“What if Brad turns up with a paying customer on opening morning anyway?” I asked.

“Then the sheriff hauls him off for criminal trespass,” Patricia said flatly.

“And Vance Fiske won’t be able to file one motion to prevent it.”

I took the legal instructions and walked out into the cool afternoon air.

I got back to the farm by four and went straight into the silent kitchen.

On the top shelf of the wooden pantry, behind three old glass canning jars, sat Arvid’s big stainless steel thermos.

It was silver and heavy brushed metal, and it held almost half a gallon of hot black coffee.