As Ned stared at Harriet Hawk he realized she had made an eerily appropriate choice in marrying a man with the surname Hawk—may he rest in peace—as her appearance was strikingly similar to that of the bird with the same name.

Harriet was an older woman; her hair was black, except for a thick grey strip running straight down the center, and pulled tight away from her face. Her eyes were close set, quite tiny and almost black in appearance, and her rather large nose resembled a beak. Ned felt terrible, judging the woman's looks while she was mourning the death of her husband, and he quickly turned his gaze down to the carpet.

"Once again Ma'am," Chuck continued in a soothing voice. It was always nice to have Chuck come on trips like these, as Ned never knew what to say in these situations, and often Emerson was too brash and ended up upsetting someone. "We are so very sorry for your loss. And we are determined to find out who did this to Herman and bring them to justice."

The woman let out a stifled sob and blew her nose hard into a hankie. Chuck, who was sitting next to her, placed a consoling arm around her shoulder while Ned shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The room they were sitting in was a type of study, slash living room, and the walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Ned scanned the various covers; there was everything there from books on the art of hypnotism, psychology textbooks, books on Freud, even Dreams for Dummies. A desk in the corner had a book lying open on it, its pages dog eared. It was probably the last book Mr. Hawk had been reading—the thought saddened him.

"I hate to be so forward," Ned said suddenly. "But is there anyone you know who might have had a vendetta or a cause to harm your husband?"

Harriet flinched at the suggestion. "No—not at all. Herman helped people for a living, he was a good man! I don't know why anyone would want to harm a hair on his head!" She sobbed, echoing the same statements Mr. Hawk had said himself. She blew her nose into her hankie again making an awful noise.

"I know it's hard," Chuck said softly. "But if there is the slightest chance anyone wanted to see him hurt, we need to know."

Harriet hiccupped, dabbing the tears from her eyes. "I, I don't know why. I still don't know why anyone would harm my Herman!" Suddenly she stood up and made her way over to the desk in the corner and picked up a picture frame. When she came back she placed it in Ned's hand. "Look at him," She said and Ned stared back at the picture in his hand. It was a black and white picture of Mr. Hawk; he was almost unrecognizable—not being covered in tar and all—he was younger, wearing thick glasses, and had a look of a dignified air about him. "My Herman was a licensed psychotherapist who specialized in hypnotism to cure people. He cured people of addictions and phobias. He was a good man who spent his life trying to make others' lives better."

Ned realized they weren't going to get anywhere with this line of questioning— the woman was racked by grief and not thinking clearly. "We have reason to suspect that it may have been a guest at the party you two attended." Ned said carefully as not to upset her more. "He was attacked shortly after leaving it."

"The party?"

"Yes, we need a list of everyone who was there. Just to be sure." Chuck added.

Harriet looked reluctant, but nodded in agreement. "Fine. But you won't find anyone there who wished him harm. That was a party with friends." She reached for her purse, pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper and began scribbling away. "Here," She handed the slip of paper to Chuck. "I think you're chasing the wrong lead, as you P.I's would say. If you ask me I think it was just some young hooligans or a robbery gone wrong. No one would intentionally harm my Herman." After a moment she stood up and pointed towards the door. "Now if you don't mind, I have funeral plans to make."

So with a respectful goodbye the trio headed out the door and down the drive to the waiting car, a list of possible supects in hand.

Emerson shook his head. "Man, that's broad is in denial."

"Excuse me?" Chuck caught up to him and swiftly whapped him on the back with her purse. "That woman is in mourning over her dead husband." She argued, clearly offended. "It's obvious she loved him so much that's its difficult for her to realize that someone could have hated him just as much."

"But hooligans? A robbery gone bad?" Emerson looked back toward the house.

"What are you thinking?" Ned asked as he unlocked the car, reading Emerson's face.

"That's she's covering her tracks." Emerson said haughtily as he slid into the back seat of Ned's car. "That maybe she did it—or had someone do it for her—and is trying to throw us off the scent."

"I don't know." Ned took a seat behind the wheel and looked back at him in the rearview mirror. "She doesn't seem like the type. She seems like a nice ole' bird—er," Ned choked. "Uh, a nice lady."

Chuck slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, obviously still angered. "I agree with Ned." She shot Emerson a look to which he scoffed. "I mean I know when a woman is in love," She paused to slip her hand into the green rubber glove that hung from the plastic partition that divided the front seat in half and reached out for Ned's hand, taking it in hers. "And that is a woman in love." She smiled, gazing at Ned. Ned gazed back and squeezed her hand through the plastic barrier. Emerson groaned loudly. "That's a woman who would have never, ever harmed her husband."

"I agree." Ned smiled goofily and Emerson groaned once more as the car drove off into the night.