“That's a long walk.”
“It's not so long.”
I stepped outside and turned my jacket collar up against the wind. The temperature had dropped and the sky was gray. It was midafternoon, but houses had lights on to fight the gloom. Furnaces were running. Cars rolled by on Hamilton, drivers intent on getting somewhere. There were few people on the sidewalks. It was a good day to be indoors, cleaning out closets, making hot chocolate, organizing a fresh start for winter. And it was a good day to be outdoors, scuffing through the few remaining leaves, feeling flushed from the cold air. It was my favorite time of the year. And if it wasn't for the fact that people were dying left and right, and I couldn't find Uncle Fred, and someone wanted to kill me, and Ramirez wanted to send me to Jesus—it would be a very good day.
In an hour I was back at my building, in the lobby, and I was feeling fine. My head was clear and my circulation was in top form. The Buick was sitting in the parking lot, looking solid as a rock and just as serene. I had the keys in my pocket, and I was still wondering about Shempsky. Maybe I should ride by and see him, I thought. Surely he'll be home by now.
The elevator doors opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. “Going up?”
“No,” I said. “I changed my mind. I have more errands to run.”
“All ladies' accessories are twenty percent off on the second floor,” she said. She pulled her head back and the doors closed.
I recrossed the lot and gingerly unlocked the Buick. Nothing went boom, so I slid behind the wheel. I started the car and jumped out. I stood a good distance away and timed ten minutes. Still no explosion. Whew. Big relief. I got back in the car, put it into gear, and drove out of the lot. Shempsky lived in Hamilton Township, off Klockner, behind the high school. Typical suburban development of single-?family houses. Two cars, two incomes, two kids per family. It was easy to find his street and his house. It was all clearly marked. His house was a split-?entry frame. White with black shutters. Very tidy.
I parked at the curb, walked to the door, and rang the bell. I was about to ring again when a woman answered. She was nicely dressed in a brown sweater, matching slacks, and rubber-?soled loafers. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Her makeup was Martha Stewart. And her smile was genuine. She was the perfect match for Allen. I suspected I would immediately forget anything she told me, and a half hour from now I wouldn't recall what she looked like.
“Maureen?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“It's Stephanie Plum . . . we went to school together.”
She slapped herself on the forehead. “Of course! I should have remembered. Allen mentioned you the other night. He said you'd stopped by the bank.” The smile faded. “I heard about Fred. I'm so sorry.”
“You haven't seen him, have you?” Just in case she had him in her basement.
“No!”
“I always ask,” I explained, since she looked taken aback.
“And it's a good idea. I might have seen him walking down the street.”
“Exactly.”
So far, I hadn't seen any sign of Allen. Of course, if he was really sick he might be upstairs in bed. “Is Allen here?” I asked Maureen. “I tried to catch him at the bank, but he'd gone out to lunch, and then I got busy with another matter. I thought maybe he'd be home by now.”
“No. He always comes home at five.” The smile popped back in place. “Would you like to come in and wait? I could make some herb tea.”
The nosy part of me would have liked to snoop through the Shempsky's house. The part of me that wanted to live to see another day thought it wise not to leave the Buick unguarded.
“Thanks, maybe some other time,” I said to Maureen. “I need to keep my eye on the Buick.”
“Mom,” a kid yelled from the kitchen, “Timmy's got an M&M's stuck up his nose.”
Maureen shook her head and smiled. “Children,” she said. “You know how it is.”
“Actually, I have a hamster,” I said. “Hard to get an M&M's up his nose.”
“I'll be right back,” Maureen said. “This will only take a minute.”
I stepped into the foyer and looked around while Maureen hustled off to the kitchen. The living room opened off to the right. It was a large, pleasant room done in tones of tan. An upright piano stood against the near wall. Family photos covered the top of the piano. Allen and Maureen and the kids at the beach, at Disney World, at Christmas.
Lots of pictures. Probably one wouldn't be missed if it happened to jump into my purse.
I heard a kid yelp, and Maureen chirped that everything was hunky-?dory and the bad M&M's was bye-?bye. “I'll be right back,” Maureen said. The kitchen television was clicked on, and in the blink of an eye, I snatched the nearest photo, dropped it into my bag, and stepped back into the foyer.
“Sorry about that,” Maureen said, returning. “Never a dull moment.”