I SPENT FRIDAY IN MUCH THE SAME WAY—BOBBING ABOUT ON THE water watching Dad’s latest crop of milk jugs. I found I couldn’t write invitations after all; the sunscreen smeared them. I’d made all the phone calls possible. All I could do was fret about the identity of the murderer, if there was a murderer. I resolved that once I was released from my observation post, I was going to go around to question some of my friends and family. With subtlety. The sheriff was about as subtle as, a plowhorse.