The yellow ceramic flour jar sat on the middle shelf, squeezed between a cardboard box of rolled oats and a twenty-six-ounce canister of table salt.

I lifted the heavy glazed lid with both hands and set it softly on the shelf without letting the stoneware touch the metal edge.

I pushed my right hand down into the flour.

The white powder felt cold and dry on my warm skin.

My fingers found the brass ring lying three inches down against the curved bottom of the jar.

I pulled out the spare Buick key ring, wiped the flour off on the thigh of my jeans and pushed the key deep into my back pocket.