered.
Then her eyes filled.
"I was going to enjoy a plate of chicken."
The detective waited.
Eleanor continued.
"Leah made it separately because she knew I couldn't eat everything the other guests were having."
Her voice broke.
"That was such a kind thing to do."
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then she wiped her eyes.
"I don't understand how someone could take something kind and turn it into this."
Rebecca didn't offer a simple explanation.
There wasn't one.
She explained the precautions available and arranged follow-up contact through the investigative process.
Eleanor agreed to preserve her documents and avoid discussing sensitive evidence with people whose involvement remained unclear.
But before the detective left, Eleanor asked one more question.
"Will I still be able to speak at the homeowners' meeting?"
Rebecca explained that the timing and safety considerations would need to be assessed.
Eleanor listened.
Then slowly nodded.
For a moment, her expression hardened.
"I don't want whoever did this to think they can frighten everybody into silence."
The detective met her eyes.
"I understand."
I visited Eleanor that afternoon.
Leah came with me.
We brought soup, bread, and a small arrangement of flowers from our garden.
Eleanor opened the door wearing a pale-blue cardigan.
She smiled when she saw us.
Then immediately began crying.
Leah embraced her.
For a long time, they stood together in the doorway.
I carried the food into the kitchen.
The house smelled of fresh coffee and furniture polish.
Photographs covered the walls.
Eleanor's husband.
Her children.
Her grandchildren.
And several old pictures from neighborhood gatherings when Cedar Grove still seemed like a place where people enjoyed one another's company.
When we sat down, Eleanor looked toward me.
"Caleb, I'm sorry."
I frowned.
"For what?"
She gestured helplessly.
"Your family. Your cookout. Everything."
I shook my head.
"You didn't do this."
She looked down.
"If I hadn't asked questions about the money—"
I interrupted gently.
"Eleanor, those questions needed answers."
Her eyes filled.
I continued.