Chapter 6: Attempt Five

On Thursday morning at seven, Silvan Waverley knocked on my door and held up a freezer bag of coins.

"Forty-one dollars and sixty-seven cents," he said. "Exactly."

I looked in the bag.

There were two twenties, a one, two quarters, a dime, a nickel and two pennies.

"You tallied this yourself?"

"I tallied it four times. My assistant checked it twice. She says I'm a changed man."

"Come in," I said, because I could not think of a way to stop him.

"Before you ask," I said, "I never agreed to be anyone's witness."

"I know. My assistant told the county that last night."

"I have never spoken to Camille DeGraff in my life."

"I know that too. They want your statement anyway."

"Then they'll get it."

My kitchen smelled of burnt sugar.

The fifth tray of brown butter pistachio pastry sat on the counter in a row of dark, flat, sad rectangles.

Truffle looked up from his bed and saw it was Silvan.

He went back to sleep with his chin on his paws.

Silvan sat on my stool and looked at the tray.

"Those are very brave."

"They're failures."

"They look like something that has been through a lot."

"The butter browns past the point where the pistachio can hold. The middle never sets. It's a texture problem."

"Can I try one?"

"No."

"Please."

I put one on a plate.

He bit into it with great seriousness and chewed for a long time.

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